"A Pirate's Trade"

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: Alternate Universe - Pirates, yes I went there, Yaoi, Smut, Questionable Pirate Morality, Arrrrg

Pairings: 2x1, 3x4

Summary: Captain Maxwell of the Shinigami, second most feared pirate to sail the Seven Seas, unwittingly stole precious booty from the one man who is more feared than he is. Oops.

"A Pirate's Trade"

Chapter 13: Morning Talks

The pirate who went by the name of Greenwich, a bulky, bearded Englishman with a gruff voice and stony eyes, was the one responsible for taking Quatre to the bilge. Unfortunately, Quatre was stubbornly refusing to release Heero’s tunic and Greenwich was forced to pry white-knuckled fingers out of the blue cotton garment and when that failed, he had to squeeze the boy’s skinny wrist to get him to let go.

“Let go, ye little urchin,” he growled and dug his meaty fingers into the soft tendons of the blond’s wrist, inciting a yelp of pain. Quatre had no choice but to release his grip, his heart dropping into his belly as Heero was led away in the opposite direction. The Shinigami’s bilge was not a pleasant place to be and he was under no delusions that this ship’s bilge would be any better. He supposed he could count himself lucky that he’d never even seen the Catherine’s bilge, but the thought was not comforting given his current circumstances.

He tripped over his sandaled feet and wound up being half-dragged across the deck as Greenwich appeared to have little patience for dawdling. Quatre clenched his teeth from the pain of the iron grip clamped around his upper arm, but he knew better than to vocalize his objections.

Greenwich made him deeply uneasy and for good reason. He was the first to pin Quatre to that tiny bunk in the crew’s quarters. Quatre didn’t know whose bunk it was, but he quickly learned to associate that particular bed with terrible things. In the beginning, he fought even knowing he had no chance. When Greenwich, drunk on rum, leered down at him and slurred degrading filth into his face, Quatre couldn’t retaliate the way he wanted to because his arms were pinned above his head. Instead, he did the only thing he could do. He spit in Greenwich’s eye and called him a ‘pig’.

His insolence earned him a brain-rattling slap across his face, but at least he’d made his stance on the situation clear. After that, he tried to block it out as best he could. The hands that pressed his wrists against the lumpy mattress and stroked across his bared skin as his clothing, his only protection was stripped from his body along with the jewelry that had been gifted to him by Trowa.

He tried his best to ignore the lewd and mocking words, closed his eyes against the sea of hungry, ogling faces. Braced himself when his legs were parted and bit down hard into his tongue as he was penetrated. He held out for as long as he could, but the screams inevitably escaped. He screamed until his throat hurt and his voice shorted out and then, mercifully, his mind sought a place far away from his humiliating degradation.

He escaped to quiet nights in Trowa’s arms and lovemaking in the moonlight that streamed in through the port holes. To his perch in front of his vanity where he would twist locks of his hair around his fingers to enhance the curls and rub rouge into his cheeks while Trowa stood silently behind him, watching with riveted fascination. Those moments when Trowa would drape a new necklace around him with hands that had slaughtered so many, yet were capable of such loving gentleness.

He remembered the soft green eyes in the morning sunlight and the smooth, soothing timbre of Trowa's voice when he sang an old Russian lullaby taught to him by his beloved Catherine. It made Quatre’s heart ache to hear the sorrow in the mournful notes. It was one of the rare times Trowa allowed his vulnerability to show. Quatre would hold his lover’s head against his chest, tears slipping down his own cheeks, and stroked silky sable hair while Trowa released the pain and guilt he still harbored over her death.

“Trowa, you cannot blame yourself. It was not your fault.”

“I should have stayed. I never should have left. I could have protected her.”

“You only would have been killed right alongside her. And then I would be alone in the world. Perhaps still nothing but a filthy whore, selling his arse for stale crusts of bread.”

