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"Satin and Lace "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: Gender Identity, Genderqueer Character,
Angst, Drama, Yaoi, Romance, Fluff, Post Endless Waltz, Canon Compliant,
Feminization, But we're talking about Quatre here so it's not much
of a stretch. Pairings: 3x4 Summary: He didn't know when it started. He didn't understand why it was considered bad. All he wanted was to feel pretty. To feel the silky satin and the rough scratch of lace against his skin. All he wanted was to feel loved and accepted. This is a story based on a personal headcanon
that Quatre may identify as genderqueer, genderfluid, or androgynous.
This headcanon is based solely on his behavior and mannerisms in canon.
Obviously, it's not confirmed by an official source and neither is
his sexuality, but I've long held the belief that at the very least,
Quatre is not straight and could very well identify as something not
exclusively male. Personally I believe he is nothing short of a Kinsey
6/identifies as homosexual based on his interactions in the canon
universe. Ergo, you will never see me ship him in a romantic/sexual
relationship with a female unless I venture down that dark road into
the genre of genderswap fic and I am twisted enough to do just that.
xD "Satin and Lace "
Chapter 1: Discoveries and WarQuatre couldn't say when he began identifying as female at certain times. He was pretty sure it had always been a part of him, though if he was to believe his father, he had made a choice somewhere down the road. Zayeed Winner blamed himself. He cited having far too many daughters as the cause of Quatre's "deviance". Perhaps if he'd given him a few brothers, this would never have happened. For years, Quatre believed him. How could he not? In his young eyes, Zayeed was all-knowing, all-powerful. A hero, a god. For there is always that small window of childhood where a father's approval is everything to a son. Except, Quatre never got that approval. Even when he did what he was supposed to do. Growing up feeling like nothing more than a disappointment was far more damaging than he'd thought because he still carried that baggage with him at the age of twenty eight. But, he wasn't just a disappointment. To his family, he was far worse. A sinner, deviant, pervert. Quatre couldn't understand why wanting to feel pretty was so terrible. He loved the feel of silk against his skin, the rough scratch of lace. He loved the scent of perfume and lipstick. Loved smelling like flowers and candy. He savored the waxy feel of crimson and fuchsia, his stolen lip rouge, treasured contraband. He remembered locking himself in his room when he wasn't required to be with his tutors, or to make an appearance for his father's many friends and business acquaintances. He would roll up the rug centered in the middle of the room and pry the loose boards open. Inside, beneath the floor, were his most prized possessions. Some of it stolen, some bought and given by the one person who accepted him. Amira, the only one of his sisters who didn't believe he was some sort of sexual deviant. She provided him, in secret of course, many of the lovely, frilly things that he so craved. She'd put herself at risk, both from their father's wrath and their sisters' ostracization, in her love and support of Quatre. It was a debt he could never repay. Amira had been the only thing standing between himself and the very real desire to take his own life. He'd felt so disconnected from the world around him. So dirty, so evil. He'd sincerely believed for a time that the world would be better off without him. From within the semi-safety of his room, he would lift the box, a large round hat box covered in a rainbow of flowers, and sift through his treasures with trembling hands. The danger of being caught was an added thrill, pumping delicious adrenaline throughout his body. It took him a while to build up the courage to actually put the items on. Eventually the urge became stronger than his fear and the magical feelings he experienced when he first slipped on a pair of panties. Oh, it was heavenly. It took some adjustments to arrange his genitals in such a way that the front panel of the panties would cover them, but with time, he figured out a few tricks to make it work. He distinctly remembered the first pair he'd ever owned. Pale pink, trimmed in white lace with three tiny pearl buttons down the front. They were special in a way that first times often were. The catalyst that brought him to where he was today. That first time, he'd wept, curled up with his knees to his chest, his face hidden between them. So elated at how