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"The Pact"Written By: The Plotting Housewife Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sotsu
and associated Parties. This work is written for pleasure not profit. Rating: NC 17 Warnings: Smut, Porn With Plot, OT5, Fluff, Mild
Angst, Humor, Fivesome, Angst, Newtypes, Possessive Behavior, Alternate
Universe - Dark, Non-Graphic Violence Pairings: 3x5x2x4x1 Summary: For Polyshipping Day. Quatre has been losing more and more of himself due to the pressures of his occupation, prompting the other four ex-pilots to stage a much-needed, and rather sexy, intervention.
"The Pact"
Tuesday, December 9th, 201, 10:58pm. Shanghai, Republic of China... "Is Operation: Goldilocks a go?" A long winded sigh. "Really? "Operation: Goldilocks"? This isn't covert ops, Yuy. Melodrama doesn't suit you." "What do you mean?" "I mean...ugh, you know what? I take that back. I seem to recall you being quite over the top during the war." "How so?" "Oh, let's see...all the times you self-detonated. Spending three weeks in a funk because you actually deployed your parachute? And...oh, yeah. Remember that time you tried to kill yourself by "overdosing" on Rolaids? And what about the time -" "Yeah, okay. I get it, Chang." A derisive snort. "Operation: Goldilocks." "Oh, shut up. You think you can come up with something better?" "Well, considering this is peacetime, I don't think code words are necessary. Or, are you just being nostalgic?" "Maybe. It doesn't matter. Have you talked to Trowa?" "Yeah. He says it's all good." "Okay. See you then. Seventeen hundred hours." "Christ, Yuy. Just say five o'clock." "Five o'clock." "Thank you." *** Friday, December 12th, 201, 1:10pm. Colony L4 X1339, Fifth District, aka: "Little Jordan"... Trowa Barton propped his elbow on the small wrought iron table situated on a little patio in one of L4′s trendy districts, drumming his fingers against his cheek and obsessively checking his watch. Ten minutes late. He huffed with impatience and wondered what happened to the Gundam pilots who, once upon a time, were unerringly prompt. Peacetime will make even the most hardened soldiers soft. He scoffed at the inner voice inside his head and glared at the waiter who approached his table for the umpteenth time in the last twenty minutes. The kid stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widening, hands lifting in a show of surrender before he turned tail and scurried away. Trowa turned his head back towards the street, his keen eyes watching the intersection for any sign of his friends while ‘Deck the Halls' tinkled into his ears from the speakers wedged into the pergola. He had no idea why they were playing Christmas music, or for that matter, actually decking said halls on a predominately Muslim colony, but he supposed the "magic" of Christmas was tempting even to those whose religion did not recognize such a holiday. He wisely kept the nifty fact that Christmas was originally a Pagan holiday to himself, knowing how Duo and Quatre scoffed at the idea despite knowing it was true. Still, this was a rather touristy part of L4 so Trowa supposed he shouldn't be too surprised considering Christmas was the largest, most profitable holiday, and such displays undoubtedly attracted more visitors. He couldn't deny that all the twinkling lights, garlands, and decked out trees were very lovely to look at and he found himself actually contemplating getting himself a tree of his own to decorate. Catherine always had a small tree in her trailer this time of year that she took great pleasure in smothering with ornaments, lights, and gobs of tinsel. During Trowa's circus days, she would constantly bug him to help her decorate it, insisting it was "fun" and would get him into the "Christmas spirit". Trowa would merely cross his arms over his chest and glower in the corner as he watched her toss handfuls of silver and gold strings all over the little tabletop tree. He finally began participating when she told him she'd decorate him instead and followed that up by covering him in tinsel while he slept one night. It took over a year before he finally stopped finding bits of the sparkly foil in his bedding. Christmas aside, the purpose of this little excursion resulted from Trowa's concern that their fellow ex-pilot was working himself to the bone and taking no time out to take care of his own needs. Quite frankly, he was tired of watching everyone taking, taking, taking, and demanding more and seeing the dark circles, the exhaustion in Quatre's eyes. Though it was far from just simple exhaustion. There was hopeless lassitude in them. The acceptance that he was nothing more than a wallet, a media pawn, and a public spectacle. The spark of life and zest that Trowa had come