Trowa would caress his cheek, thumb brushing his tears away even while his own glistened in the candlelight. He would smile though it was slightly pained. “Maybe these things happen for a reason. I was given Catherine to protect and when I failed her, I was given you. Another chance to do things right.”

A playful smile. “So, I’m your new assignment from the Almighty?”

Another caress. “Call it what you will. I will die before I allow anything to happen to you.”

Unfortunately, it was a promise that wasn’t meant to be kept, though Quatre harbored no ill will towards his captain. What hurt the most was knowing that Trowa was no doubt blaming himself for this, despite the impossibility of predicting such a circumstance.

“Stop dragging ye feet, ya whelp,” Greenwich barked, yanking harder on Quatre’s arm. He stumbled again, but doubled down his efforts to keep up, jogging to match the man’s long-legged strides. His arm ached and he knew he would be nursing a large, hand-shaped bruise for the next week.

They reached the bilge and Greenwich released him in order to open the trap door. Quatre took the opportunity to massage the painful muscles as he stared down at the man who leaned over the opening in the deck, tempted to kick him into the hole. He restrained himself only because he knew the punishment for such an infraction would not be worth the momentary gratification.

Still, he mourned his missed chance as Greenwich leaned up and pointed down into the darkness. “Get in. Don’t make this harder on yerself.”

Quatre swallowed down the dread that rose up into his gullet as a wave of nausea. If he wasn’t claustrophobic before, he was now. He gingerly lowered himself down, feeling for the ladder’s rung with his foot and made his cautious descent into the murky bilge which smelled even worse than the Shinigami’s. Moldy, musty, and like something had died recently. He'd hoped Greenwich would not follow him down, but that hope was in vain.

“Well, look what we have here,” Greenwich drawled, tapping his hand against what looked to Quatre’s slowly adapting vision like a row of steel bars and he felt his newfound claustrophobia squeeze his chest in a vice like grip. He backed up, shaking his head when Greenwich swung the crate’s door open. The man bent down and stuck his head inside and Quatre was overcome with another urge to shove him the rest of the way in and lock the door behind him.

It really was a shame that he couldn’t swim to Ireland.

“Relatively clean,” Greenwich was saying. “Smells like a dead cur’s arse, but ain’t seeing no shite, or nothin’.” He pulled his head out of the cage and leered at Quatre. “Perfect size for a little beast like you.”

Quatre clamped his mouth shut against the protests, knowing it was no use and unwilling to expose his terror at the thought of being locked in a cage. The bilge was bad enough. Still, he could not get his feet to move forward which prompted Greenwich to huff in annoyance. The big man lumbered over to him and grabbed his arm again, dragging him towards the crate. “Come on, ye little bugger. ‘Ere’s a bottle of rum with me name on it an’ I ain’t gettin’ any younger.”

Greenwich reeled him in, pulling him against his massive chest as Quatre began to struggle, the fear of being locked up like an animal more than he could bear. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the edges of the crate, trying to use the meager strength he possessed to prevent from being pushed inside. He dug his heels into the floorboards, panic overriding all rational thought.

“Get in there, you little -” Greenwich spun him around, hooking a beefy arm around his waist. His aura seemed to shift, his demeanor changing from irritation to an eerie calm. Quatre froze in confusion, sensing the change, but uncertain of what it meant.

It was made clear a moment later when he felt the tip of Greenwich’s bulbous nose brush against the skin of his neck, dragging up the delicate column towards his ear. Quatre could hear the faint sniffing sounds as Greenwich breathed him in and shuddered in revulsion.

“Bloody hell, ye smell good enough to eat,” he rumbled against Quatre’s ear. “Can’t say ye will after spendin’ the night in ‘ere. Should get one more taste while the pickins still good, mayhap.”

There was nowhere to go. No viable options. A cage, or rape, likely both. The strength left his body, sucked out by unseen forces just as the air wooshed from his lungs as he was crushed against the man’s chest. Hopelessness enveloped him like a black cloak and he offered only token resistance, pressing against Greenwich with his hands.

