Disclaimer: I imagine this is rather redundant by now, but I don't own Gundam Wing.

Note: Thanks to KS for slogging through this one with me.

Warning: *smiles innocently*

Homecoming:

It didn't feel like home. Not without Trowa.

Their bedroom was the worst, because nothing had changed and everything had. There were a couple of old editions of Global Geographic on Trowa's bedside table; he'd always preferred the paper version to reading on-line. Tro's favourite jacket was still flung over the chaise lounge in the corner; the way he'd left it, the night before he'd gone. Quatre had left all the little reminders; a way to pretend to himself that his lover would walk back in at any moment, that he'd just gone away for a while.

He wouldn't be coming back. Not now, not ever.

He was safe though; on Earth, a high-profile prisoner. It was the only thing Quatre had been able to think of that might protect him.

He was safe; a thought to cling to.

This suite of rooms had been their sanctuary for years away from business and family and the daily habit of deception.

And every single item, from the bed down to the ridiculously expensive toiletries that Trowa had always teased him about, offered some sort of memory.

He wouldn't be able to sleep in the bed alone; since Tro had left, he'd been sleeping on the couch in their sitting room. The bed…they'd chosen it in Marrakech, in an antiques' warehouse. Trowa had paid the owner an extravagant enough bribe that the man had gladly closed the shop for an afternoon, taken himself and his staff off for dinner, and left the eccentric, extravagant pair to sample their favourite pieces of furniture.

The painting opposite the bed had been a birthday present from Trowa; a glowing canvas showing a garden full of delphiniums, large and lifelike enough that one could almost walk into it. It was a reminder of a safehouse they'd shared once, in another life. His favourite portrait of Trowa hung over the bed itself; a study of darkness and shadow, illuminated by one narrow beam of sunlight.

Oh, Trowa.

I am so very sorry.

It still made his skin crawl, the idea of Preventer agents going through this room. His and Trowa's bedroom. How dared they? A tiny part of him still felt piqued that they'd broken the code for his safe.

Ridiculous, really.

He had far, far more important things to worry. The call was due in ten minutes. The briefing.

He'd done everything possible. He had. It wasn't his fault that no one else had anticipated what would happen; that he'd be placed into Preventer custody or safe-keeping, or whatever they wanted to call it. And he'd managed to escape; no small feat.

He'd even turned into something of a publicity coup. The Preventers weren't popular on L4; on any of the Colonies, really.

He hadn't actually said they'd been involved in his disappearance. It hadn't been at all necessary. Quatre Raberba Winner, L4's most favoured son, had only needed to look pale and confused, and wince a little as he bravely tried to put his weight on his injured ankle, and speak sorrowfully about his dead fiancée.

The revolution would have broken out there and then if he'd spoken one word against the ESUN or the Preventers.

Too soon, though.

Revolutions, apparently, ran according to strict timetables nowadays.

And certain dates were more symbolic than others.

It should be enough, though, to fan the flames just a little higher; enough to get Une into trouble with her supervisors.

Every cloud has a silver lining.

He wondered, absently, if she would still be on L4 in two days' time.

'What are we going to do, Winner?' The other presence in the room; no more than a face and shoulders on the laptop screen, whined.

Why in the universe do people always ask me that? Why do I always have to be the one who knows everything?

'Quatre! You do know he's mad, don't you?'

'Stop it. You don't know who's listening to this line.'

'It's secure.'

'David, shut up. I mean it. And don't worry. '

'But he'd dead, Quatre, and I…..'

'I said, stop it,' Quatre hissed. He'd never met Ali, but he'd heard of the boy. He knew how he'd died and why. Another lost boy; another person who might still be alive if not for him.

What was he supposed to do; hold the other man's hand and reassure him that there would be a happy ending to this nightmare? It was all his fault anyway.

Quatre jerked his mind away from that most uncharacteristic thought. Blaming others for one's own transgressions was a sure sign of weakness. He thought Wufei had said that once; it sounded like him. And it was true.

