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"Unspoken"Written By: Honor Disclaimers: I’ve contracted some guy named
Doctor Draken to steal the boys. It’s part of his mad scheme
to take over the world. Nifty, huh? Spoilers: Nope Rating: Um…hm…NC-15 to be safe Warnings: Romance, some angst, some shonen-ai,
and language Pairings: 3x4x5x3 Author’s Insane Ramblings: ‘Soundless speech’ <communicator> *emphasized* " Unspoken" Chapter One
Perimeter security said Sandrock had entered the hangar five minutes ago. So where was he? I had been making lunch, figuring that Winner would come in hungry. He’d been on a solo mission for a week, and I know that he’s not very good at cooking. He can barely heat things up. I really need to take time and teach him, but we never seem to have that kind of grace. I hesitated in leaving the stir fry, not wanting it to burn…screw it. Flipping the stove off, I moved the pan off the eye and headed for the hangar. If he hadn’t shown up by now, then something was obviously wrong. He might be hurt. He might be unconscious. He might need me. Er, that is to say, he might need my help. Or just help, period. Not specifically me per se…just forget I said anything. I barely got the front door open when I caught sight of him moving across the lawn. He was moving alright, and I didn’t see any signs of injury. It was strange to see him in all black like this, with smudges of dirt and dust on his skin and hair—what kind of mission had he been on, anyway? Still, he smiled and waved when he saw me. …there was something wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on what, but there was something off, in the way he was looking at me. My worry escalated instead of receded and I came forward to meet him. He might look alright, but there was still those five minutes of delay to account for. And my instincts were still screeching in the back of my head. “Winner? Status.” He flashed me a thumb’s up. Wait a minute. That was a Maxwell move. Winner never did something like that he always acknowledged a question verbally, unless the situation called for silence. My frown increased. “Did you take damage on your mission?” Had he been checking Sandrock, was that the reason for the delay? He shook his head, smile saying ‘nothing’s wrong, don’t worry’. I didn’t believe it. He was close enough to grab now, and I did—both hands grasping his shoulders and holding him still when he tried to slip past. “Out with it. What’s wrong?” All of the cheerfulness drained from his expression, leaving him white and scared. I’ve never seen him troubled like this, even when there was a battle to be fought with the odds stacked against us, there was always determination in his eyes—never fear. Never unease and worry. Protective instincts surged to the fore, demanding that I help him, hold him, shelter him until that look was gone from his face. I ground them under a mental heel and refocused. “Winner. I cannot help if I don’t understand what the problem is.” He lifted a hand, pointing at his throat, and shook his head. The pantomime was clear enough. “You can’t talk?” It came out a little incredulous. Miserably he nodded, eyes downcast. “Laryngitis?” It was the only explanation I could think of, although he didn’t look sick. Immediately he shook his head no. The silence coming from him was so unnatural that my nerves were beginning to crawl. What was going on? He lifted a hand, fingers moving in the air oddly. It took a moment for me to figure out that he wanted to write out the explanation. “Don’t worry about that,” I dismissed shortly. “I can lip read. Explain, Winner.” Oh that’s good, sound impatient with him and make him even more miserable. Real smooth, Chang. Ancestors, but I need to work on my people skills. He opened his mouth twice, fumbling for words, before he silently started to explain. ‘I don’t know why. A week ago I could talk. Now I can’t.’ He couldn’t talk and he didn’t know why? “Let’s go inside. You can shower and eat, and then we’ll sit down and try to figure this out.” I wanted answers now, but it was obvious he was tired and worried. He needed a chance to unwind a little from this stress. ‘Sounds good,’ he agreed with a sorry excuse for a smile. ‘I can smell something. Did you cook?’ “Stir fry. Go shower, I’ll finish it.” ‘Okay.’ I watched him go up the stairs, scowling, very unhappy and lost as to what to do next. How can you not be able to speak and at the same time, have no idea as to the cause? And what the hell was I going to say to Barton when he showed up in an hour? I wasn’t blind. Only a fool could miss how Barton looked at Winner. The love and tenderness in his eyes was blatant whenever he looked at the blond. It was obvious that those feelings were returned too. To this day I have no idea why they haven’t acted on them yet and started screwing each other silly. But I do know this much—when Barton gets here, and discovers that something is wrong with his blond and there’s no easy and quick fix, he will Not Be Happy. And when Barton’s pissed, things tend to get messy very