“No. Please. I’ll go. I’ll go in.”

“What’s the rush, lad? I have ways to make ye relax.”

Quatre groaned in defeat, lassitude taking over. He didn’t fight when he was lifted on top of the crate and pushed until he laid on his back with his legs dangling off the edge. It was no use. It was going to happen and he’d learned in the last few weeks that it hurt less when he just accepted the inevitable.

He squeezed his eyes shut and relaxed his body, his mind already traveling to a faraway place. A place where Trowa smiled and sang to him, made him feel as if nothing bad could ever happen. He scarcely noticed when Greenwich flipped up his shirt and pushed wide hips between his thighs. The sting of penetration lasted for only a moment and then the rocking motion of the man’s thrusts began to translate to the sway of the Catherine drifting along the ocean’s swells.

He was dazed as he was pulled down from the crate and placed inside with surprising gentleness. Curling up in the far corner, he drew his knees up to his chest, trying to ignore the wetness of Greenwich’s climax between his legs that was rapidly cooling on his skin. He stared through the murky darkness, watching the door close with a loud clang and then Greenwich was bending down, peering at him through the bars with a seedy grin on his face.

“A pleasure, as always,” he drawled and then stepped away. Quatre listened to the scuff of his boots as he made his way to the ladder. He counted each step and waited for the trap door in the ceiling to close and seal him in complete darkness.

He released a calming breath, his only solace that he was finally alone. It would be a month before they reached the shores of Ireland. He could survive until then. He had to. For Trowa, he could do anything.

***

The following weeks were rather mundane. He would sleep in the bilge, in his small cage until morning when he was taken out to take care of his bodily needs, and then brought up to Maxwell’s cabin for a meal with Heero. Maxwell himself took his breakfast to the forecastle. It was well known among the crew that this time of day was reserved for the captain's solitude. It was where he did his brooding, his thinking, his reflection of his life and himself while he gazed out towards the horizon and its endless watery landscape.

It was where, and when, he felt most at peace and a few of the more novice men on board the ship had faced harsh punishments for disturbing him during this time. Unless it was dire, there were to be no interruptions.

Two weeks out to sea, Quatre finally found the courage to ask Heero about it. He fidgeted with the yeasty bread roll in his hands and cleared his throat, glancing up at the silently eating young man across from him.

“What does he do up there?”

Heero stopped chewing, stunned by the abruptness and directness of the question. He resumed a moment later and then swallowed the bite of sausage, dabbing at his mouth with a linen napkin and choosing his words carefully. “He’s...he’s reflecting, I suppose.”

“On what?”

Heero shrugged and took a sip of his tea. “I don’t know. His past, perhaps.”

That piqued Quatre’s interest. “What about it?”

“I don’t know. He’s never really told me about it. I guess he and Solo have known each other for years and they went through something terrible together. I don’t know what.”

Quatre hummed in acknowledgment and helped himself to more diced potatoes. “These are very good. Filling. I've developed quite the palate for potatoes. They don’t have these where I come from.”

“They don't have them where I come from either,” Heero said. “They are good when cooked right.”

“The cook back on the Catherine, Noventa, his name was. He can do magic with these things. He cooks them with these little green scallions, when they’re in season of course. And then he salts them and sprinkles them with rosemary.”

“That does sound good. I think Maxwell is trying to fatten me up. Do you see how much butter is in these?”

Quatre chuckled and sipped his own tea. “I confess I am partial to butter. The more the merrier, I always say.”

“We’ll see if you feel that way after gaining ten stones.”

“Trowa -" he began, then winced when he realized what he'd said, cursing under his breath for forgetting himself. "I mean, Captain Barton, would probably enjoy that.”

Heero glanced up at him sharply and Quatre flushed with embarrassment for his slip. “Trowa? That’s his given name?”

Quatre nodded and busied himself by wiping the grease off his fingers with his napkin. “Yes.”

“That’s a beautiful name.”