to love and expect in the blond, was gone. In essence, Quatre had lost himself because no one really took the time to view and treat him like a human being. The straw that broke the camel's back had been when Quatre attended a fundraiser back in October, one that benefited former child soldiers like themselves who'd been displaced. Quatre donated unprecedented amounts of money and resources to the charity organization. But instead of the media focusing on that, they ran a story that featured a photograph of him standing next to Vice Foreign Minister Relena Darlian, with the declaration that the two were not only "engaging in an illicit affair", but also claimed, according to their "anonymous" source, that Mr. Winner was "having trouble getting it up for the lovely ESUN official". Trowa was woken up by a call at three in the morning by a distraught Quatre who tearfully confessed that he was gay and then wept brokenly into his hands. It hurt Trowa's heart to see him in such a state and enraged him that someone so kind and generous was being treated so terribly. Once they'd disconnected their call, Trowa contacted the other three Gundam pilots, intent on some kind of intervention. The others immediately agreed to the plan and Operation: Goldilocks was set into motion. That was two months ago and now the time had come to put the plan into action. Coincidentally, it also just so happened to be Quatre's birthday. It warmed Trowa's heart to know that his fellow ex-pilots were more than happy to help. The five of them had a special bond, something stronger than Gundanium. Something that could never be broken. Their pact was impenetrable and eternal. It would never change, or fade away. When one of them was in trouble, the other four would always drop everything to be there. A screech of tires and honking horns jolted Trowa out of his musings and he jerked his head up towards the source of the sound, instantly knowing who it was. A moment later, a tiny Volvo pealed through the intersection, narrowly missing a few cars. It made a sudden hard right, the vehicle tipping and balancing on the left side tires before righting itself. Trowa smirked as the driver slammed on the brakes and spun ninety degrees in the middle of the street, leaving black skid marks on the pavement and causing drivers and pedestrians alike to dodge out of the way, shake their fists, and shout obscenities. The car finally came to rest against the curb right in front of Trowa's table, the smell of burning rubber drifting across his nostrils. Three of the four doors swung open and out stepped his fellow pilots and best friends. Trowa wasn't surprised when Duo emerged from the driver's seat and even less surprised when he noticed Wufei's haggard, and slightly green, appearance. The Chinese man grumpily slammed the door and waved his hand in front of his face to clear away the wisps of smoke that rose up from the still hot tires. "That's the last time I ride in a car with you, Maxwell." Duo turned and stared at him with confused eyes, not even acknowledging the shouts of, "Jerk!" and "Asshole!" and "Learn to drive!" from irate passersby. "What?" Wufei propped his hands on his hips. "What do you mean "what"? You nearly killed us about a dozen times in the ten minute drive from the shuttle port!" "Bah," Duo waved his hand. "Not a dozen. Half a dozen, I'll give you that." Wufei sputtered and pointed at the car. "That is a Volvo, Maxwell. Not a Gundam, nor is it one of your ten cylinder Chevy pickups. It's also a rental and I sure as hell am not footing the bill when you inevitably return it as a smoking husk." Heero shouldered his bag and shut the passenger door, eyeing Wufei with an arched brow. "Who's melodramatic now?" "Shut up, Yuy!" Trowa decided it was time to step in and stood up, walking towards the curb. "Guys. Guys! Relax. You're here in one piece. That's all that matters. Wufei, come, have a seat. I'll buy you a drink." "Make it a double." Trowa smiled. "Done." He wrapped an arm around Wufei's back and patted it. "It's good to see you." "Yeah, yeah. Don't start blubbering now. One Winner is enough." He laughed, extending his arms towards Heero and the two men embraced each other tightly. Heero pressed his face against Trowa's cheek and whispered, "How are you?" With the exception of Quatre, Trowa considered Heero his closest friend. They had similar backgrounds, similar personalities. They understood each other in ways the other pilots did not. "I'm alright. You?" Heero shrugged and pulled away. "You know how it is. I finally managed to secure a place in Relena's security detail. I swear, it's like joining a fraternity." "And what would you know about fraternities, Hee-chan?" Duo drawled as he stepped up onto the sidewalk. "If I remember correctly, I