quickly. Damn. I focused on something I could do, which was finish the stir fry. While stirring the vegetables and meat around, I let my mind dwell on the problem. Apparently Winner’s condition wasn’t physical. He wasn’t sick, or injured. If he were, then it would be obvious what the problem was and the solution clear cut. But it wasn’t—which meant it was psychological. I hate psychological. Nothing is clean or neat about it. I am not a shrink. I don’t want to be a shrink. Worse, we have no access to a shrink. Qua—Winner cannot take time off from the war and go through months of therapy to get straightened out. It just simply wouldn’t work that way. And yet, that was precisely what he needed, if my deduction is right. Damn, damn, damn. Where’s a magic wand when you need one? Something brushed my elbow and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I whirled, spatula raised to hit whoever was behind me…and felt foolish when Quatre ducked out of range, giving me an ‘oops, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you’ look. How had he snuck up on me like that? I hadn’t heard a sound. Clearing my throat a little I yanked lunch off the stove before it could burn. “Go sit down. I’ll get this.” He nodded in agreement, settling at the miniscule kitchen table. He was in fresh clothes now, jeans and a t-shirt, hair damp and curling loosely over his forehead. I tore my eyes from him and dished up the food, placing it with quick economy on the table. I had to bite my tongue to keep from questioning him while we ate. From the way he was rapidly inhaling the food, it had been a while since he’d had something decent to eat. When his plate was cleared, he looked up, lost and uneasy and trying to hide it. I could read it clearly enough in his eyes, and felt that I was a mirror of him in that moment. “Were you able to speak just before you left on your mission?” I hadn’t seen him face to face in three weeks, so I wasn’t sure how long this had been going on. He nodded firmly. “So it’s only been this last week you couldn’t talk?” After a long moment of consideration, he slowly shrugged. ‘Not sure. I haven’t tried to speak for the past several days.’ That was odd. Winner was rather like Maxwell, he liked to talk. He wasn’t a babbler, by any means, but it was odd for him to remain quiet for long. “Why?” ‘The mission required absolute silence.’ An uneasy tightening started building up in my stomach. I kept my voice level. “Tell me about the mission.” ‘Simple reconnaissance. Or it was supposed to be. I infiltrated Arnold’s Air Force Base, including several of their test cells. The place doesn’t have a good set of blue prints, so I spent a lot of time in the ducts of the building, drawing up my own and guessing on what direction to take. Once I was in there, I found quite a few projects that were going on. I spent a lot of time gathering information on them, and planting some bombs to take the whole base out. It was supposed to be a three day mission at most, but it somehow stretched out to seven.’ He spread his hands out in an open palmed shrug. ‘Nothing terribly exciting.’ Nothing that could explain why he couldn’t speak now, either. Except… “So you didn’t speak to anyone. Were you on base the entire seven days?” ‘Of course.’ He looked puzzled by the question. “Were you ever in a secure location? Able to relax at all?” ‘No, not really. I took a lot of cat naps. There just wasn’t any good place to really rest.’ I had a guess now of what had happened. But I really hoped I was wrong. “Winner. I think you’ve programmed yourself subconsciously to not speak out loud.” He looked startled, a little defensive, and I lifted a hand to stall his protest. “Wait, hear me out. You were in enemy territory for seven days, unable to speak without fear of discovery and capture. Not once were you given respite from it. Your subconscious mind probably shut down your ability to make any kind of verbal noise out of sheer self-preservation.” His protests stilled, and died unspoken. Almost against his will he started to nod. ‘I think you might be right. But I’ve been on missions before that required silence, why is this happening now?’ “I’m not sure,” I answered honestly. “I’m going to have to do some research, and ask a lot more questions before we can get to the root of this. But we will get to the bottom of it, I swear to you.” He didn’t say anything, but the warmth and trust on his face was answer enough. For just a moment, I basked in that expression. This, at least, was something I could do—for him, with him. The moment was completely shattered when the door opened and Barton stepped inside. Wait what was he doing here?! I had another good half hour, maybe more, to plan the appropriate…ah screw it, since when did life ever go according to plan? Winner was torn between being happy to see Barton, and worried. Still, he bounced free of his seat and tackled his friend with a hug, which I noted Barton was quick to return. Whatever he said was too soft for me to really catch, but I certainly caught the frown on his face