He smiled at the other man, relieved and flattered by the compliment. “I think so, too.”

“I didn’t know it. Maxwell always calls him Barton. He’s never mentioned his given name.”

“Captain Barton requests that I call him by his title in public.”

“But not in private.”

It wasn’t a question, but Quatre wasn’t unnerved by the observation, feeling oddly comfortable despite being surrounded by the enemy. “No. But, it’s not because I’m forced to.”

“You love him, don’t you?”

Quatre paused, now the one stunned. He wondered how much personal information he should disclose. Heero could very well tell Maxwell everything he said about Trowa and he was not about to give the pirate any leverage. On the other hand, he trusted Heero, almost as much as he trusted Trowa.

Still, it was too much information and too grave a circumstance to let his guard down. He was not willing to relay aspects of their relationship that could be detrimental to Trowa, or his ability to return to him, not even to the only friend he had in this place.

“No,” he said, as casually as he could, schooling his features into an expression of nonchalance. “No, I don’t. It simply makes him happy and when he’s happy, that fares well for me.” It hurt to say that, feeling as though he was betraying the man he loved, but it was necessary. Too much was at stake.

He had no idea if Heero believed him. The young man’s face was calculating, as if considering calling him out on it. He silently prayed for the subject to be dropped and was relieved when Heero seemed to let it go with a nod of acceptance.

“I suppose you could say the same for Maxwell and I,” he said. “A mutually beneficial agreement. Though, I don’t call him by his given name.” Heero informed him, giving Quatre the sense that that fact was important. “I’ve never called him by his given name.”

Quatre decided to go with it, glad the focus on his relationship with Trowa was now redirected towards Heero’s relationship with Maxwell. And perhaps, he might be able to wheedle some pertinent information of his own.

“That does not bother Captain Maxwell?”

“If it does, he’s never complained about it. He’s more concerned with buggery. I suspect I could call him Lucifer himself and he wouldn’t bat an eye.” Heero broke the stoic atmosphere with a soft chuckle. “I suspect he would enjoy that and demand I permanently address him as such.”

Quatre joined him in his laughter, the lightened mood doing wonders for his taxed psyche. “I am quite sure I wouldn’t want to test that theory.”

Heero’s shoulders shook with mirth, his head bowing down as his laughter grabbed hold and wouldn’t let go. It was catchy and soon, they were both snickering like a couple of kids entertained by a successful prank, wiping good humor tears from their eyes. “No, thank you. His ego is big enough for two Shinigami’s.” He sobered a moment later, glancing up at Quatre with damp, but suddenly serious eyes. “Do you think Captain Barton will sink it?”

Quatre blanched at the hushed, almost fearful whisper, not even wanting to think about that. His mind plagued him with visions of the dream he’d had two weeks ago, the possibility of such a reality something he was not prepared to address. But he knew he was going to have to. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I hope not.”

“You do?”

He was taken aback by the surprise in Heero’s voice, not sure where the doubt was coming from. “Of course I hope he doesn’t,” he said, more than a little offended that Heero apparently believed he wanted to see the Shinigami rotting at the bottom of the Atlantic.

Heero leaned back and tipped his head down, seemingly meek now. Quatre wasn’t sure if he was responding to his tone of voice, or if he felt guilty for doubting him. “My apologies,” he murmured. “It was not my intention to upset you.”

“No, it’s alright. I’m sorry I snapped at you. But of course I do not want to see the Shinigami taken down. It’s just that...I don’t have any control over its fate either way, but I’d like to believe this will come to a peaceful resolution.”

“I don’t doubt that Captain Barton will sink her if anything happens to you. I wish I had some control over what happens. Maxwell won’t exactly be amicable if his ship is sunk.”

