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"Cat Scratch Fever"Written By: Dentelle_noir Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing AC or the
characters. GW belongs to Bandai, Sotsu and associated parties. This
is a work of fiction and written for fun, not profit Rating: PG 13 Warnings: AU, X-men cross, Stripper Trowa Pairings: 3x4 Summary: Quatre had no idea when he walked into
the dirty, vile bar that the mutant he would meet inside would change
his life with just one word. AN: I can't ever seem to keep one stable time-line
for the X-men verse, so this is an alternate meeting between Trowa
and Quat from my more lighthearted fic Misbehaviour. "Cat Scratch Fever"
The smoky atmosphere was choking, and the clientele milling about had a distinct odor of cheap booze, city streets, and that vile, pervading tang of sex that always overwhelmed in a place like this. Quatre didn’t like it, not at all. He was primarily a telekinetic, but he had some attributes of a sensitive, and the vibes from this place were making his skin crawl. It was a mix of frustration, hunger, sorrow, and desperation dispersed amid the heavy apathetic depression that hung as thickly as the smoke in the bar. If Quatre’s father ever found out he was here, he would have a heart attack. Professor Xavier probably didn’t realize he was sending Quatre on his first mission to a run-down strip club. As it was the team hadn’t exactly known where they were going, or what they were really looking for. They were just following the professor’s directions. They were to pick out the new Mutant and convince him to come to the school. Cerebro had picked up mutant energy at this location, and the professor had pinpointed the signature of one Trowa Barton. Professor X had sent a small team to retrieve him, and allowed Quatre to tag along for the ride, if he promised to stay and Jean’s side. This was supposed to be something like a training mission. Professor X thought that Quatre had a lot of potential for recruitment, what with his sensitive abilities and telekinesis, and wanted him to learn from the best. Jean began to probe the room, looking for their mutant amongst the clientele. He was supposed to be foreign. Charles said he was Ukrainian, and could barely speak English. He was able to change into animal forms, but even human he was supposed to be incredibly strong, and very fast. That’s why Jean and Cyclops were both there. Just in case things got ugly. And by the looks a bunch of patrons kept throwing Quatre and Scott’s way, things just might get ugly. The music thumbed a little deeper, a little hotter, tribal and hungry, and there was a long, low hungry growl from back stage. The men in the club went WILD, beating their hands on the tables, and the floor cleared as people took their seats down in front and propped their feet up on the stage. There was a single green light on the stage, and it followed shoulders. Broad, male, shoulders… slinking from the curtain in the back up the catwalk… towards the pole in the middle of the club. Quatre had thought this whole excursion wouldn’t be a problem for him. He was 18. He was gay. Going into a strip club to track down some peeping mutant shouldn’t have been hard. Oh, but when he saw that body moving, spine slinking, black cat-stripes on his flesh rolling and bobbing as the dancer crawled something sure was getting HARD all right. The man finally got to the pole, and then he nuzzled it like a cat to a leg, letting out that hungry tom- cat yeowl before he kneeled upright, leaning his shoulders against the pole and began a series of slow, sensuous full-body rolls that were near hypnotizing. He was beautiful. All golden tanned, and strong. Long and lean, but with broad shoulders and sculpted abs. He was painted from head to toe with those tiger stripes, and when the light caught on that lean, angled face, the one eye not covered by the fall of dark hair seemed to gleam back in slits, like the dancer had even gone to the trouble of wearing cat-eye contacts to complete the look. He looked like a hunter. Hungry. Carnal. Instinctual. And he was making Quatre’s light empathy go absolutely haywire with one flick of his eyes. He kept pacing the stage, staying on his hands and knees, never once standing. He rolled his hips for tips, and leaned back, WAY back, showing flexibility that ought to be illegal and collected more dollars in his G-string and collar, then he turned and crawled to the other side of the stage and collected more and more, nearly climbing on someone’s table to get the 20 they were dangling for a ‘piece of pussy’ Quatre had heard the man say to his friend… and he sounded drunk, and mean… and Quatre felt the intent just a second before it happened. The man reached out and slapped the dancer’s ass, making the tiger jerk in reaction and turn, a spike of fear and adrenaline charging the atmosphere. Then suddenly the man was SCREAMING, holding his cheek as blood streamed from four huge gashes across his face as the dancer growled, lip curled back and fangs glinting… claws dripping! …. And then the cat was hissing angrily towards the bouncers who streamed in to restrain the customer, his words hard and guttural, the only English understandable was ‘bastard’ and the dancer grabbed his tips with miraculously now-human hands and flew backstage away from the chaos. But Quatre began to run, vaulting himself up onto the stage before anyone could stop him and following. Jean and Cyclops moved to work backup but after Quatre’s stunt, two bouncers were over there in seconds hauling them back. “Trowa Barton?!” Quatre called out desperately. He could feel a wild sort of fear and anger coming from somewhere back stage that seemed to be calling out to him! He ran to catch up, and heard a slam. Usually he only picked up traces of emotions, overall moods, but he was honing in on that dancer like a heat-seeking missile, and he didn’t even care that he was walking right into a strip-club’s changing room. A girl back there pointed to a closed door, and then put her bra on and grabbed a boa before moving towards the downstairs bar. Apparently this place catered to straights downstairs and gays upstairs or something, because everyone in that lounge had been a male, and they all watched the cat with lust. Quatre went to the door, and he was SURE the man was in there! It looked like a bathroom…. “Trowa Barton? Hello? I’m