free he felt, but so humiliated at the same time, unable to get his father's scorn out of his mind. He felt sick, like something was terribly wrong with him, and he prayed to Allah to heal him from his affliction. Whatever Allah's plans were, they did not involved healing him. His sickness never went away. Only grew as he got older. By the age of fifteen, he had a rather vast collection of bras, panties, stockings, perfumes, lotions, rouges and lipsticks. On his birthday, after he'd dutifully made the rounds with his family, he retreated to his room to celebrate in his own way. Amira sought him out, offering him a small gift, one that she could not give him in the presence of others. Quatre blinked back tears as he opened the box and discovered a small tin of glittery pink eye shadow, matching lip gloss, and a tube of mascara. He was thrilled to also find a small package of little pink bows. While he'd often brushed his cheeks with rouge and painted his lips, he'd done nothing with his eyes and he was practically bursting with excitement to try his new makeup out. Amira smiled at him as he reverently touched the items in the box. "You have such beautiful eyes, Quat. Just remember, makeup is meant to accentuate your natural beauty, not cover it up." "Thanks, Amira. I can't thank you enough for your support and your gifts and just...loving me the way I am." "You're not sick, Quatre. There is nothing wrong with femininity. Whether you're a boy, a girl, both, or something else altogether, I'll always love you." Quatre's chest swelled with emotion and he hugged his sister, feeling so blessed to have her in his life. Perhaps that was Allah's purpose. It was the first time he began to realize that maybe there wasn't something wrong with him. That maybe Allah hadn't healed him because there was nothing to heal. No sickness to be cured from. Being female wasn't a bad thing so why would anything associated with it be bad? Amira picked up a small bow and clipped it into his hair. "Prettiest little brother a girl could have." He blushed, cheeks staining a fetching pink. "Thank you." He held up the eye makeup. "Could you...help me? I've never done this before." Amira helped him apply the eye shadow and showed him how to use the mascara. After rubbing a little blush on his cheeks and brushing some gloss over his lips, he examined himself in the mirror, his breath catching at the incredible transformation. He actually looked like a girl. Amira kissed his cheek and left shortly after. Quatre was so fascinated by his own reflection, he scarcely noticed her departure. He felt incredibly feminine, even sexy, his groin beginning to swell beneath his trousers. He quickly shed his clothing and slipped on a pair sheer panties in a soft blue with tiny white bows on each hip. Glancing in the full length mirror, he sat down on his chair, sliding a pair of stockings over his legs and clasped a blue satin bra around his chest. He was intoxicated in ways he couldn't even describe to himself when he studied his appearance. He was also undeniably aroused. The tip of his cock peeked out above the delicately crocheted edge of the panties, throbbing in the confines of the opaque material, visible through the fabric. He ran his fingers gently over his sides, relishing in the sexy feeling of being himself. He stroked a hand up his leg, loving the feel of the thin stocking against his skin. The urge to masturbate was overwhelming and while he enjoyed stimulation to his cock on most days, in moments like this, he preferred to ignore it. Instead, he focused on internal stimulation, pressing his fingers inside himself and rubbing against the spot that made him bite his lip to keep from shouting. His orgasms were always far more powerful when he pleasured himself this way and he often dreamed of finding a man who would love and accept this unusual side of him. Someone who might even indulge him when he felt particularly feminine. When the war came, he'd lost hope that any of that would actually happen. There was the very real possibility that he wouldn't even survive long enough to have a relationship. When he met Trowa, he'd felt not only an immediate attraction, but sensed a kind, sensitive heart beneath the layers of stone he'd built to protect a lost and broken child. Trowa was someone who was unaccustomed to having a relationship of any kind, even platonic. The Heart of Outer Space told Quatre that the boy was terrified of being hurt, some sort of past trauma that Quatre wasn't sure he even wanted to know about. It broke his heart to discover Trowa didn't believe he was worthy of friends, or love and he was determined to change that. Determined