Thanks, as ever, to the amazing Kaeru Shisho for editing, and to the people who have been kind enough to review.

Chapter 88 - Killing Trowa Barton:

It hadn't been particularly challenging to get inside the Winner mansion. It was hard to think of it as home any more, even though it had been for years. He'd left, after all.

He'd designed the security system; trained and hired most of the security team. Whoever was in charge of security for the evening had done him an unknowing favour; flooding the grounds with extra guards, and half the guests had brought their own security, adding to the general confusion. After Trowa had killed a guard his own size, it was simplicity itself. No one ever questioned a man in uniform who looked like he knew what he was doing.

As soon as he flung open the door to their bedroom, he knew that, whatever Quatre had planned, it was going wrong.

Barton was standing on the far side of the room, toying with the brandy balloon in his hand. He didn't look all that different to how he had seven years before; a bit more silver in his hair and beard, but he still affected those ridiculously florid uniforms that were apparently de rigeur if you wanted to take over the universe.

Treize Khushrenada had been able to carry them off; Dekim Barton looked like an idiot in overblown fancy dress.

Quatre – shit. He only needed to look at Quatre's face to know something had fucked up big-time. He had that expression he got when he'd moved past logic and reason and anything that remotely made sense, and was fixed on doing something insanely stupid. He'd looked like that when he'd stepped out of Sandrock that first time, just for the first second; when he'd almost killed Trowa and destroyed colonies.

They'd gone to a play once, when they'd been living on Earth, while Duo had been in his coma. It had been some amateur thing put on to raise money for the hospital, and it hadn't been much good. There'd been one line though that had stuck in his mind for years.

Screw your courage to the sticking place.

That was Quatre, in essence.

Trowa had learned to deal with it over the years. Talking to him didn't work, usually, when he got like that. Some kind of physical shock was best; but under the circumstances, he couldn't really whisk Quatre off and dump him in a cold bath. And sex was definitely out of the question. Sometimes, just sometimes, the shock didn't need to be physical.

'Shit, Quatre,' Trowa drawled. 'Exactly how many times do I have to tell you not to invite strange guys into the bedroom?'

It worked. Quatre gave a weird strangled excuse for a laugh, and the tense line of his mouth relaxed, just a fraction.

'Put the knife down,' Trowa repeated, using the voice that lions, and mercenaries three times his age, and sometimes even Quatre Raberba Winner, tended to obey.

He obeyed now, and the knife tumbled out of his fingers. Not even a proper knife, but the ancient jewelled dagger his ancestors had brought from Earth. There was probably some sort of symbolism there, because with Quatre everything had to mean something.

He was wearing some sort of ridiculous desert sheikh costume, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.

'Come here.'

Trowa let out a shallow little breath when Quatre obeyed that too, crossing the room in a rustle of silks and considerably less grace than usual. Once he was close enough, Trowa grabbed his hand, pulling the blond behind him in a movement so instinctive he couldn't have stopped himself if he'd wanted to.

He looked terrible. Trowa had read the latest medical report from the White Sands clinic while he'd been on Earth. Concussion. A sprained ankle and cracked ribs. That was the physical stuff.

There'd been traces of drugs; Trowa had only had to look a couple of them up. After years of living with Quatre, he knew pretty much every drug that might affect the empathy in some way.

He'd asked once what Quatre would do, if someone developed a drug that would stop him feeling other people, with no side effects. Quatre had said he wouldn't take it, because it would mean he couldn't feel Trowa. He'd just liked to keep up with the latest research.

It was a miracle Quatre was on his feet at all, really.

'What's the fancy dress for?'

He looked ridiculous; like a parody of a desert prince in a bad movie. There was gold thread woven into the fabric. It shimmered when he moved.

'It's ethnic.'

Trowa snorted. Quatre wasn't…ethnic, whatever the hell it was supposed to mean.

On L4, they liked to make a big deal out of their desert heritage, with their artificially sculpted sand dunes, and replicas of palaces and mosques from Earth. Most of them had probably never seen a camel in real life. Trowa had; he'd worked with them at the circus. Nasty stinky beasts.

'You OK?'

Quatre, who very obviously wasn't, gave a jerky little nod. His hair was longer than it had been since they'd first moved back to L4 six years ago; since his personal barber had visited every week. It was at the stage where the longer strands were starting to drift into his eyes and curl around his ears.

'How very affecting,' the man on the other side of the room said tetchily. He didn't look overly surprised to see Trowa; just mildly annoyed. 'You're late. I didn't think you were going to be here, after all.'

'Sorry about that. Had some problems docking. Believe me, I was never not going to be here.'