think you said, and I quote, "I'll go to college when it's not inundated with commie hippies"." He grinned and slapped Trowa on the back. "How ya doin', man?" "Fine, fine. How's the scrapping business?" "It's good. Been on Howard's ass to accept the position as the supreme leader of the Sweepers Union." "He doesn't want it?" "Eh, you know Howie. Humble guy. He thinks I'd do better at it." "Maybe you would." "Nuh-uh. No way, man. I do not want the ESUN crawling all over my ass day in and day out with their hands out for a cut like a bunch of beggars." "They want to tax you guys?" "They already are." Duo shrugged and waved his hand. "Ah, they tax everyone. Nothing to be done about that. Everything's a political game. Makes you wonder what the hell we fought for." "That's probably why Howard doesn't want it." "Howard just wants to scrap and toke in peace. He'd be good at it, though. He knows the business like no one else." "Uh, excuse me." They turned to see Wufei already seated at the table, looking decidedly impatient. "I believe someone promised me a drink." Trowa smiled and nodded. "Sorry, Wufei." He gestured to Duo and Heero. "Drink? My treat." "Aw, Tro, you don't have to do that." "It's my pleasure. Come on and sit. We've got time." *** After two rounds of scotch and soda and a light beer for Heero, which prompted Duo to snort and mutter, "Lightweight," the conversation flowed smoothly between them. It was nice to have them all together without the threat of impending battles and possible death. It was a little sobering considering the small, cheerful blond was missing from the equation, but it wouldn't be long before they were all together again. Trowa's stomach flipped with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Doubts and second thoughts began to swirl in his mind as the countdown continued, wondering why he was just now getting nervous. He checked his watch again, his body flushing with a rush of adrenaline as he realized they only had an hour left. "You alright, Tro?" "Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." "You sure? You look like you're gonna hurl. Are you getting cold feet?" He took a deep breath and tried for a smile. "No," he lied, then thought better of it. "Yes. I don't know why I'm getting nervous now." "Maybe because we're planning on jumping our fair little fellow pilot's bones?" Wufei pointed out and tipped his drink back. Trowa chewed his lip. "What if he gets angry? What if he -" Heero paused from his task of peeling the label off his beer bottle and gave Trowa a pointed look. "We're not just going to jump on him the second we see him, Trowa." "I know that, but...I don't know. What if he hates us after this?" Duo stuck his elbow on the table and held up one finger. "First of all, Tro, our Kitty-Quat is incapable of hate. You know that." He extended his middle finger. "Second, this is Quat we're talking about. When has he ever turned any of us down for anything? I mean, shit, I could ask to shave his head and then tar and feather him and he'd be like, "Oh sure, Duo. Whatever you want."" Trowa chuckled as Duo's voice rose up in a softer, higher pitched lilt and mimicked Quatre's Middle Eastern accent almost perfectly. "I suppose you're right." "Face it, Tro. Once we get started, we'll have that little blond pipsqueak begging us for more." There was a collective shift from all four of them as their minds turned towards the prospect of sex, not only with Quatre, but with each other. They shared heated looks across the table and hands suspiciously disappeared from view to make a few necessary adjustments. Wufei stirred his drink, his face serious, almost scolding. "I'm sure it'll be great for all of us, but remember, this is about making Quatre feel special and loved." "Which he is," Trowa said. "Especially by us." "Right." Wufei finished off his drink and flagged the waiter. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm ready to do this." "Same," Heero murmured, his cheeks flushed. Duo upended his drink and placed the glass on the table with a dramatic gesture. "Yep. Let Operation: Goldilocks commence," he said, then snickered into his fist a moment later which earned him a glare from Heero. "What about you, Tro? You ready, or is your dick doing a turtle impression?" Trowa glowered across the table at the braided man. "No, it's not doing a "turtle impression"." Quite the opposite, in fact. He glanced around, feeling a rush of relief when he noticed the patio was rather empty. Seeing four guys with raging boners climb into a Volvo together would be a little awkward. *** Friday, December 12th, 201, 3:54pm. Colony L4, X1339, Ninth District... The apartment at the top of the twenty one story high rise was dark as a result of the drapes drawn over the windows