Oh, Allah, he missed them. All of them.

Anyway, it wasn't David Souhef's fault. He'd been the one to dangle the bait, and Quatre had risen to it all too easily. Quite pathetic, really. He'd known Souhef vaguely for years; they were two of the more prominent businessmen on L4. They'd met occasionally; over the past five years, and he'd been secretly flattered when David had asked him to join a small consortium of some of the more influential citizens of the Colonies, dedicated to promoting their own welfare.

Trowa had disliked Souhef from the beginning, had disapproved of the meetings, and Quatre had to admit that that gave it all an extra little tang. He was so tired of having his life mapped out for him; by his family, by Rashid, by Trowa himself, by his executive assistant, who apparently believed she had a god-given right to account for every second of her employer's day.

He usually let them get away with it, just because it made them happy, but he needed to break out sometimes, and those little meetings with Souhef and his associates had provided a convenient outlet. They weren't really secret; a measure of discretion was expected simply because the ESUN was unlikely to approve of any attempt of the colonists to forge closer links with each other.

So it had all made it just a little more exciting; a useful way to hone skills he'd learned during the war, also; sneaking away from his own security guards. Duo wasn't the only one who was adept at running and hiding.

I have to go.' He closed the connection over the other man's protests.

Fool. He didn't have time anymore to dole out reassurances. Barton was due to call and then he had to deal with Sarab. And Duo.

Duo was going to be….difficult.

A framed picture of them both stood on the small bedside table; a photo of two teenage boys, arms around each other's shoulders. Two boys trying so hard to be men. They'd been so very close then, the two of them. They were smiling in the picture; smiling in the middle of a war. It crossed his mind, briefly, to put it away, and then he moved it into a slightly more prominent position instead. He would need any tiny bit of leverage he could, and his friend had always loved that picture.

The telephone rang, precisely at the arranged time, and Dekim Barton's head appeared on the video screen.

How wonderful.

'Welcome home. Is that appropriate?' It seemed to be the fashion for would-be dictators to affect those absurdly overblown military uniforms. At least, Khushrenada had worn his with a certain panache. Barton looked like he was wearing fancy dress.

Quatre shrugged. 'I imagine so. I am home, after all.'

Officially, at least.

'Somewhat later than planned,' Barton informed him, a little testily. 'Still, it's worked out rather well. Those shots of you leaving the hospital were a masterpiece. A very effective way of garnering public support. I think perhaps a short interview with some handpicked journalists tomorrow morning, don't you? Focusing on your grief for that ill-fated fiancée of yours. A tragically grieving young man should go down rather well with the public.'

'Fine.'

'Everything else is going according to schedule. Now, we have one small matter to discuss. You made three calls from Une's 'phone. One to your Maguanacs; I imagine the others were to 02 and 03.'

'Naturally.' There was no point in lying, not really. If Barton knew he'd made the calls, he'd presumably know whom he'd called. The implications of all that were…terrifying. Commander Une of the Preventers was either a part of this, or else her 'phone was being tapped. Which surely meant that no Preventers lines were secure.

'I did tell you not to trust anyone, you recall?' The other man commented.

'I do remember, yes.' Quatre said tightly. He hadn't believed it, once, and Trowa had almost died as a result, to teach him that lesson. And now, there was Sarab…

Trust no one.

Oh, there was irony there; Trowa had tried to teach him that lesson once, and Quatre had dismissed it. What was the point in a life where no one could be trusted? Well, he'd learned it now.

'What did you tell them?'

Quatre lifted his eyebrows slightly. 'I'm sure you're very aware what I told them. I want them both to leave this colony. Now.'

'I notice you have already taken your own steps to remove 03 from the equation. Tell me, do you truly believe he'll be safe in Preventers' custody?' His eyes gleamed. 'You could be merely sending him into a trap.'

