Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the GW universe and make no monetary profit from writing.

Note: Many thanks to KS for editing, and to all the wonderful people who have left reviews.

Chapter 80/94 - Knight to L4:

'So,' Duo said, on the other end of the 'phone. 'This is kinda getting to be a habit. You running off to L4.'

'Apparently.'

Duo laughed. 'No one's twigged that you're MIA, even. Looks like 'Fei did a pretty good job of misdirection; everyone thinks you're with someone else. Guess there was so much going on, you kind of got overlooked.'

'Not complaining,' Trowa commented dryly. 'How is everyone?'

''All good. They're at the embassy, mostly; 'Lena and Doro and the kids and everyone from L4. 'Fei dragged Zechs off to get a medical. I was just talking to him; they should be here soon. Anyway, you have fifteen minutes 'til you're cleared for take-off. Lucky the security codes in this place are crap.'

'Amateurs,' Trowa agreed.

The whole thing had been quite ridiculously easy. Of course, it had helped that he'd entered the hangar with a company of Preventers to meet Zechs and Relena's shuttle. It had been simple, after that, with Wufei covering for him, to duck out of the group and find the staff locker room. Once he'd found a set of overalls in his size, and a tool kit, he'd just walked down to the launch pad. No one had looked at him twice. Mechanics in a place like this were next thing to invisible.

'Amateurs, right. Well. I guess this is it. I'd better get back to Heero's office before he starts looking for me. Kick your boyfriend's ass for me.'

'Consider it kicked. He won't be sitting down for a month.'

'One way or another, huh?' Duo teased.

Trowa could hear the smile in his voice; a broad smile full of hope and happiness, because he still believed in happy endings. Trowa never had, not really, even when he'd been living in his own happy-ever-after, because that wasn't what his life was like.

'I hope I haven't screwed things up between you and Heero.'

Duo didn't deserve that. He'd only been trying to help. He didn't want to be the reason Duo didn't get his happy ending.

'Don't worry about that. Heero and I are quite capable of screwing up our own lives. No outside assistance needed. Tro, how stupid would it sound if I asked you to be careful?'

'I'll try.' Trowa's fingers flickered over the controls. It probably wasn't necessary; Duo had activated the launch system, but he never liked to trust computers that much. 'Duo, thank you. For everything.'

For helping him get away. He'd have done it, if necessary, by himself, but it had felt good to have his friends helping. It had helped, too, talking with the two of them, his two closest friends, who also loved Quatre. He had most of the puzzle figured out now, finally. He'd been too close before. Too involved, to see patterns in Quatre's behaviour over the last year or so. And he'd blamed himself for most of it, anyway, one way or another.

Duo, because God only knew how Duo's mind worked, thought that figuring things out made everything all right. That Quatre had been hiding something this big from the person who was supposed to be his partner.

He thought Trowa had this one chance to go and rescue the blond in distress; to be a knight in shining armour. Even though Trowa wasn't any sort of a knight. Even though Quatre had never been the one to need saving, except possibly from himself. Even now, he probably had some impossible brave, heroic, stupid plan.

Trowa didn't have much of a plan. He had a mission to accomplish, nothing more.

Save Quatre.

Who probably didn't want to be saved, and had never needed it.

He said goodbye to Duo, wondering if it would be for the last time, and activated take off.

His friend called back, a couple of hours later.

'Hey.' He sounded subdued, voice so low that Trowa had to strain to hear.

'You all right?'

'Yeah. Had a row with Heero, that's all. Lots of yelling. It was pretty inevitable, once he found out.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. Not your fault. We'd…kind of talked about getting married. I mean, I sort of proposed. By accident, really. Not now or anything. One day. Maybe.'

'Oh, Duo.'

'I'm all right,' Duo said defensively, although he very obviously wasn't. 'I just wanted to talk to someone. And 'Fei and Zechs needed a bit of time alone. Had to steal this phone from some agent who's supposed to be making sure I don't get into any more trouble.'

'He's not doing a very good job, is he?'

He'd been trying to get a laugh; instead, there was a moment's silence, and Trowa could imagine him with total, aching clarity, picking at a fingernail, or chewing the end of his braid.

'It's always Quat,' he said finally. 'He's always the one I think of first.'

'Yeah.' Trowa said it on a soft exhale of breath. 'Me too.'

'I'm not in love with him,' Duo said, quick and defensive again.

'Only because you have terrible taste,' Trowa teased. When Duo didn't respond, he added, very gently. 'Maybe you are. A tiny little bit.'

Duo didn't bother to deny it. 'Heero said I was. He knows nothing ever happened with us. Ever. We were just friends.'