to make sure Trowa knew he was worthy of love and friendship. It worked, too. Quatre was a little surprised at how easily it had, but it did work. Trowa gradually opened up to him more and more and while he was still a little reticent for a year, or so, Quatre could easily sense that Trowa considered not only him a friend, but also the other pilots. Duo was also amazingly adept at observation despite not being an empath and Quatre was thrilled to see him go out of his way to make Trowa smile. Trowa really did need to smile more. It was rare, but when he did, it was breathtaking. It lit up the whole room and made Quatre's heart swell with warmth and affection. There was love there, too. A deep, profound sense of, I can't live without you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. He was sure he sensed the same feelings in Trowa, though he worried about the possibility that he was projecting. He knew he would be crushed if the feelings he'd picked up were nothing more than wishful thinking. As the war came to a close, the prospect that Quatre would survive to have a relationship began to grow and blossom in his chest. Trowa felt the pull, too. Quatre could feel it coming off of him in waves, so strong he could almost see it. And he did see it in those beautiful green eyes whenever Trowa looked at him. The caring, the need, the desire. And Quatre couldn't help but hope they would become more than friends. His hope was temporarily dashed when the young girl, Dorothy Catalonia, ran a blade through his side. The only thing he could think about was Trowa. Even when his consciousness faded, Trowa was the last thing on his mind. There was a final fleeting thought, an I'm sorry, Trowa. I didn't make it. I love you. And then everything went dark. But Trowa had found him. Knew he was in trouble and went looking for him. Quatre jolted awake when the harsh, burning odor of smelling salts wafted beneath his nose. The first thing he saw was Trowa's worried face above his, like a beautiful angel of mercy and for a brief moment, he thought he was dead and in Heaven. Being cradled in the arms of the boy he loved was like paradise and he'd smiled, wide and delirious at the handsome face that frowned down at him. Then the pain in his side made itself known and he curled in on himself with a groan, hit with the sudden realization that he was still on the Libra and very much alive. "Easy. Don't try to talk. You're hurt." He gasped around the agony, needing to know. "How did you find me?" Trowa was quiet for a long time and Quatre didn't think he would answer. Then, a quiet, "I don't know. I just knew you needed me and -" he stopped himself, glancing at the girl who sat slouched a few feet away. "Can you sit up?" "I think so." He struggled into a sitting position with Trowa's help, savoring the warm hand on his back to support him. He glanced down to see the alarming amount of blood still seeping from the wound, bubbling and floating in the zero gravity atmosphere. Trowa was pulling large wads of gauze out of his kit and Quatre blearily watched him load a syringe, a clear liquid filling the small plastic vacuum. "I need to stop the bleeding. I'm giving you a shot of adrenaline." He glanced up, appearing calm, but Quatre could see the fear in his eyes, feel the acceleration of his heart rate through their strange connection. Trowa was scared, for him, and that made him scared. Was it really that bad? "Do you have any drug allergies?" Quatre blinked, not following, and belatedly realized he must have already lost a decent amount of blood. "What?" "Drug allergies. Are you allergic to any medication?" It took another ten seconds for Quatre to comprehend the question, then shook his head. "No. No allergies." He watched with morbid fascination as Trowa stuck the needle into his thigh and pushed the plunger. He immediately felt the sudden rush of cognition, the clarity return to him with a touch of unpleasant giddiness. His body trembled while Trowa stuffed the wadded up gauze into the wounds both in the front and the back and clenched his teeth against the pain. Despite the adrenaline, he was cold, like being plunged in ice water. His lips quivered and his teeth chattered and he knew he was going into shock. The ship shook and rattled as explosions went off in some distant corridor, the alarms shrill and nefarious in his ears. He begged Trowa to leave him behind, knowing he would only slow him down. His chances of surviving were low anyway. The blood loss and the toxins from his pierced kidney poisoning what was still circulating through his body. He'd never make it and he would bring Trowa down with him. He'd never