'It is possible, yes,' Quatre told him levelly. 'But I doubt it; he's hardly an insignificant prisoner. If …anything happens to him, there will be an investigation. And you need him alive, don't you? To ensure my co-operation? I rather think I've hurt him enough to satisfy even you for the moment.'

'You're so very predictable, do you know that?' Barton shook his head. 'I'll never understand the hold that mercenary gained over you. Unbelievable. Of all the people you could have had in the world, he's still the one you chose.'

'Always.' There was no point, now, in dissembling. There was nothing in the entire universe he wouldn't do to protect Trowa. Nothing.

'I told you, didn't I, what would happen if you attempted anything of that nature? And yet, you persist in believing that you have any power here.' Barton sat back, his tone sorrowful. 'You know, I'm starting to think I can't trust you, Quatre.'

Quatre shrugged. 'I would imagine you know very well that you can't. But you need me.'

'Do I? A dead Quatre Winner, who died attempting to preserve colonial freedoms, could you just as useful to my cause as the live version. And far less troublesome. Martyrs are always wonderfully potent symbols.'

'I'm still alive, though. Therefore, I must be of some use to you.'

Incredibly, the man laughed, sweeping off that ridiculous cockaded cap. Khushrenada could certainly have given him a lesson in style. 'Very good, Quatre. Always so clever, aren't you? You were our first choice, for the L4 pilot; I've told you that already, haven't I? A son of the Winner family; throwing off his family's ideals to fight for his colony and freedom? So perfect. That fool H corrupted you, of course. All those ridiculous notions about independence for the masses; people don't want that. They need a strong leader. Direction; discipline.'

'Which you are prepared to provide, naturally?' Quatre spoke without thinking but the man merely grinned.

'But of course. How else would dictators be able to assume power? If ordinary people weren't willing to relinquish their own decisions? It's what they want, you know; to hand their lives into someone else's keeping, to abstain from having to make choices. And yes, before you make the obvious answer, you are rather extraordinary. Someone who believes that he can single-handedly change destiny.' One hand swept up to scratch the wisps of straggling beard on his chin. 'You're so very like me, you know.'

'I hardly think so.'

'Oh, you don't wish to acknowledge it, admittedly. But we have so very much in common. The only sons of powerful families, powerful men, who had our destinies planned from our very births. Both rebels; oh, don't deny it, Quatre. Not to me. I know everything about you, you see. Yes, you may have pretended to yourself that you aspired to be a model son, but there were all those small rebellions, weren't there? The violin you weren't supposed to have; those friendships with people who were supposed to be your servants. Little things, yes, but they all meant something, didn't they? Every sonata you played was a strike against your father's authority. He handled you badly, of course. Men like that always do. You know, the one thing I never did find out was why you ran away from home that time.'

Quatre said nothing; amazing, there seemed to be something that Barton didn't know about him. And there was certainly nothing he planned to give away for free.

'All those little rebellions, and then the ultimate, for your father's son. Piloting a Gundam, taking O3 as your lover. Really rather masterful; I can't personally imagine anything that would have given your father more pain.'

'It wasn't like that!' Quatre burst out, and then bit his tongue. It was none of Barton's business. His relationship with Trowa was - had been - special. Not just a way to irritate his family.

'Yes, it was. I know precisely how you felt because I've been there. It's so very hard to have a father like that, isn't it? A man who's a legend to his people. My father was exactly the same; the wealthiest man on our colony. Do you know that he had every moment of my life mapped out for me before I was even born? How could I not wish to rebel against that?'

He broke off suddenly, shaking his head. 'Enough. We were discussing your personal rebellions. Maxwell and 03, were we not?'

'You need them alive. Both of them! If you are to have any hope of controlling me.'

'Really? I would imagine one or the other would be adequate. Perhaps I should make you choose between them. And you do have that ridiculously large family, don't you? There may not be a great deal of love lost, but they are your blood. And there is always Chang. And, of course, the entire population of the Earth.'