'I know that.' Trowa thought about what to say next, thinking he shouldn't be the one to do this. Quatre had always been the one to talk about feelings. 'Duo, tell me one thing. Honestly. Would you prefer Heero to have a one night stand with some random stranger he'd never see again, or to make that person his closest friend and confidante?'

'Oh!'

'Yeah,' Trowa agreed. 'Look, you and Quatre always had this perfect, unconditional friendship. It wasn't always easy for the rest of us, being on the outside. It wasn't easy for Heero, the year after the war, knowing that Quatre was the one you talked to. Not him. Not your lover.'

'But..'

'No, Duo. That's how it was. There are other ways to cheat on a partner; it doesn't have to be about sex.'

Duo was quiet for a minute or so before he spoke again. 'I'll talk to him, Tro. Thanks. It'll work out, you know.'

'It should. He loves you.'

'Yeah. I wasn't actually talking about us. Whatever Quatre did, whatever he's doing, he was trying to protect you. All of us.'

'I'm sure he had his reasons,' Trowa said levelly. 'Duo, I have to go.'

So very, bloody typical of Duo Maxwell. After everything, he could still make Quatre into the hero of the piece, instead of the villain. He'd always been able to do that. On a good day, he could convince himself that black was white, if he really applied himself. And he could convince himself that certain things had never happened, or almost happened, or had happened the way he desperately wanted them to.

Trowa hung up and sat back, with nothing much to do other than wait. The shuttle had been programmed to his destination's co-ordinates; as a pilot, he was pretty much redundant.

Lucrezia Noin called not long afterwards, when he was too far from Earth for it to make any difference. She shouted at him for a bit, and issued threats that they both knew she'd never carry out. She wished him luck before hanging up.

He thought about flying Heavyarms; piloting always did. That thought inevitably led him to Quatre, but then pretty much everything did.

He thought, ridiculously, about how easy it would be just to dial Quatre's number, to hear his voice. It wasn't possible, though. Any phone calls were sure to be tapped and he didn't want anyone listening. Then again, what the hell? It wasn't like he was exactly going in under anyone's radar anyway.

He could just call Quat. He tried, dialling Quat's personal mobile, and his office number, and then the house 'phone. No answer, not even a message service.

Shit.

He used the ship computer to type an email; just two digits, and waited. He'd sent the message to the emergency account he and Quat had used during the war. They'd been fifteen when he'd set up the accounts, dizzily in love, and the usernames they'd chosen for each other reflected that. Liontamer and Desertprince. Ridiculous.

It was still a sweet, cherished memory when he thought about it. The two of them sprawled on the bed they'd shared the night before, with the memory of Quatre's kisses still singing on his lips, remembering how Quatre's pale skin had felt under his silk pyjamas when he'd daringly let Trowa slide a finger under the waistband.

Trowa crossed his legs at that particular memory. There were some things, apparently, that were still burnt into his brain, his body.

Quatre hadn't replied. Of course not. He quite possibly didn't have access to a computer. It probably hadn't even occurred to him to check this particular email address. Maybe they were all wrong and he wanted to be a part of Barton's revolution.

To pass the time, Trowa opened the inbox and flicked through the existing messages. There were three Quatre had sent following Heero's self-destruction attempt during the war, mentioning that he'd met Pilot 02 and taken him back to the desert base.

And the last one, sent, incredibly, only a week ago.

04, urgently in need of assistance.

Then there was, suddenly, a tiny envelope in the top corner of the screen.

03?

Fingers shaking, Trowa wrote back. Affirmative.

Six seconds, measured out in heartbeats.

Prove it.

There's a huge, black spider sitting on your keyboard.

That should be proof enough. He'd spent the war de-spidering safe-houses, and the years afterward checking out luxurious hotel suites when they were on Earth, always with Quatre hovering and insisting that he wasn't scared of spiders and didn't want them to be harmed, he just didn't like them. He pressed SEND, feeling a little thrill of malice that he was ashamed of for a second or two, and then didn't care. After all, Quatre was causing all this trouble.

Oh. That was mean.

Well, that proved beyond doubt that Quatre was the one writing to him. He could imagine it so clearly. Quatre's gasp when he read the words and the quick, involuntary glance to check they weren't true.

Quatre's response actually made him laugh. Quatre had always, somehow, been able to do that. Still could, apparently.

Fuck.

They were, incredibly, having a conversation. The first time they'd really communicated since the morning he'd walked out, a month ago. It hadn't been a proper conversation, then. They'd had breakfast together, on the little balcony outside their bedroom, and talked about the eggs Florentine they'd been served; a new recipe the breakfast chef was trying. Quatre had mentioned a meeting he had scheduled with his accounts department and Trowa had made appropriate responses and agreed to meet him for lunch and told him about a new security system he wanted to install for the WEI network.

