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.
ALSO: THANK YOU SO SO SO SO SO MUCH to everyone who has left a review for this on and AO3. I seriously… I LOVE you all and am so so so grateful. I know I don't always respond, but I am just… I'm so very very happy every time I see one and I feel SO good about this story and I'm so happy people like it and just… thank you. Thank you.
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.
A/N6: Also for anyone who has read the Captive Prince trilogy, little moment in this chapter for you. And for those of you who have had to listen to me whine about a certain someone dying, it shouldn't surprise you at ALL that I did this.
A/N7: There are probably canon details on Zechs' military training. I made up my own.
Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, death, blood
Pairings: 6x2, others…
Midnight Coward
Chapter Six
Despite his rather infamous military career and his entire past, Zechs had never attended a wake before.
After the assassination of his mother and father, Zechs and Relena had both been whisked away by loyalist forces, so that even if there had been a state funeral - and there certainly had not been - Zechs would not have been in attendance.
He had, of course, walked among the rows of coffins of fallen soldiers under his command, had been in the med bay holding the hand of more than a few of those soldiers as they passed from this life to the next, but he had never been to the ceremony, the event of mingling around a casket and reminiscing.
Zechs would have felt out of place even if he had known more than a handful of the people in attendance.
As he stepped out of his car and onto the street, he was surprised and relieved that there wasn't a flood of reporters.
He wondered if there was a chance that the lewd articles hadn't mentioned Nick's name, or, more likely, Allison had located a respectable but relatively unknown funeral home.
He hoped the newspapers hadn't managed to get the boy's name. Then again, the fact that the newspapers had any information made Zechs think that either the police or the Preventers had leaked the details.
Zechs thought back to the other night, to the way that Maxwell had sneered in disgust at Zechs's very existence. He wondered if the other man hated him enough to go against the orders of his superiors.
His bodyguard for the day, a former infantryman during the war, moved to open the door to the funeral home, but Zechs stayed him with a wave of his hand.
"Wait outside," he instructed. If someone wanted to assassinate him at a wake, in full view of the other mourners, then the presence of one bodyguard would do little to dissuade such a man.
The funeral director was a portly man wearing an ill-fitting suit, but he wasn't obnoxiously obsequious as he stepped out to greet Zechs, and that was a small favor that he was immensely grateful for. Today, of all days, was not a day when he could deal with sycophants.
The funeral home interior looked a little old, a little worn, but was clearly well-cared for. The funeral director led Zechs down an exceedingly long hall and towards an open doorway.
The room beyond the doorway was large enough to hold perhaps fifty people, though, at present, there were barely two dozen.
On one side of the room, elevated on a draped platform and flanked by elaborate stands of white flowers, was a coffin. An open coffin.
Zechs felt a chill run down his spine and solidify in his gut.
Why? Why was the casket open?
The thought of seeing Nick again, of his pale face and lifeless body, his colorless lips and tear-streaked face - it made Zechs nauseous.
Nausea turned to anger, however, when Zechs saw the lean form of Duo Maxwell clad in a Preventers uniform. He was separate from the rest of the mourners, his arms folded over his chest and his wide lips pinched into a grimace, and his unforgiving eyes skewered Zechs.
Zechs glared right back at him.
Why the hell was he here?
Before Zechs could say or do anything about the unwanted Preventers agent, he was swept up in a cloud of gardenia perfume and a fleshy embrace.
Zechs could count on one hand the number of people who had ever presumed to touch him outside of a bedroom. His parents, long dead and the memory as painful as a battle wound; Noin, who held onto him no matter how cold he was to her; Treize, just twice, the feel of him seared into Zechs's mind and skin for eternity; and Eszter.
Eszter Sipos, the formidable Madame who ran the Adonis, and who had been daring and savvy enough to introduce herself to Zechs not long after he emigrated to New York and had convinced him to invest in her enterprising brothel franchise.
Eszter, who had lost two brothers and a son during the wars and now made a very comfortable existence selling the flesh of young men.
Eszter, who either didn't care that Zechs was uncomfortable with human contact or simply wanted to punish him for his past sins by forcing it upon him.
"It was good of you to take care of our dear boy," she rasped against the collar of his suit.
Zechs stiffened in her arms, already uneasy but now cut to the quick.
Take care of him?
Zechs had gotten the boy killed.
He had done anything but take care of him.
"It-"
Zechs had to pause, had to clear his throat and pry Eszter off of him.
"It was the least I could do," he managed after a deep breath.
She nodded, allowing him to straighten his suit and draw in a deep breath before speaking again.