'If you hurt Duo, if anything happens to him, my part in this ends now.'

'That sounds suspiciously like a threat.' Barton's voice was hard.

'Please.' Quatre took a deep breath. 'He's done nothing. I've already asked him to leave L4; he isn't any part of this. He never was.'

'It's too late. I already told you. I've made arrangements.'

'Unmake them,' Quatre suggested. It was a gamble, obviously, except he didn't really have much to lose at this point. He'd already lost the only people he cared about.

Barton shook his head, a little gesture of almost-admiration. 'What is Maxwell to you, really? A piece of street trash from the gutters of L2. He was never even your lover. He's hardly worth that sort of devotion.'

'He is, actually. If you'd ever met him, you might understand.'

'God, that stubbornness. I have no wish to understand that sort of foolish loyalty.' He laughed shortly. 'What would Khushrenada have made of you, I wonder? He would probably have approved. All those ridiculously feudal notions about nobility and honour. Where did all those ideals get him in the end? An unmarked grave and death at the hands of a mere child.'

'He chose his own manner of dying.'

'Yes. He was a fool. You were the one he was always most interested in, of course. Such a useful tool to win to his cause; the scion of the Winner family actually speaking out for on behalf of OZ. Such a useful…figurehead.'

'It does seem to be the general opinion these days,' Quatre said blandly, a gentle reminder of his….usefulness, and the other man gave him a short bark of a laugh.

'Doesn't it indeed? Very well, you want Maxwell. It may be possible. Do tell me, Quatre,' he leaned a little closer to the screen, eyes focused, 'would you be so determined to protect those two if you knew they'd become - intimate? Is that the word you use for those unnatural relationships you pursue?'

'Yes.' One word to answer both questions. His mouth was dry; it had happened then. It had been a possibility. Trowa had always been attracted to the American, and Duo saw Tro, at the least, as a close and trusted friend. He'd driven Trowa away, knowing he'd go to Wufei and Duo. He should be glad they'd found some measure of comfort in each other.

It was difficult, though.

'As you wish, then.' Barton looked slightly surprised at Quatre's answer. 'On one condition. I need 01.… unencumbered. Maxwell has always been a distraction; I need you to split them up. Unequivocally.'

'Heero and Duo?' That didn't make any sense. 'I don't understand. They haven't been a couple for years. And you just said Duo and Trowa…'

Barton gave him a sour, little smile. 'Oh, it's true, I assure you. The media is full of pictures of Yuy and Maxwell. Separate them, and I'll see to Maxwell's safety.'

'On condition that he leaves L2 today.' Odd, they actually had the same agenda in wanting this. What in the world was Duo thinking of? After what Heero had done to him already….Quatre's fault, probably. He'd threatened Duo with that absurd court order and Heero had leaped to the rescue. A thing that he should have predicted.

Another thing.

Quatre took a deep breath, held it, visualising an ebbing tide as Wufei had taught him once. It was getting increasingly difficult to hold any semblance of calm. He'd probably never get to speak to Wufei again. He doubted that Wufei would ever want to.

'But he can't. Didn't you know? Peacecraft won't be cleared for space travel for another couple of days. Rather bad timing, isn't it? And I doubt Maxwell will leave without him. You are all so lamentably loyal to one another.'

Damn.

He'd tried so hard to keep them all away from him, safe on Earth, and all those carefully laid plans had come to nothing. Stupid; he'd tried to get them out of his life, and he'd underestimated them. And now Relena was here as well. Another hostage to be used.

They were all making this so terribly difficult.

'How do I know that I can trust you?'

'You don't really. But this situation works to my advantage as well. The last thing I need is 01 obsessing about Maxwell right now; I need the Perfect Soldier. Without any distractions. He would have been so very much more effective during the War without Maxwell's influence.'

