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"Best in Show"Written By: Kaeru Shisho Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Gundam Wing
or its characters, nor do I make any monetary profit off this story. Rating: R Warnings: AU, male/male pairings, language Pairings: 3x4 Summary: Quatre is far from home, drained by work,
and his dog handlers are dropping out. He's becoming an emotional
mess. How will he survive the dog show? "Best in Show " Chapter One Quatre Oh no! "WHAT did you say?!" Quatre shouted into the phone. "I am terribly sorry, sir," Rashid said, sounding tired, "but it seems Mr. Tousand has come down with a stomach ailment. He won't be able to show Alfie tomorrow as planned." Alfie, Quatre Winner's prized show Irish terrier and best friend, was sure to win in his breed. Without Mr. Tousand, his trusty dog handler, what would he do?! "What do we do?!" Quatre cried out in a moment of panic. "Pull out, I suppose, but this was our year!" "And we haven't yet lost. The reassuring news, sir," Rashid said soothingly, "is that Mr. Tousand has contacted his apprentice, Miss Moore. Although she hasn't his wealth of experience in competitions of this importance, he has every confidence in her abilities, and, of course, Alfie knows and likes her." Quatre questioned that bit of information. Probably mostly wishful thinking of the part of his suffering handler. Alfie didn't like many people. He loved Quatre, respected Mr. Tousand, tolerated his secretary, Rashid, and just barely endured the rest of the animal kingdom, including but not limited to humankind. "Well, I should meet this apprentice." Quatre wondered why he never had. Was he always so busy or distracted? Distracted, certainly. He had forgotten her name already. He had given his father's business a try. He really had, but his heart wasn't in ore refinement. He wanted to do something, he simply wasn't quite sure what yet. He liked lots of things: his violin, Alfie, mechanical engineering, making candy. Before he could settle on anything to pursue, he had to divest himself of the suffocating Winner Corporation ties, and that was both time consuming and difficult. Extracting himself long enough to come here and show Alfie had been a huge, exhausting, and, to his mind, terribly worthwhile undertaking, until this handler debacle. But this was going to be just a little glitch, right? "Miss Alice Moore," Rashid supplied. "Who? Oh, right. The substitute handler. I guess I have no choice, really." "She is exercising Alfie currently," the secretary said. "If you would like to see her?" "I'll be down in a minute," Quatre told him. He'd been meaning to leave his hotel room and visit his darling dog since tasting his over-steeped tea and stale muffins. Loading his pockets with all-natural, organic, diet-balanced dog biscuits from a fresh box left him owning up to the truth: "Alfie eats better than I do." He also slept at least as comfortably. Alfie had his own room in the hotel just like at home in the L4 colony. Outside the room, Quatre's secretary waylaid him. "Rashid? You look glum. It's not Alfie, is it? He hadn't chewed off somebody's arm or anything, has he?" Call it rationalization, but, Quatre thought, no one should try to pet a strange dog, especially Alfie. "I am very sorry, sir, to have to relay this information." And Rashid looked aggrieved. "Oh, dear, what?! Tell me!" "It is Miss Moore, sir. She has taken a fall." Alas, no sooner had Miss Moore returned from walking Alfie and securing him in his luxurious cage (not his small travel cage but a very roomy mini-home), than she met with an accident of her own, her heel mysteriously catching on a loose tread. "A fall?! Where? Is she going to be all right?" "She tumbled on the last stair and suffered a bump on her head and twisted her ankle. I'm afraid she will be unable to perform tomorrow as Alfie's handler." "Oh!" Quatre felt a sharp stab to his heart and knew Rashid felt as bad about this as he. "Poor Alfie!" he commiserated, then as an unintentional afterthought, "And poor Miss Moore, too! This is terrible!" "Most unfortunate, sir, I agree." Quatre rushed to his dear dog's cage and unlatched the little gate. A scrappy, dynamo of energy launched itself into his waiting arms, barking with joy. He nearly bowled over Quatre with his exuberance, stopping his noise only to flick a tongue over Quatre's face. Eventually Quatre got his attention, got him to be quiet and sit next to him on the floor with loads of treats as a reward. "Poor Alfie." Hearing his name sent the dog squirming and snuffling for more hugs, treats- more everything. "I'm sorry you have to spend so much time in a cage, but you know it's not home, I can't let you free to tear up the hotel room when you feel bored." Quatre had tired of paying damage bills—he'd never be able to afford to leave his father's company job! He scratched behind the dog's ears, eliciting happy grunts and growls. Despite the bad luck, Alfie was safe and happy