and effectively blocked out the artificial sunlight that was set to mimic four o'clock on earth. The living room was illuminated only by the flickering light from the television screen that changed from the news, to a sitcom, to police dramas, reality shows, and documentaries as the apartment's single occupant flipped through channels with restless fatigue. Five hundred channels and there's still nothing on, Quatre thought, finally settling on some cheesy western. He propped his head on his hand and watched John Wayne flash his badge, drawl out a snarky retort, then proceed to engage in a gunfight with a group of generic villains conveniently dressed in black. He blinked heavy eyelids and fought off a yawn, pulling the blankets up higher over his lap until they reached his chest. He couldn't remember a time when he'd been this tired. Not even during the war. Maybe it was the constant fear of death that kept one on their toes. He wasn't sure, but he knew for a fact he was still far too young to attribute it to age. "Oh, you're a wise guy, eh? Let's see how smart ya are with a mouthful of lead." He rolled his eyes and covered another yawn with his hand. "How original." And okay, it wasn't what he'd pictured when he imagined celebrating his twenty first birthday. If he were honest, this was just downright pitiful, but he simply did not have the energy to go out in public and play the role of the young, beautiful, and charismatic CEO, pretending his life was just as glamorous as the press made it out to be. He just didn't have the energy, or the will to plaster fake smiles on his face and have people who really didn't care about him as a person all over him, invading his privacy and personal space. It was exhausting and after five years of it, Quatre was on the verge of losing his mind. He swiped the container of fried rice off the coffee table with a sigh and stirred it with the chopsticks that protruded from the half-eaten meal. "Happy birthday to me," he sang as he took a bite of the now cold rice. He chewed slowly, barely tasting it, not even hungry really, but needing something to do. So far, he'd vegged out on three sci-fi movies, one romcom, and watched a documentary about the mating practices of Black Widows. All in all, he could honestly say this was a shit birthday, but at least he'd been able to spend it in some much-needed solitude. It was rather nice going a full day without being harassed. "Now, look here, son. I'm of half a mind to turn you over my knee and take the leather to ya." He snorted and coughed as a few grains of rice slid down the wrong pipe. He washed it down with the water bottle that was leaning against his leg and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Who knew the Duke was such a kinky bastard?" *** He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until a loud knocking on the door, followed by a series of bell rings startled him. His head flew up off the arm of the couch, the magazine he fell asleep on sticking to his cheek. He peeled it off and struggled out of the blankets, only half awake and a little disoriented. He landed face first onto the floor with a thump when he failed to untangle his legs and groaned in frustration, kicking furiously in the air in an attempt to free himself. "Get off me, damn it!" The knocking turned into pounding and he shouted, "I'm coming," a little pissed off that someone was not only disturbing his peace and quiet, but also doing so rather aggressively. He idly wondered if maybe the building was on fire, but dismissed it when he didn't hear any alarms going off. He stepped up to the door, scratching his head, and peered through the peephole, cursing when it seemed whoever it was had their hand over it. He pressed his face into the tiny crack between the door and the jamb. "Who is it?" "Housekeeping," answered a ridiculously sounding falsetto. "There is no housekeeping here. It's an apartment, not a hotel." "Uh...room service?" Quatre's eye twitched. "I just said it's an apartment, not a hotel, you idiot! Now, are you going to tell me the truth, or am I going to have to call security?" "Damn. Um...pizza delivery?" "I didn't order any goddamned pizza! Now, you'd better either walk away, or tell me who you are and what you want before I put a bullet in your kneecap." He pressed his ear against the door when another voice piped up, sounding strangely familiar. "Maxwell, quit playing games and just tell him -" He swung the door open, cutting off Wufei's sentence and stared at his four fellow pilots in surprise. He glanced from one awkwardly smiling man to the next and arched a brow. "What the hell is this and why are you all looking at me like you're about to tell me you need a lawyer?"
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