"The police-"
Zechs looked around, but they were a ways from any of the other guests, and Eszter had perfected speaking in an undertone.
"-have requested our surveillance tapes. What would you like us to do?"
Zechs frowned, remembering Mark saying that he had looked over them already, that night at the police station. It was likely that Alison had had the forethought to send Mark to Adonis to secure the tapes before they could be confiscated by the police.
"You still have a copy?" he asked, lips barely moving as he spoke softly. He let his eyes roam over the guests, determinedly ignoring the dark slant of Maxwell's body against the wall in one corner of the room.
"The duplicate. Your attorney has the original."
Zechs frowned. It still made him uncomfortable to know that there was video surveillance in the brothel rooms, but Eszter had pointed out to him early on in their joint endeavor that in addition to being for the protection of both her boys and their clients, such footage was awfully useful for Zechs when he needed to drop hints or spread rumors about powerful competitors or potential business partners. The fact that Eszter held the same power over him was immensely disconcerting and always had been.
"I thought our standard policy was to scrub all surveillance footage every six hours," he replied, and she nodded.
"Of course it is. Unfortunate that the police didn't ask for the tapes sooner - they have unfortunately been deleted," she agreed, unflappable.
"Has anyone else been snooping around?" Zechs asked her, his mind and gaze settling on Maxwell again. He wondered what the other mourners thought about the presence of a Preventers agent in their midst.
Zechs could see a few of the boys - their somber suits and dour faces a stark contrast to their ordinary countenances - looking over at Maxwell and frowning.
"Not yet." Eszter had followed his gaze. "If they do?"
"When they do," Zechs predicted, "our standard policy remains in place." He paused and drew in a deep breath. He hadn't wanted to do this here, but, perhaps, it was best to simply get it over with.
"I assume you dealt with Peter?"
Eszter's lips compressed into a fierce grimace, but she nodded.
"He owed a great deal of money to the Vor. His girlfriend told Abdul everything."
Zechs nodded. He had known Abdul for more than a decade, had met the former Alliance officer during the war and had had a reunion of sorts with him on Mars, where Abdul had been summarily sent after the war when he had been found guilty of war crimes. Zechs had brought him back to Earth years later, had employed him as a bodyguard, and had been baffled and amused to see Eszter and Abdul go from despising each other to cohabiting. The man was ruthless and loyal, to both Eszter and Zechs, and Zechs had no doubt that Abdul's interrogation of Peter's girlfriend had been very thorough.
Peter, who had not been loyal but had apparently been desperate, had been employed by Eszter as one of the Adonis security personnel for almost two years. He had been on duty during the attempted assassination. Had, no doubt, been the one to grant Horvat entry to the brothel in the first place.
The knowledge that Peter was entangled with the local Vory v zakone was unwelcome, but not entirely surprising.
Zechs sighed.
Having the local Russian mafia send assassins his way was going to complicate his plans immensely. The question, of course, was how local the grudge was, or if there was some tie back to Russia proper.
A question that he would have to deal with soon, but not now.
Zechs spotted a boy standing near the casket, resolutely glaring at the ceiling. His features were pinched, the skin around his eyes puffy and red, but there was a resemblance, unmistakeable and painful, that Zechs couldn't deny.
"Is he Nick's brother?"
"Yes," Eszter sighed. "Joao."
The boy didn't have the breathtaking beauty of his older brother, but his hazel eyes, curly hair and bone structure were close enough to those of Nick that Zechs felt another wave of nausea.
"Only sixteen," Eszter sighed.
Zechs swallowed hard.
After the murder of his parents, after a loyalist group saved him and dumped him with a minor aristocratic family in Greece to be raised as a cousin, Zechs had lied about his age, claiming to be fourteen when he was only twelve so that he could sit the entrance exams for the École spéciale militaire de Saint-Cyr. He had made it in, had completed the three-year course in just under two, and had been recommended for the officers training program at the Royal Military Academy in England and had graduated that program at sixteen, had already been noticed by Treize Khushrenada and invited to train with the Specials. At sixteen, he had already done a tour of duty in China, had already participated in a handful of skirmishes that had made him an ace and meant the deaths of five opponents on the battlefield.
Sixteen was too young to have lost everyone.
"Is he-"
"Nick's income gave them a good life. A better life. Joao is enrolled in the Horace Mann School."
And Zechs had taken that away - that good life, that better life.
He made a mental note to make sure Alison set up a trust fund for the boy. He should want for nothing in life, not after this.