when Winner didn't respond. He said something else, in a questioning tone, and Winner turned to me with pleading eyes, silently asking for me to explain. Damn, I had hoped to get out of the blasting radius when Barton realized what was going on… Sighing, I got up and walked toward them. "He can't speak, Barton." The brunet blinked in puzzlement. "Can't speak? Laryngitis?" I can't blame him for the assumption, since it had been the first explanation to me as well. I shook my head curtly. "No. It's not something physical. Sit down, I'll try to explain." Very uneasy, and growing more tense by the second, he sat down at the table. Winner was quick to join us, his eyes darting back and forth between our faces, one hand rubbing over his heart in agitated circles. His empathy was no doubt picking up on our distress. For his sake, I tried to get my emotions back under control as I explained as quickly and succinctly as possible what had happened and what our theory was. Barton, needless to say, didn't like it one little bit. “Are you sure?” he demanded of me. “No,” I snapped back. “But it’s the only thing that we can think of to explain it.” “But he’s been on missions before that required silence, and nothing like this happened.” I glanced at the Arabian, noticing the tight lines around his eyes and mouth. This argument wasn’t helping him any, only adding to his distress. “Barton, stop growling like a wounded tiger. You’re not helping.” He glared at me, but shut up. Over-bearing, protective sha zi…what, did he think I liked this situation any more than he did? “Something about that mission must have triggered this. We just have to analyze all the facts calmly, and figure it out. Winner, I know you write logs on all of your missions. Can you pull up every mission you’ve been on that’s required silence on your part?” He was almost grateful for something constructive to do, judging from the look he shot at me, and nodded firmly. “Good. Go get them. I’ll do the dishes while you’re doing that, and Barton—for the sake of my nose, and Winner’s, go get a shower.” Since he had been crawling around in some jungle for the past three days, he could hardly argue that he was clean enough. With a slight eye roll he got up and headed for the shower. Winner quickly went back outside, probably heading for Sandrock. I certainly kept all of my mission-related data in my gundam. Ten minutes later, we were all in the living room, scattered around on various couches and chairs, reading through Winner’s logs. I was getting a strange insight into how his mind worked, reading through these. Most of it was quick and to the point, but there were more personal notes that peppered the precise data. “I hope I can talk Trowa into making that lasagna again tonight. I think I gained five pounds eating all of it last time, but Allah it was sooo good. Maybe I can talk Wufei into trying some this time too. I know he’d like it. He’s so stubborn about food.” Of course I was, I know what I like, and I have no intentions of subjecting my taste buds to something nasty. A small part of my mind observed that if Winner really had asked me to try some, I’d probably have given in, but I quickly shut it up and focused on the logs again. Five entries later, I stumbled across another note. “It’s freezing! I wish Trowa was nearby, he’s always warm and he doesn’t really mind when I cuddle in with him. I wish Wufei was as comfortable with me…” I swallowed hard reading that, trying to ignore the mental image of the two pilots snuggling. The most insane feelings of jealousy were trying to develop too, but I squashed them ruthlessly and scrolled down the screen to the next entry. Maybe I should stop reading those little personal notes. A hand lightly brushed my arm and I jolted around, staring up into troubled blue eyes. Winner had a hand pressed to his heart, and he was frowning slightly. Ancestors, had he picked up on my flash of jealousy? ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, as soon as he was sure he had my full attention. I could hardly tell him, all things considered. I shook my head, briefly squeezing the hand on my arm before letting go. “Ignore me. I’m just being irrational.” The frown deepened, but he let it go and reluctantly returned to his seat. Barton was looking at me out of the corner of his eye, but I ignored him and the silent question on his face, returning to the logs. An hour and six missions later, I was no closer to the answer than before. Putting my laptop aside I looked up at the other two. “Thoughts?” Winner shrugged, not looking up at us. I felt that urge to go and hold him again, but squashed it and looked to Barton. He was frowning, head cocked thoughtfully as he looked at his laptop. “We might be going about this wrong,” he finally ventured. Curious, I twisted more to face him. “How so?” “I doubt previous missions will tell us much. Wouldn’t his training be the source of anything now? That’s always been the case with me.” I wanted an elaboration on that last cryptic statement, but didn’t feel that it was right of me to push it. “It’s a good thought,” I allowed. “Winner? Did you ever go through any training on stealth?” I was fairly sure he had. I certainly had. Winner nodded emphatically. ‘Towards the end, right before we were supposed to start Operation Meteor. The sims lasted about two weeks.’ That sounded about right, although mine had lasted about a month. I glanced at Barton to see what his response was, but there was only confusion on his face. “Barton?” “I didn’t catch all of that,” he admitted. “I’m not good at lip reading. What did he say?” As I repeated it, I kept one eye on Winner. He was frankly disturbed, wide eyes on Barton and he kept rubbing his hands together in agitation. Barton noticed it too, but he seemed glued to the couch, unable to figure out how to respond. Apparently, it was up to me to ask. I got out of my chair and went to the blond, kneeling down next to him. “Winner? What’s wrong?” Shaking his head, he forced a smile and waved the question away. I caught his hand, tugging his attention back to me. “Don’t give me that, something is bothering you. What is it?” His glance at Barton was sad and lost. I felt a light bulb go off in the back of my head. He couldn’t communicate—even with no voice, I could understand him as long as I was looking at him. But Barton wasn’t able to lip read well, and that limited communication even more between the two friends. Quatre was feeling the barrier keenly. “Stop it,” I told him, more gently than I intended to. “As long as you carry a pad of paper around with you, you can still communicate with him. Hell, he’s better at non-verbal communication than verbal, I’m sure between the two of you a whole new system of sign language could be developed until we figure this out.” He blinked, then a slow smile took over his face. It was like watching the sun rise. I felt absurdly pleased with his reaction, and smiled slightly back at him. Barton rose, crossing to us, and I shifted out of his way and retreated back to my chair. Both heads bent closer together, and I could see use of the laptop from time to time as clarification was required. What they said between them was no business of mine. Still, a part of me wished… I smashed that thought before it could truly form and went back to the matter at hand. As soon as they were done talking, I gave Winner’s laptop a pointed look. “Write down everything you remember about that simulation. In the meantime, I’m going to contact H for you and tell him what’s going on.” He nodded gratefully and started rapidly typing. H wasn’t happy at all by my report, and was rapidly snapping out questions that I didn’t have the answers to. I finally glared at him until he shut up, informed him that I would take care of Winner, and to not send any missions in the meantime. I think he was surprised by my attitude, but I didn’t care as long as he left us alone. Winner was done shortly after I ended the call, and motioned me closer. Barton and I sat on either side of him, both reading over his shoulder. I saw nothing out of place with the outline he gave—actually, his training was almost exactly like mine. Damn, I’d hoped it would have the answer. Barton moved Winner’s hand off the mouse and scrolled through the last two paragraphs again. I gave him a glance askance. Had he spotted something I had missed? “Barton?” “Hm,” he replied absently. Winner nudged him in the ribs, and only then did he look up at us. “Did you see something?” I demanded in exasperation. “It’s what I didn’t see that’s bothering me,” he negated quietly. “Quatre, what is your designated code phrase?” Winner looked at him in puzzlement, repeating blankly ‘Code phrase?’ “With intense training like this, you need a phrase or an action, something to give yourself a mental ‘all’s clear’,” I explained. “Otherwise the conscious mind becomes trapped in the training, and you can’t break free of it. In the simulation, what did you always do or say at the end of each level?” His blank look hadn’t receded at all during my explanation. Shaking his head he denied, ‘I don’t have that.’ “What?” Barton burst out. “What do you mean, ‘no’?” “H put you through intense stealth training and never gave you a code phrase?” I demanded incredulously. ‘I didn’t need it before!’ Winner defended hastily. “Winner, most of those missions lasted no more than a few hours! And most of the time you were with one of us, of course your full training wouldn’t have inserted itself! This is different, this time you did it solo for seven days. Only a code phrase can shut the subliminal training off.” “Wufei,” Barton interjected with a pointed look. “Stop glaring, it’s not his fault that H is an idiot.” Guilty, I snapped my mouth shut and turned my face away. It wasn’t his fault, but he was certainly paying the price for it. Damn that idiot scientist, when I get my hands on him… “Well, at least we know what to do now,” Barton observed. “We just have to retrain him.” That was an upside. I nodded. “True. Where do you suppose we should start?” ~*~*~*~
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