It crossed Quatre's mind suddenly that Heero was another one to worry about, but Heero could look after himself. Hopefully. Besides, Barton had plans for 01; he wouldn't hurt him this early in the game.

Quatre bent his head in a curt nod. 'Fine. I'll do my best.'

How hard could it be? Heero had caught Duo at a vulnerable time; that was all, and Duo always listened to his best friend.

'And now, while we're on the subject of trust. You disobeyed me earlier, calling those friends of yours. I think a small lesson may be in order, don't you? Let me show you something.' The monitor sprang into life. 'This was taken approximately three hours ago. The timing is important, you see.'

The young woman on screen was attractive; her dark-blonde hair pulled back into a neat plait. She was juggling carrier bags, walking up the stairs of an apartment building.

'Yasmina Winner,' Barton pointed out unnecessarily. 'She's your favourite sister, isn't she? The one who 'understands' you. But then, I suppose she's another black sheep for the Winner family, no? When her husband died two years ago, she refused to live with his parents, as they expected. She insisted on setting up house alone, on finding a job, on running her own life.'

The woman on screen moved around her kitchen; unpacking groceries, turning on the kettle, humming to herself as she checked the messages on her 'phone.

'Such a brave girl,' Barton murmured. 'Such independence. A shame, really. The Colonies will need people like that.'

'Stop it,' Quatre said suddenly. 'Yasmina doesn't have anything to do with this. This is all my fault.'

'I quite agree,' Barton informed him affably.

'Just leave her alone. You've made your point. She doesn't deserve to be punished for any of my actions.'

'Oh, I think not. Tragic really; just a young woman settling in for an evening at home. Expecting to be safe. A shame she has to suffer for something her foolish brother has done.'

'Stop! Don't hurt her. I'll do whatever you want.'

'Too late, I'm afraid. This film was shot at approximately the same time that you tried to contact Barton. I've been expecting you to try something, unfortunately, so I've had certain measures prepared. A terrible thing, isn't it, to watch these events unfold and be totally helpless to prevent them. Perhaps when you've seen this little film, you'll be more amenable to my instructions. It won't take up too much of your time; my men were issued with very exact instructions that she wasn't to suffer unnecessarily. Well, her death was only necessary because of her brother's intransigence.'

'I hardly think watching my own sister die is going to make me in any way amenable to anything you suggest.'

'Oh, I rather think it will. You still have twenty-seven sisters, after all. Even if you have little in common with them, they are your flesh and blood. And of course you have a growing number of young nieces and nephews. Just children, all of them. Such a shame if anything were to happen to the poor little things, simply because their uncle made another…mistake.' He crooned the last words gently. 'I'm going to need your co-operation ensured very soon, Quatre. I'm sorry the girl had to suffer, but you have to realise that anything you do, from now on, will have consequences for the people in your life.'

'What do you want me to do?' Quatre demanded.

'All the things we've already talked about, of course. Come now, you chose this path, remember?' Barton's eyes gleamed. 'It was just a game, wasn't it, at the start? A little excitement, a secret from even your closest friends? From your lover? One more of your little rebellions against the life you were leading in public. And you do crave these little excitements. But they were never enough, were they? You practically control L4, you run one of the world's largest corporations, and it still wasn't enough. You were so pathetically easy to reel in, once you'd taken the first bite of the lure.'

He tutted softly. 'Something of a character flaw, I suppose, that desire of yours to control everything you touch.'

'More like I destroy everything I touch,' Quatre said softly.

Even you.

'You do seem to have a slight tendency toward destruction, don't you?' Barton sounded positively cheerful at the thought. Fool. 'Well, I'll leave you to watch your sister's death. I trust you'll find it enlightening; it shouldn't take more than ten minutes or so. I'm sure you don't want to keep Maxwell waiting.'

Oh, Allah. His own sister. Another person of his own blood who'd died because of him.

I destroy everything I touch, Quatre thought viciously.

Especially you.