That was the real dilemma and something Quatre had been worrying about for a while now. It was Maxwell’s fault they were all in this situation. It was Maxwell’s fault his ship was taken. But if his ship was to meet its watery end at the bottom of the sea, it would be Heero and Quatre himself that would pay the price. It wasn’t uncommon for the pirate to take his frustration out on Heero, or one of his men. If his beloved ship was lost to him, there was no telling what Heero would have to endure at the man’s enraged hands.

And Quatre, well, he would no doubt find himself at the end of the plank, or with a severed throat. Neither of them sounding the least bit appealing.

“Is there really nothing we can do but wait for the inevitable?”

“I don’t know,” Heero conceded and then gave him a fierce look. “But I meant what I said before. I’m not going to let him kill you.”

“Heero,” Quatre sighed and leaned back in his chair, exasperated. “I don’t want you putting yourself at risk. I’d never be able live with myself if something happened to you. He could kill us both.”

But Heero shook his head, apparently confident that his own death at Maxwell's hands would not happen. “He won’t kill me. He -” He stopped himself there, pursing his lips together.

“He what?” Quatre pressed.

“Nothing,” Heero mumbled, his face twisting into a pained expression. “I hate him.”

“Do you? From what I gathered, he got you out of a bad situation.”

Heero snorted, though it lacked humor. “Yes, he did. And put me in another one.”

“He’s protected you, hasn’t he?”

“He stole my freedom,” he shouted, causing Quatre to jump back, startled. Softer, he continued, “He stole my agency, my control.”

“You must have had that before,” Quatre guessed, wondering what that must have been like. He’d never experienced such freedom and assumed that losing such a thing would be devastating.

To his surprise, Heero snorted again, bitter and almost petulant. “No. I ran away from my home in Japan the night before I was to be initiated into the Tokugawa Shogunate.”

“What’s that?”

“Barons. Warlords. There are three families that have divided and ruled the land for centuries. They’re called shoguns. The Tokugawa Shogunate are their warriors and guards. My brothers and I - we - we were raised to serve the shoguns. Protect them and their families from the rival bakufu. The conflict between the families has been going on for hundreds of years. The territory changes depending on which side wins the battle and then changes again after the next battle if a different shogun declares victory. I couldn’t stomach the idea of being nothing more than a body meant as a shield.”

“Of course you couldn’t. I can’t imagine anyone who could.”

“I left that night. It took me five days to reach the coast. Luckily there was an illegal trade ship preparing to depart for China. I traveled across the country until I reached India where I settled in Bangladesh.”

“Did you like it there?”

“As much as I could for someone forced to sell his arse to survive.”

Quatre flinched in sympathy for his friend and because it reminded him of his own experiences in Jerusalem. He reached across the table and rested his hand over Heero’s. “You did what you had to. Anyone who judges you for that is a fool and probably has his own sins to bear. You mustn’t blame yourself.”

“I thought - I thought it would be different. Once I left home. I thought that perhaps...I don’t know.”

“You thought you had a better chance of being someone you could be proud of and discovered it’s just as difficult everywhere else.”

“I was so stupid. Naïve. I had no plan, no idea where I was going, or what I was going to do once I got there.”

“It’s not your fault, Heero.”

The other man hesitated, then turned his hand over beneath Quatre’s, clutching the blond’s fingers with his own. “How did you...how did you end up with Barton?”

Quatre knew the question was coming, but it was no less harrowing to try to answer it. He took a sip of his tea, wetting his throat and giving himself a moment to collect his thoughts.

“I was nobility once. The son of a Vali to the Sultan, destined to become one myself. It wasn’t something I wanted, but I had little choice in the matter.”

“Sounds familiar,” Heero smiled.

Quatre returned it and squeezed his hand. “I was betrothed to a girl and didn’t want to be. I prefer men,” he confessed, blushing with embarrassment, surprised when Heero rested his other hand on top of their entwined ones.

“Does that shame you?”

“I’m afraid it is just the echoes of my upbringing. Men who love men are an abomination where I come from and being the only son, I was expected to continue the family line. I was required to attend a summit of the Valis, being one in the making myself. The Prince’s nephew...he seduced me.” Quatre stopped there and reached for his tea again, biding his time for what came next. It wasn’t easy to reveal this. The only other person he’d ever told was Trowa.