Quatre? I- I’m here with the Xavier Institute? The professor said he sent you a brochure….” Oh, GREAT pick-up line, Quatre! ‘we sent you a brochure’. WOW, that was going to go down in the books for all-time bonehead lines. Then Quatre hit himself for thinking like that! This wasn’t about wanting to see that amazing body. It was about inviting a new mutant to work with them! Making friends! The poor guy was probably really upset over the whole..ass-slapping thing! But the door opened, and one sharp green eye could be seen. It was slitted like a cat’s, and a faint reflection of light glinted in the back. Eyes like that seemed to look straight through his soul. The dancer just stared for a moment…. Then his eyes narrowed a little…a frown? “Zay-vier?” he said softly, heavily accented… and let the door open a little more so that half his face was now visible, and his arm, too. The outline of one leg was in the shadows of the pitch black bathroom, leading Quatre’s eye up the perfect line of his hips, dollar bills still tucked into the thong he wore. Quatre smiled brightly, nearly giddy just to hear that deep, rumbling voice talking to him… “Yes! I’m from the Xavier Institute! My name is Quatre… I’m here with friends! We’d like to talk to you?” “Friends?” Trowa said, and looked around warily. Scott and Jean had apparently not made it passed security yet…. Quatre nodded, frowning a little, “They’re outside... In the bar?” “No! No bar.” He said, misunderstanding where Quatre wanted to go. “I work. Not talk.” He was upset, and a little afraid. Quatre reached out, and touched his arm- feeling the slight texture of FUR on those stripes. The man startled, jumping back and the door SLAMMED on Quatre’s face as a little warning mRow came from behind the closed door. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please… Come and talk with us?” Quatre tried again, projecting an aura of calm and sincerity, “Just talk…. I won’t do that again, okay, I promise?” It took a few minutes. Long enough that most people would have given up and left, but Quatre was patient, and persistent, and he could hear how Trowa’s frantic pacing steps began to slow… and then the door opened a crack again…. “Bag,” the cat said, reaching an arm out and pointing to one of the vanity stations that lined the back room. One was quite obviously his, with tiger stripes drawn on the sides of the mirror either by Trowa himself or another dancer. On the chair was a little duffle bag. Quatre walked over and grabbed it, and handed it in. The door slammed shut in his face again and the waiting game was on again. Quatre had a feeling he was doing this to test his sincerity because it was nearly half an hour before he emerged. And there was no way it took half an hour to put on a pair of ripped-up jeans and see-through mesh shirt, covered with a thick leather jacket that looked like it had survived the war or something. He looked like a street whore, actually… from the ripped up jeans, tattered jacket, duffle bag and make-up. And like that he looked much younger. On stage, he looked so in control, so sexy… so strong... he looked 25? 27? Like this, Quatre wouldn’t have given him more than 19. The cat saw him looking at him, and put on a snarl, “Not turn trick,” he hissed, “You said talk!” Quatre nodded quickly, agreeing, “I’m sorry! You’re... you’re just very handsome… Please! We’ll talk!” he said, leading him back out towards the bar. Trowa though, balked, shaking his head no, and he pointed towards the back exit instead. Quatre bit his lip a little... then concentrated on sending Jean a message mentally. Meet us outside. Meet us outside. Back entrance. Back entrance! He felt a little brush against his mind, and hoped that was an acknowledgement, because he was following Trowa out the stage exit into the dark, disgusting alleyway behind the strip club. The dancer pulled out a pack of smokes and lit one, sucking on it nervously, fidgeting. The smell was disgusting…. But Quatre couldn’t help watching the way his full, sexy lips sucked on the little white stick… In England they called it a Fag… Sucking a fag… Trowa’s lips around a fag… Quatre had to wrench his eyes away before his rock-hard cock took any more of blood away from his brain. “U-Um… X-Xavier wanted us to meet you. Said he thought you’d like to come to the Institute. Work with us. You just immigrated here, right?” Trowa nodded, “Ukraine.” Quatre nodded, “Yes! That’s what we heard too! We’d like to offer you a place at the Institute! A scholarship! We’re a school for people with talents like yours!” “Strippers?” Quatre blushed to the root, “N-no... Mutants... Like us.” And Quatre held out his hand…and slowly levitated Trowa’s lighter across the alley into his hand. Trowa nodded once, not terribly impressed, but believing. “What’s at school for me?” he asked, his voice harsh and slow, edgy. Quatre thought for a moment…trying to decide the best way to approach that, “Well… there’s people to train you to use your powers…” which Trowa probably didn’t need, if the way he crawled around that stage in perfect control said, “and… there’s… lots of other mutants to make friends with…” and Trowa really didn’t look much convinced on that one either. Quatre tried again, “It’s SAFE, Trowa… no one will hunt you…No one will try to mess with you… No one will try to grab your ass,” he added, remembering the spike of fear he felt. Trowa nibbled his lip a little… considering it… but not totally convinced. Jean and Scott pulled up at the edge of the alley in the car, and stepped out, getting closer to the scene. Trowa began to get nervous… Quatre could tell it was make or break time. If Scott and Jean showed, the cat wasn’t going to take the offer. Quatre had just a few seconds to seal the deal! Had to think fast… Something told him what to say, and it was coming out of his mouth before he could think. Call it sensitivity. Call it clairvoyance. Call it wishful thinking… but there it was, and Quatre let to roll off his tongue and didn’t look back, “You can have me. I’ll be there. I’ll be your boyfriend.” The cat’s eyes flashed, looking at him again in that sharp, probing stare that made butterflies go wild in Quatre’s stomach. Then the cat blushed. Just a little… and fidgeted with the sleeve of his jacket…and said one word that changed Quatre’s life forever: “Okay.”
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