forgive himself. He pleaded with him to take Dorothy and get them both to safety. They both still had a chance of survival. Trowa, however, refused. His logic was that Dorothy was self-sufficient enough to find her own way out, though Quatre read his true motivations easily. Read the I'm not going anywhere without you. Quatre didn't bother arguing, too tired and in too much pain. He squeezed his eyes shut when Trowa lifted him to his feet, looping his left arm over his shoulder. They made their way out, slowly but steadily, and located Sandrock with relative ease. Trowa helped him inside and got him settled behind the controls, but he was hesitant. "I can't leave you like this." "I'll be fine, Trowa. Let's just end this already." Quatre easily picked up Trowa's sudden urge to kiss him, reading it as well as he could read his own thoughts. He could also feel the reticence, the fear of rejection. Quatre lunged forward before Trowa could retreat and pressed their lips together. He sighed into the kiss when Trowa's hand cupped his cheek, thumb stroking over the skin. When they separated, Trowa's eyes were wide, but Quatre saw a light in them like he'd never seen before and almost giggled, feeling tipsy and not just from the adrenaline and blood loss. Trowa's beautiful lips spread wide in a smile that actually reached his eyes and Quatre felt like he could walk on water. Another explosion jarred them and brought them back to reality. Quatre urgently pressed Trowa to get to Heavyarms and watched him disappear around the corridor before he closed Sandrock's hatch. He flinched when the Gundam lurched and gritted his teeth against the pain as he maneuvered Sandrock away from the dying ship. They won the war. That was the long and the short of it, though for Quatre it was bittersweet. When they made it back to the Peacemillion and docked their Gundams, the last of his energy had run out. He didn't even have the strength to open his hatch, slumping over in the seat and rapidly losing consciousness again. He vaguely heard the hiss as Trowa tripped the emergency switch on the outside of his Gundam and blinked around unfocused eyes when gloved hands brushed his hair off his sweaty forehead. "Quat?" Trowa voice sounded distant, like he was at the far end of a tunnel and he struggled to hear him through the increasingly loud ringing in his ears. "Stay with me, Quat! Come on." He dry heaved when he was suddenly wrenched out from behind the controls and dragged down to the catwalk. He wavered on his hands and knees, his stomach lurching with nothing to expel, and wincing in pain as each spasm pulled at his injury. His fading strength gave out and he dropped face first, the edges of his vision fading. He dimly registered the swooping sensation of being lifted into strong arms, heard the shouts for help, and felt the thump thump thump as Trowa ran with him down the catwalk. His barely conscious mind had enough cognizance to inform him of when he was laid out on a gurney. There was a cold, tickling sensation that ran up his leg and by the time it reached his thigh, he realized with an icy cold jolt of dread that they were cutting his suit off of him. Injury forgotten, he was frozen with terror when he finally remembered what he had on beneath it and he reached out blindly, trying to push the prying hands and scissors away. He would rather just die than have his secret discovered in such a way. He groaned in helpless frustration at the thought that even if he did die, they would know. He would always be remembered as the boy who wore hot pink ruffled panties. His shoving hands were restrained, words of reassurance slipped past his ears and he shook his head in futile humiliation when his suit was finally wrenched open. He would have flushed beet red if not for the simple fact that what blood he had left was too busy supplying his brain and heart with necessary oxygen. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the pause, the quiet shock, and eventual snickers and comments. To his surprise, there was none of that. The hands didn't pull away in revulsion. They continued on with their work of treating his injury without missing a beat. He recognized the soft, caring voice of Dr. Po, telling him everything was going to be fine. Not to worry. A soft hand brushed his hair away from his face, meant to comfort him and the tension in his body began to fade. He was still uneasy, mortified, but his mind was already done. Against his will, it shut down in a desperate attempt to keep his body alive. *** He regained consciousness in a darkened, quiet room, and instantly noticed the distinct lack of pain. He blinked up at the