"What happens to him now? Did they have any family?"
"No. I'm not sure."
Zechs made a note of that as well. Alison would take care of it, would find out what the boy wanted and orchestrate everything.
He wondered if he should go over, should introduce himself or-
The very thought was abhorrent enough that Zechs had to take a steadying breath.
Either the boy would know, would rightfully blame Zechs for the death of his brother and Zechs's presence would make this that much worse for him. Or he wouldn't know, wouldn't blame Zechs, and that would make all of this that much worse for Zechs.
No, best to stay away from him.
"Shall I make sure he has some refreshments? So that you can pay your respects to our boy?" Eszter asked. It wasn't a question. It was a command.
Zechs gave her a brusque nod. He resented being told what to do under almost any circumstances, but, in this instance, he found himself not quite appreciating, but at the very least heeding, the guidance.
Eszter moved away, gliding across the room and wrapping the glaring boy into her heady embrace. She whispered something to him that had him clutching at her, and then she was maneuvering the both of them across the room, away from the casket and to a table that, incongruously, had been laid out with a crystal punch bowl of what looked like lemonade.
Zechs still found himself hesitating, the open casket looming before him like the launch bay of a ship and he, without a mobile suit or EVA suit or anything, found it daunting to approach.
But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maxwell shift and straighten up.
Zechs moved towards the casket, working hard to control his breathing and his heart rate and the bile he could feel burning low in his throat.
And there he was.
Nick. As beautiful in death as he had been in life. His skin - it wasn't pale, wasn't lifeless with blood loss or slack, his features no longer pulled into a grimace of pain, and it was unnatural. So unnatural and wrong. He was restored - was simply resting - was as far from the gasping, shuddering bloody body Zechs had clutched just a few days ago as it was possible to imagine.
A glint of blue caught Zechs's attention and he looked at Nick's left ear, at the small Martian diamond earring.
Bile surged in his throat, fighting its way to his mouth, and Zechs turned, barreled through the cluster of people and pushed his way out of the room and looked desperately down the hall, searching for-
He saw the sign for a bathroom and made it, somehow, managed to fall to his knees in front of the toilet and push his hair away just as his body revolted and he retched into the porcelain.
Zechs managed to suck in a few breaths of air before his body heaved again, before the acid flow of bile had him curling forward, panting and choking.
Martian diamonds were unique, impossible to confuse with any other gemstone, their color that mesmerizing shade of blue that was almost violet and their heart as dark as space itself. They cost a fortune, and even after twenty years of human colonization on Mars, were still very, very rare.
Zechs had had a pair of cufflinks made, from one of the stones he brought back to earth. Nick had admired them, had teased them from Zechs's shirt with his tongue and teeth, and grinned in delight when Zechs had smirked.
Zechs had given him the earring on their last evening together, three weeks ago. Nick had been left speechless, the value of the gift making him uneasy for a moment, until Zechs had whispered into his ear conspiratorially, confided that he had a box of the uncut stones in a safety deposit box and claimed he wasn't able to sell them because of some trade laws.
He had been wearing it, Zechs suddenly realized. Had been wearing it the night he died, and Zechs- Zechs had been so tense from a day of profitless meetings that he had been a little impatient, had been so focused on Nick stripping and crawling to him that he hadn't even noticed the boy was wearing it.
Zechs vomited again.
His stomach had been empty to begin with, and after what felt like hours of dry heaving, Zechs finally sank back on his knees and drew in a ragged breath.
"Was it something you ate?"
The voice startled him and Zechs spun around, ungainly and exhausted, and saw Duo Maxwell leaning against the counter, his arms crossed and his lips twisted in a sneer.
"Or is it possible that you've managed to disgust even yourself?"
There was no emotion in any of his words, despite the disgust on his face, and Zechs had the very brief fantasy of shoving Duo Maxwell and Dorothy Catalonia into a small cage together and seeing who would emerge the victor.
With as much dignity as he could pretend, Zechs rose to his feet and approached the sink.
Maxwell waited until Zechs was right in front of them, until there was barely an inch separating them, and then wrinkled his nose as if smelling something foul and took a step to the side to allow Zechs access to the sink.
Zechs looked at himself, at his sallow skin and the dribble of bile on his shirt and his rumpled clothes.
He washed his hands, then cupped water into them and swished it around in his mouth before spitting it out.
As he straightened up, Maxwell waved a paper towel in front of his face.
Zechs took it with a sneer that matched Maxwell's own.
"I'm a little impressed," Maxwell said. He turned and leaned against the wall beside the sink.