Dekim Barton. He'd seen him before, of course, when he'd been working on Heavyarms, before he'd had a name. Barton had called in every couple of weeks, to check on progress; to check on his son. Of course, he'd never condescended to notice any of the lowly mechanics working on the Gundam, but those eyes had flickered over him a few times. He'd known. Trowa – the real one – had always been particularly strung up after his father visited.

He shuddered a little, because he always did, at that memory.

He'd known not to trust Trowa Barton from the first moment. You didn't spend a childhood, which hadn't been a childhood at all, really, on battlefields and in mercenary camps without being able to tell people like that. He'd known from the beginning that there was a predator under that superficial charm.

The boy Nanashi hadn't exactly been an innocent. You took comfort where you could get it. Before a battle, or after sometimes, you needed a warm body to press against. Sometimes, he'd been given favours in exchange, thought he'd never asked for them; extra food, or a few credits, or an hour or two off duty.

Trowa had wanted him from the start. There'd been a few days of not-so-accidental touches while they worked on the Gundam, and compliments for his mechanical skills, and invitations to Trowa's quarters.

The first time, Trowa had had two of his soldiers hold the boy down for him. After that, it hadn't really mattered. He couldn't fight all of them, and it wasn't like anyone would come to help.

It would have happened sooner or later. He'd been lucky for too long. As a kid, Kurt had kept an eye on him, and later he'd been able to look after himself.

Since he'd got to L3, he'd been sleeping with a knife to hand, under his pillow. After he'd cut the first guy to come after him – one of the senior mechanics - he'd been more or less left alone.

The nameless boy he'd been at fifteen, had been so sure that nothing could ever touch him again. That nothing else in the universe would have the power to make him cry.

Then, he'd met Trowa Barton.

Everyone had known, of course. There'd been jokes and dirty sniggers and a bit of speculation about what Trowa did to him, and whether or not he'd be willing to share once the novelty wore off.

'So.' Barton said disdainfully, looking him over. 'My son's whore.'

'Actually not. That would imply a level of choice, and payment. Your son never paid for what he could take for free, by force.'

Behind him, Quatre choked out a little gasp, and Trowa forced himself to squash certain memories. Things were bad enough without Quatre picking up on those, and losing it totally.

Barton looked mildly pained at that. 'I never could understand what he saw in you. A hired killer and a whore.'

Quatre gasped again, and started forward, and Trowa checked him, one hand on Quatre's silken sleeve. 'Don't. Don't waste your time getting worked up by scum like that. For the record, I don't know what he saw in me, 'specially, but he liked pain. Inflicting it. Pain and blood.'

'You killed him,' Barton ground out.

'That wasn't me. Sorry. And believe me, I am sorry about it.'

'You stole my son's life. His name, his Gundam. Everything he should have had.'

'Yeah. I really didn't buy into that whole crazy plan of yours to destroy a planet. Still don't, actually.'

'It would be a fitting memorial for Trowa. He was flawed in so many ways, but he was still my son.'

'He'd probably approve of that,' Trowa assented. 'Shame it's not going to happen.'

'Oh, but it is. I imagine you came here with some ridiculously heroic scheme to stop me. However, I've spent rather a long time setting up my own plans. You're a mercenary. You have a price. How much?'

He didn't sound overly concerned. He wasn't even looking at Trowa. Of course not. Trowa knew these sorts of people. Quatre was the real threat, just because he had the right accent and the right surname. He was in the club of people who had power, and people like Trowa didn't really exist in that universe because they could be bought off or disposed of without a thought.

'I really don't think you could afford me.'

'What do you want?' Barton pressed. 'Money? Or him?'

'He's not a bargaining chip.' He was achingly aware of Quatre, just behind him, close enough to hear silk whisper when he moved, to smell those criminally expensive toiletries he liked.

'Isn't he really? That's why you're here. To save him.'

'No,' Trowa said levelly. 'I'm here for you. To kill you.'

'Killing me won't accomplish anything,' he sounded almost bored. 'Not at this stage.'

'I think it will, actually,' Quatre said. 'I can't imagine how many of your supporters will be there for you unless you're holding a gun to their family's heads. Nobody wants this sort of carnage.'

'You,' Barton said, chillingly low, 'have no right to talk about the evils of inflicting death on innocent people, given your history. And what are you planning now, to kill an unarmed old man? You would stoop so low.'

'No, he wouldn't,' Trowa said, quite calmly. 'I would. And, trust me, the only reason you're still alive and breathing, is because he tried to give you a chance to do the right thing.'

'We can't leave him alive,' Quatre breathed in his ear, so close. 'Trowa. If he lives, he'll always be a focal point for the resistance. A figurehead.'

'I know. I'll do it. You don't want to dirty your hands with filth like him.'

It wasn't like Quatre had never killed anyone. This was different though.