“We were caught and the Prince’s nephew turned on me. Accused me of seducing him. I was shamed in front of the entire kingdom, disowned by my father, and banned from ever stepping foot anywhere near there again, or they would kill me.”

“I am so sorry, Quatre.”

He glanced up into Heero’s sorrowful eyes, reflecting his own pain within them. The price had been too great, but it brought him to Trowa. The conflicting emotions of grief and love, loneliness and fulfillment often taking his breath away when he stopped long enough to think about it.

“I left on foot with only the clothes on my back and hitched many a wagon until I reached 'Ard Almiead. I tried to find work, but was rejected. It wasn’t until I was nearly a week starved that I allowed the first man to bed me.”

“You don’t have to continue, Quatre. I'll understand if you don’t.”

“It’s alright. I met Trowa a year and a half later after he rescued me from an attack and he took me with him onto his ship.”

“Willingly?”

Quatre’s mouth curled up into a wry grin and he shook his head. “No. Not at first. He chained me to his bed, by my ankle. I was terrified. I knew what he wanted from me, but I was a prisoner with nowhere to go.”

“We have that in common. Did he...did he rape you?”

“No...I don’t know. I didn’t struggle, or tell him to stop. In fact, I enjoyed it. He fed me and then seduced me is more what it felt like. I’d never had anyone make love to me like that before. He was so gentle, so adamant to pleasure me…” he trailed off, his voice cracking with emotion. “I miss him so much, Heero. I’m so frightened I’ll never see him again.”

“You will,” Heero insisted. “I promise you, you will. And you’re not going to die.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can and I have. End of story. Alright? No more arguing. Finish your breakfast.”

“Aye, Sir,” Quatre amended with a sniffle. He graced his friend with a toothy grin and ticked his fingers against his forehead in a mock salute which earned him a laugh. The mood once again lightened, he tucked back into his food with gusto.

Maxwell was a cutthroat. There was no doubt about that. But from what Quatre had observed in the last month, despite the man doing his best to hide it, he cared for his catamite. He may treasure his beloved ship, but it was Heero that mattered most to him. And though Heero claimed to hate him, Quatre got the sense there was more to it than that.

Heero begrudged the pirate his forced position, but Quatre had the inkling that Heero also respected him, even if that respect was reluctant. Like Quatre, he’d never been given much choice about anything in his life, but Maxwell cared where he had a feeling others had not, not even Heero's own family.

Heero never said it, but Quatre believed that if Maxwell met his demise at Trowa’s hand, he would mourn. Because despite his misgivings about his situation, he cared. He cared for the brash, bloodthirsty pirate. Perhaps even loved him in his own way. Maxwell was probably the first to ever love him in return.

And Quatre had no doubt that he did. While their relationship was far more contentious than his and Trowa’s, there was a love there that was plain to see if anyone cared to look deeply enough. Maxwell might listen to Heero. It was a possibility, no matter how insignificant of one it was and Quatre was determined to hope for the best.

To believe otherwise meant he had no faith in those he’d come to trust and that was unacceptable. In two weeks, they would reach the shores of Ireland and with any luck, an exchange would be made and no blood would be spilled. Maxwell would get his ship and Quatre would be returned to Trowa and then they would hopefully go their separate ways, at least for the time being.

Another conflict could arise sometime in the future. Such was the way of pirates, but that was a time and a place Quatre could not bring himself to be concerned about at the moment. Best to worry about the here and now. His only objective was to get back to Trowa, alive.

And he would do whatever it took to make that happen.

End of Part One...

~ * ~

AN: So this is the end of part one. Part two will begin in the next chapter and takes place in the present (i.e. back to the beginning of the story when Duo meets with Trowa and then takes Quatre out of the bilge for the last time.

Chapter 14

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