ceiling, initially disoriented, confused by his surroundings, and unsure what had happened. He attempted to sit up, feeling the stiffness in his side and clarity broke through the narcotic haze. Now he remembered. The sword fight, being run through, his speech to the girl who had stabbed him, his mental apology to Trowa, the certainty that he was dead, then waking up to the terrified face of the boy he loved. He remembered the final battle and guiding Sandrock back to the Peacemillion, but after that his memory became somewhat foggy. What did stand out during that time was being carried in Trowa's arms as he sprinted towards the infirmary and the sudden realization and subsequent horror when he remembered the panties he was wearing beneath his suit. There was the scrape of metal beside him and a moment later, strong arms wrapping around him. He glanced up into the gently admonishing face of Rashid. The man shook his head and coaxed him back down to the bed. He went willingly and allowed his friend to place the sheet back over his chest without complaint. He shifted slightly, trying to subtly decipher if he was still wearing his panties. His hand slid into his lap, over the hospital gown, feeling for the unmistakable ridges of the ruffles and finding nothing. He could feel the flush heat up his face, wondering where they were, and more importantly, who took them off. Another terrifying thought occurred to him. Trowa had carried him to the infirmary. Had he still been there when they cut his suit off him? Did he see Quatre's panties and if so, what had his reaction been? He closed his eyes and groaned, squirming on the bed in humiliation. How could he ever face Trowa now? The boy probably thought he was a freak. Rashid misread his obvious discomfort for pain and reached for the nurse's button. Quatre stopped him and shook his head. "No. I don't need more medication. I'm fine." At least Rashid didn't seem to be aware of his preferences. Staunchly Muslim, he was sure the man would not approve. He nodded his head when Rashid asked him if he was sure. "Yes, I just need to rest." He forced his body to settle despite the anxiety churning in his belly, turning his flushed face into the pillow and pretending to go back to sleep. Rashid brushed his bangs away from his forehead with a giant hand, a gesture of comfort, though Quatre sensed he'd mistook his red face for fever and was subtly checking his temperature. After a moment, Rashid retreated back to his chair and his magazine and Quatre feigned sleep even though he was far from tired. His mind spun with questions and uncertainties and his muscles were restless with embarrassment. He wondered who else had seen his panties. Duo? Heero? Wufei? Allah, he hoped not. He didn't know what he would do if they knew. What could he do? Laugh it off as a joke? He supposed he could, but that just felt wrong. It wasn't a joke, not to him, and to treat it as such felt demeaning, even if he was doing it to himself. He realized there was nothing else to do, but admit to the truth if he was confronted about it and deal with the consequences, whatever they may be. His heart ached at the thought that he might lose them as friends and comrades. He was sure if Trowa had seen, then it blew any chances of a romantic relationship. Why would he possibly want to be with someone who was so...bent? Tears stung the back of his eyes and he squeezed his lids shut to prevent them from spilling down his cheeks. Crying would do no good. Eventually, the narcotics in his system took precedence over everything else and he drifted off into a restless sleep. When he woke up again, he was met with Duo's smiling face. As happy as Quatre was to see him, he couldn't help but feel disappointed that Trowa wasn't there. Had he come to see him at all, or was he avoiding Quatre because he knew his secret now? He swallowed down his trepidation and forced a smile, carefully gauging Duo's expression for anything that might indicate he knew. He reached out with his Spaceheart, probing Duo's emotions, looking for any sign of second-hand embarrassment, awkwardness, or judgment and finding nothing. Nothing at all. He didn't know and Quatre blew out a breath of relief, his smile coming more easily now. Maybe there was hope that Trowa hadn't seen either. "Hey, buddy! How ya feelin'?" Quatre's voice was a little croaky and he cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm fine, Duo. Thank you." "You had us worried there for a while, little guy." Quatre chuckled at Duo's terms of endearments. He always had an extensive repertoire of nicknames for the other pilots. Quatre's usually consisted of "little buddy", "little