Zechs had to arch an eyebrow, but he wasn't enough of an idiot to venture a guess as to what had impressed Maxwell.
"I always knew you were cold, but you must have actual ice running through your veins to invite your friends from the Herald and the News to the wake of a dead kid. Tell me," Maxwell reached over and flicked a piece of lint from Zechs's sleeve, "did you leak the story to them because you wanted to sink Relena's career, or because you couldn't stand to have a day go by without your name in the press?"
Dorothy was vicious, but she was pampered and spoiled. Maxwell had grown up on the streets. Odds were, Zechs mused, likely in his favor.
The words, however, sank in, and Zechs turned to him.
"What do you mean by my friends from the Herald and News - they have reporters here?"
His fury made Maxwell blink and then frown. He nodded once, eyebrows drawing together in a frown.
"The two creeps in the shit suits? Don't tell me you thought they'd send their top society columnists to cover this tawdry thing."
Zechs felt a muscle in his jaw jump as he clamped his mouth shut and forced himself to breathe through his nose.
Reporters from those disgusting rags were here. At Nick's funeral.
It was beyond the pale. It was-
"You didn't invite them," Maxwell realized, his acid voice soft.
Zechs didn't dignify that with a response.
"And you didn't leak the story…" Maxwell straightened up and gave an angry huff. "Look, if you'd start just fucking talking, I could-"
"You could what?" Zechs demanded, turning on him and advancing until Maxwell was backed against the tile wall. "Tell me, Agent Maxwell, just what you could do? You failed to keep this quiet. You failed to capture a known assassin who had been on your watchlist for years, and as a result, he killed an innocent boy. The Earthsphere is as much a tangled web of deceit and violence as it has always been - worse, now that we don't have mobile suits to target or armies to scout. Now, the villains lurk in every shadow because the Preventers put them there. So, tell me, what the hell you could do?"
Maxwell's eyes had widened and then narrowed during Zechs's speech, his icy tone and sharp words clearly having an impact on the shorter man.
Remarkably, or perhaps intelligently, Maxwell didn't have anything to say in response.
"You don't belong here," Zechs growled.
"Neither do you," Maxwell snapped, and it was true, so very painfully true. "That kid-"
"-was not a child." Zechs was so done with hearing Nick described as a juvenile.
"He'd been selling his body since he was thirteen, at least," Maxwell reminded him. "He'd been taken advantage of probably his whole fucking life, and he was nineteen. He was a fucking kid, and this- He shouldn't be a body in a fucking box, but even that- You've got fucking tabloid reporters here, oozing their fucking scum all over-"
Zechs shoved Maxwell back against the wall, his rage and his inability to control seemingly any situation over the last four days driving him to act, to punish this foul-mouthed pain in his ass.
Maxwell's hands came up, gripping Zechs's arms and pushing back against him, but Zechs was bigger, was in a better position, and-
Maxwell punched him in the side, his fist connecting with Zechs's bruised ribs, and Zechs groaned in pain, his grip on the other man almost failing.
"Get the fuck off of me," Maxwell warned, ready to lash out again before Zechs repositioned, twisting Maxwell's arms and pinning them to his chest and using that point of leverage to keep him against the wall.
Maxwell's nostrils flared and his cheeks turned pink, his eyes volcanic.
It was then, at that moment, that Zechs noticed the violet smears on Maxwell's neck, just above the collar of his shirt.
His hand. His doing. His bruises.
Zechs released Maxwell and stepped away from him, ignoring the staccato drum of his own heartbeat and the rush of blood in his ears.
Zechs watched the other man draw in a shaky breath, watched him run his hands over his clothes and lick his lips.
"Those pricks from the News and the Herald couldn't investigate their way around a donut," Maxwell said, voice a little breathless. "Someone leaked the ki- Nick Sousa's death to them in the first place, and I guarantee they leaked this event to them as well. If it wasn't you," Maxwell paused and gave him an assessing look, "then it was the cops, or it was whoever was behind this shit in the first place. Which reminds me. You ready to start talking yet?"
Zechs's only response was an icy glare.
Maxwell shrugged.
"Fine. I'm getting hazard pay for having to deal with such a high-profile public figure anyway. Drag this out until you get yourself killed - and a few dozen more civilians along the way - if that's what you want."
Zechs felt anger curl through him again, but he forced himself to swallow it down.
He looked past Maxwell and back to the mirror. He adjusted his tie and flicked a wayward strand of hair off of his collar.
And then he walked out of the bathroom without a backwards glance.
-o-