Duo, talking about the bastard who'd abducted him on that shuttle, had admitted that he'd been unable to shoot an old, unarmed man. Trowa didn't have those sort of scruples.

'You wouldn't dare.' Even with a gun aimed directly at him, he just couldn't – wouldn't – face the reality of it. Brave or stupid, one or the other. Or just plain mad.

'Hired killer, remember? Like you said?'

He shot once; aiming for between the eyes. A very professional shot. An execution. The second shot was for the heart. Then he just couldn't stop firing.

'Tro.' It was Quatre's voice, coming simultaneously from behind him and from vast distances across the universe. 'He's dead. Can you put the gun down now? Trowa? Please?'

'Yeah.' He lowered it obediently; he was out of bullets anyway. And his hand shook when he tried to reload.

'Barton was right,' he observed. Everything seemed very … detached, all of a sudden. He'd stolen a Preventers Shuttle and flown across the universe and killed the bad guy, and saved the love of his life. Shouldn't he be feeling something? 'Wasn't he? I've always just been some hired killer.'

A hired killer and a whore. That was what he'd said. Accurate, mostly.

'You are so very much more than that.' Quatre was suddenly standing in front of him. Those stupid clothes made him look very pretty and totally stupid. He was way too fair to carry off that sort of Arabian get-up.

'Not really. Why the fuck are you dressed like that anyway? Was your back-up plan to do some kind of dancing boy act? Seduce the bastard?' What came out of his mouth wasn't anything near a laugh; shrill and humourless.

Quatre took a deep breath. 'Tonight was supposed to be a celebration of Arabian history and culture. There was a … dress code. I know, I look utterly idiotic. Tro, can I have the gun? Please?'

'Why?' Trowa asked, surprised by the urgency in his voice. 'You want to shoot someone? He's dead. That was seriously the sum total of your master plan?'

'I have been rather constrained lately,' Quatre said snippily.

'Yeah, but still. You're supposed to be the genius strategy guy.'

'Everything will fall apart without him. He was the force behind it all. No one else wants a war.'

'He must have some crazy loyal fuckers who'll back him up.'

'Not really. No one who'll take his place, anyway.'

Trowa considered that, through the fog that had taken over his brain, and then jerked back to full awareness at the sound of gunfire outside the window. 'Fuck!'

'It's all right,' Quatre assured him. 'It's Rashid and the others. They're taking out Barton's guards. It's all part of the plan.'

That sounded fair enough. Trowa abruptly sat down on the floor, laying the gun across his lap. The universe had turned upside down in the last month, and their bedroom was exactly as it had been the day he'd left. Almost exactly. One thing missing from the wall and a dead body in the corner, by Quatre's little writing desk. 'Where's Wufei's scroll?'

'I took it down. When Duo was here. I was trying to give him a signal that something was wrong.'

'Oh. Yeah, he said. He got it. Very smart.'

'He is, yes.' Quatre crouched down beside him, not quite touching.

Something wrong there. Quatre had always been the touchy-feely one. He felt, suddenly, very tired, and Quat was there beside him, and then he was suddenly stretched out on the floor with his head in Quatre's lap.

'Tro?' God, there was something wrong with Quatre's voice. It sounded so far away. 'When was the last time you slept?'

'Huh? Dunno. I'm OK.' He was. He couldn't remember sleep, ever, but he'd had a gallon of strong black coffee on the shuttle and he'd been popping pills like candy. It was very tempting to close his eyes, just for a second, and let Quatre go on stroking his hair.

'Of course you are.' Quatre bent his head and kissed him softly on the mouth. 'Thank you. For being here.'

His eyes flew open. 'I'd never have let him hurt you.'

'I know. I know you wouldn't.'

'Not him.' He glanced at the body in the corner of the room. Shit. It was going to be hell getting the blood out of the rug, and it was a fucking Winner heirloom. Quatre's freaking sisters were going to go batshit on him. 'The other one. The son.' He couldn't say the name. His name. 'I'd never have let him touch you. I wouldn't, Quat. Never.'

It made him feel sick, the thought of Trowa going anywhere near the blond. Breathing the same air, even. He'd have killed him if he'd even looked in Quatre's direction. Never have let him hurt Quatre, do those things to him.

'I know you wouldn't, Tro. Shush, now. It's all right.'

Was it? Trowa didn't know, didn't really have the energy to work it out, but Quatre could look after things, just for a minute. Instead, he fumbled for the gun. 'Take this. Just in case. Shoot anyone who comes through the door who isn't Rashid. OK? Quat?'

'I promise.'

Quatre kissed him one more time, sweeping his tongue against Trowa's lips. 'Go to sleep, my love. I've got you. It's all right.'