All the time, he'd been planning to leave, with a fake passport.

He'd walked Quatre to his car and kissed him, despite Rashid's pained expression looking at them from the driver's seat. Just for the hell of it, he'd pressed Quat up against the side of the car, adjusting his collar a little to hide the love bite on his neck, and knowing that under the sleeves of the cashmere jacket and perfectly-pressed linen shirt Quatre's wrists were bruised from the handcuffs they'd used the night before.

Trowa typed back, Yeah, it was kind of mean, acknowledging the truth of it, and then where are you?

Home. Bedroom.

You OK?

FINE.

Capitalised, it was a joke of Duo's. Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic, Exhausted.

I'm OK, Quatre sent after a brief pause. Line not secure.

Keep it light then.

Where are you?

Where do you think?

No. Trowa, no. You can't. Please.

He knew then.

Can't not, kitten.

It was true as anything in his life had ever been. Quatre had always been his magnetic north, guiding him.

Quatre had spent the last year trying to drive him away, but it hadn't worked.

He was the supreme strategist, the empath, the person who knew Trowa better than anyone in the universe. He hadn't succeeded. Maybe, subconsciously, he hadn't wanted to. Maybe Trowa was just too damn stubborn for his own good.

Picking his words carefully, needing to know, Trowa wrote What about our friends? He meant the Maguanacs, of course. Quatre's private army, who would do anything for him. At least they could keep him safe until Trowa arrived.

Compromised.

No. Trowa's turn to say it, pleading. Who?

S. He's gone. Not sure who else.

S was Sarab, one of the younger Maguanacs. He'd been very close to Quatre; one of the few who'd never looked disapprovingly at Trowa's presence in his life. They'd been to his wedding, two years previously. Quatre had worn traditional desert garb; after, Trowa had slowly wound him out of all the layers of silk and loved him.

Lying together, later, Quatre had whispered that one day, it would be their turn to say the words, to stand up in front of their friends and family. Half-asleep, Trowa had muttered some vague agreement to keep him happy, because it couldn't ever happen. Not on L4 and certainly not in front of the Winners.

Looking back, he supposed it had been a proposal, of sorts, and an acceptance. It had never really seemed important to Trowa. He and Quatre were together, and would be until one of them decided otherwise. Quatre liked the idea of a ceremony though; a party like the one he'd thrown for Sarab, with Trowa on an Arab stallion, and musicians, and a huge feast that went on for days.

Sarab was dead, because that was what gone, almost certainly, meant. For the first time, because he'd been trying very hard not to think about any of it, and Duo would have been proud if he'd known, Trowa thought about what the last year must have been like for Quatre.

Trowa had learned not to trust anyone when he was very young, but Quatre hadn't. Quatre believed in people.

I'm sorry, angel.

Quatre's reply was immediate and utterly inevitable, and made Trowa choke on a laugh.

Don't call me that.

R? Trowa typed back.

Don't know.

That had to be wrong. Rashid would die for Quatre, without even thinking about it. He would have said that about Sarab though. Everyone had something in their life, something or someone they would do anything to protect.

Quatre had him. And in some screwed-up way that maybe, maybe made sense inside Quat's head, he was doing all of this for Trowa.

Shit. If Quatre was starting to doubt Rashid, who'd been more of a father to him than his real father ever had, then there was something seriously fucked up with the universe.

Quat. You can trust him. You know that.

Must go. Please don't come.

Too late.

There was no reply. Trowa left the screen open, just in case. He'd been in their bedroom. That was all too easy to visualise; Quatre lying on their bed, propped up against a pile of pillows, or sitting at the little corner desk.

He didn't write back, whatever had happened, but Trowa read over the messages he'd sent. He shouldn't have teased him about the spiders.

It didn't matter. Hopefully, they'd see each other soon enough, even if it wouldn't be for very long.

He read the messages again, trying to find some sort of clues or hidden meanings that Quatre was being coerced into all of this, that he was fighting it.

It didn't matter, Trowa repeated to himself. None of it did. He was going to get Quatre out of this, and kill Barton, who was somehow behind all of this, and wanted revenge for the plan that had failed, seven years ago, and the son who'd died.

He'd killed innumerable people, before the war and during it, and felt guilt afterwards, for some of them. The only person he'd ever really wanted to kill, on his own account, was the real Trowa Barton. Once he'd met Quatre, it had been the thing he'd been most grateful for in his entire life; that Barton had never got to be the one to fly Heavyarms, to meet Quatre.