guy", or "little bro". Always with the "little" even though Duo was the same height as he was and only weighed ten pounds more than him. "Well, I'm sorry I worried you guys. I think I'm out of the woods now." Duo grinned and leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. "Trowa's been a right mess since all this happened." Quatre's ears quirked at that. "Has he?" Duo nodded and toyed with the end of his braid. "Yeah. Poor guy's beside himself frettin' over ya. Heero threatened to shoot him in the leg if he didn't eat somethin'." Quatre couldn't help it. He laughed at that, his shoulders shaking with mirth. "Heero's got one hell of a bedside manner." Duo snickered and rubbed his forehead. "That he does. I told him he needs to start actin' like a civilian now and he threatened to shoot me in the leg." Quatre laughed even harder, doubling over and instantly regretting it. "Ow." "Careful there, Q. Don't need you splittin' your stitches, or staples, or whatever ya got holdin' yourself together under that gown." For some odd reason, the word "gown" quickly sobered him up. He stretched the cramped muscles in his abdomen and reclined against the pillows. "Has he been here?" "Who? Heero, or Tro?" Quatre didn't want to seem like he was specifically fishing for more information on Trowa, but he was specifically fishing for more information on Trowa, so... "Trowa." "Oh, yeah. Yeah, he's been here. He was here this mornin'." Quatre mentally kicked himself for sleeping through that and nodded, feeling better. Trowa didn't hate him, didn't think he was a freak. Or at least not enough to keep him away. Duo shrugged and propped his feet against the metal bed frame. "He should be by sometime this afternoon, or evening. I told him to go take a nap. Boy's dead on his damn feet lately." Quatre experienced a rush of guilt at that and as observant as always, Duo immediately picked up on it. "Hey. Don't feel bad, little dude. He just cares about ya." "I know. I care about him. I just hate that he's in this state because of me." "Well, that's what happens when you lo - care about someone." Quatre didn't miss the almost-slip, but opted not to comment on it. Hell, even Duo knew there was something more going on between him and Trowa. Either Duo was sharper than Quatre realized, or he and Trowa were about as transparent as Saran Wrap. As promised, Trowa returned a few hours later with eyes that were still bleary with sleep. They widened when he saw Quatre awake and somewhat upright and lingered in the doorway as if he was suddenly bashful. Quatre lifted his hand in a wave, a bright smile on his face, which dissolved when he saw Trowa's body language. He gently prodded the surface of Trowa's emotions, not digging too deep, but trying to find the source of his hesitance. He was met with a mental barricade and immediately pulled back, not wanting to push through something Trowa was keeping locked away. It made him uneasy and as much as Quatre wanted to know what it was, he refused to intrude on something Trowa wasn't willing to share. He only hoped it wasn't negative feelings that were directed towards him. He forced himself to smile again, speaking through the lump of nervousness in his throat. "Hi, Trowa." Trowa lips quirked and he nodded slightly. "Hey. How are you?" "Better now that you're here." "That hurts me, Winner," Duo interrupted, feigning offense. Quatre laughed. "Sorry, Duo. I didn't mean it like that." "Yeah yeah. I get it. I'll make meself scarce." He got up from the chair and ruffled Quatre's hair. "Rest up, little bro. I want to see ya back on your feet and right as rain. This place gives me the creeps." It was no secret that Duo despised hospitals. Quatre didn't blame him. "Tell me about it. Thanks, Duo." "Sure thing." He stepped up to Trowa and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, leaning his head in as if he was about to disclose something private, but his voice was deliberately loud. "Now, go easy on the lad, okay Tro? My little bro here is still recovering so no funny business, ya feel me?" Trowa turned his head, an almost hilarious expression of incredulity on his face and Quatre bit down on his tongue to keep from laughing. "Kitty-Quat here's an innocent one so...wait until the weddin' night, k?" Quatre threw his head back and cackled as Trowa shoved their braided friend out the door. Duo stumbled into the hallway and turned, his hand lifted in a wave. "Okay, alright. Just...do y'all need condoms, or anything? I got some -" Trowa took a step towards him and Duo backed away with his hands raised in front of him, a wide grin on his face. "Okay, okay. I'm goin'." Quatre snickered and shook his head fondly as Duo disappeared down the hallway. Trowa turned from the door, exasperation written all over his face. "That boy's got no filter." Quatre grinned and smoothed out the blankets across his lap. "He means well." "I suppose." Trowa stared at him and Quatre blushed under the scrutiny. Sometimes Trowa was extremely difficult to read. Even more so than Heero and that was saying something. His one visible eye observed him with an intensity that Quatre couldn't decipher. He cleared his throat and smiled to cover up his awkwardness. "Did you sleep well?" That unnerving gaze finally looked away as Trowa shrugged and stepped over to the chair Duo previously occupied. He lowered himself into it with a grace that Quatre envied. "How are you really feeling?" "I'm okay. Sore. A little tired, but mending. How have you been?" "You're not in pain?" Quatre's mouth quirked up in a smirk. "Are you going to answer all my questions with more questions?" Pink bloomed on Trowa's cheeks and Quatre felt bad for embarrassing him. "I'm sorry." "No, it's -" Trowa glanced out the window, his eyes catching the distant stars drifting past. "I was worried about you." "I'm sorry for that, too. Duo told me -" Trowa glanced at him sharply and Quatre hesitated, not sure if he should even say anything. "He said you've been in quite a state lately. I hope you're not exhausting yourself, or making yourself ill." "No. No, I - I'm fine. I just...needed to know you were okay. I was here this morning, but you weren't awake yet." "Yeah, Duo told me that, too. I'm sorry I slept through your visit." Trowa's shoulders lifted, almost imperceptibly. "I've been here every day." Quatre's brows rose up beneath his hairline. "Have you?" Trowa nodded, seemingly embarrassed by the admission. Quatre was hopelessly charmed. "I'm glad." Trowa looked up, his eyes a little uncertain and Quatre nodded enthusiastically in affirmation. "I am. I'm glad you're here." He was thrilled when Trowa's lips finally curled up into a smile. He returned it, genuinely happy to share this moment with the boy he'd come to love. To his relief, Sally appeared in his room early the following morning while he was sans visitors and handed him his panties with a soft smile. Quatre flushed with embarrassment, but gratefully accepted them. He'd been desperate to know what had become of them, but was too afraid to ask. Sally reassured him that only a tiny handful of people knew. "And I threatened them with their jobs if they even think about speaking a word of it to anyone. It's yours to tell and no one else's business." "Thank you, Dr. Po." She pinched his cheek and left him alone. Quatre turned the panties over in shaky hands and brought them up to his face. It was such sweet relief to have them back. He'd been terrified that someone had been hanging onto them and waiting for the opportune moment to expose him, or blackmail him. The tension drained from his body and he gleefully kicked the blankets down to the foot of the bed and stuck his feet into the leg holes. He laid down flat and slid them up his legs, rearranging the hospital gown back over his lap once they were snug around his hips. He sighed contentedly, feeling lighter than air and finally back inside his own body. A week later, Quatre was on his feet, not quite back to normal, but moving around at a steady pace, albeit a little stiffly. Trowa hovered over him like a shadow when he wasn't required for some duty, or another and for the remainder of his recovery, they were nearly inseparable. Downtime in the rec room was especially enjoyable. Duo would usually put on some shoot-em-up action flick, or some gory horror film and Quatre would eagerly curl up on one of the sofas with Trowa, clad in a pair of hospital scrubs and slipper socks. He still couldn't wear his normal clothes, the restrictive binding aggravating his wounds, and he opted for the more comfortable, loose-fitting scrubs. Beneath those, he wore his panties, enjoying the liberating sensation of being comfortable in his own skin. Even more so when he got to snuggle on the couch with Trowa. Especially when Trowa began to wrap an arm around him. It was these quiet times, post war, that Quatre cherished so much. Soon, he would need to return to L4 and pick up where his father left off. He didn't know where that would leave him and Trowa. Trowa had his own obligations to tend to, but he had high hopes that they would be able to work something out. Quatre would inevitably have to tell him about his...habit. He really wasn't sure what to call it. He just prayed that when he did, Trowa wouldn't reject him.
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