and so was he. "It's so sad after all the trouble getting here and becoming accustomed to Earth that no one will see how absolutely wonderful you are! Oh well, there's nothing more to it then, is there? I might as well notify Mr. Khushrenada that we will not be competing." When Rashid offered to make the call for him, Quatre stopped him. "No, I'll do it. It's the owner's responsibility. It's in the handbook." Mr. Treize Khushrenada picked up on the first ring. "Mr. Winner, I just heard the news. Two handlers injured!" Quatre's throat tightened and it was with a catch in his voice that he said, "It-it's hard to understand. A-and since my dog isn't one to accept a stranger stepping into the job at this late date, there's nothing I can do other than opt out. I'm so sorry." "I am sorry too. I had hoped my first Sanc invitational dog show would be drama free." "It will be," Quatre insisted. "All the other colonies have entries and are very excited to be included." Except L4, now. "We won't be missed." "Oh, but you will," Treize assured him. Quatre could just barely make out what the show organizer murmured next, guessing the man had his hand ineffectively covering the phone, "I don't want to move the Maltese back into the toy group." He heard a rustling sound and then Mr. Khushrenada returned. "There is another solution." "I'm listening." But with little interest. "My assistant has suggested someone, a handler, a very special one; he's here officially to give a demonstration. He might be willing-" "Whether he is or not," Quatre broke in, "I sincerely doubt he'll be able to step in at this late date. Alfie is… a handful. I'll be seriously disadvantaged." "Why not wait until you meet the young man? He comes highly recommended. He talks to animals, it is rumored…" his voice trailed off "Excuse me, I have an incoming call I must take. Please, Mr. Winner, let us try and help." "All right. I'll meet this animal talker. It can't hurt to do that, I suppose. What is his name?" "Trowa Barton. He's in the pamphlet. Demonstrations and Presentations. He's in conference room 43 now, if you'd like to meet him." "Room 43? Okay." "Thank you, Mr. Winner." "Don't thank me yet!" Alfie wanted up and trotted the short distance to his water dish. Finding it nearly empty, he barked for attention. When that was insufficient, Alfie tipped it over to make his point. And barked, "Ruff!" Quatre waved his secretary back into the room, while searching on his phone for some information on Trowa Barton. If he talks to animals what does he say? Demonstrations, of what? "Rashid? Can you get Alfie a refill while I look up something?" He wanted some warning, a photo, just five minutes, at least, to prepare himself. A brand new handler for Alfie? That had no way of being successful. It was likely going to be a total waste of time! There! The bio sprang into view. Gasp! Beside the brief biography was the young man's picture, somewhat out of focus, small, and dark. Circus! He stared at the small blurred picture. What is he wearing? Was that the suggestion of a costume? Tight fitting? Just possibly lewd. He regretted the poor quality of the photo. When combined with all he knew about the circus, which was very limited, the overall impression was not good. Quatre managed to read a single line following the word "circus" before his rattled little brain conjured up outrageous imagery. Visions of horrid clown faces clouded his mind. His imagination had taken over. Little Alfie on his lead and the handler in big floppy shoes, harlequin pants, painted face! "He's from the CiRcUs!" Quatre cried out loud. "How could Mr. Khushrenada do this to me?! I should never have accepted his invitation! I should never have entered this show! I should never have come to Sanc!" He was close to hyperventilating by the time Rashid had finished refreshing Alfie's water dish. "You must calm down, sir," Rashid said in a level voice, unruffled by the young man's lack of composure. He reached into his pocket of a packet of pills. "Shall I bring you water, too?" "I don't want tranquilizers!" Quatre brushed Rashid's arm away. "We're going to conference room 43, by the way. No, pills or water, or anything. No, wait! I want a sword! I want Treize's head rolling in the ring for the dogs to play with! He simply pulls some man who gives demonstrations probably silly animal acts and suggests he would do? How could he think that a-a clown of some kind would make a suitable handler for Alfie!" "It is my understanding that the people giving the demonstrations and presentations are all famous experts in their small circle of enthusiasts," Rashid said. "Mr. Khushrenada wouldn't have invited him if he were…uncouth. And, not all circus personnel are clowns, I understand." Quatre quirked an eyebrow and looked up. "Probably true." Rashid's fuzzy eyebrows twitched like twin dancing caterpillars. "And he must like dogs, wouldn't you think?" "I like all kinds of dogs, too, but you don't find me volunteering to be a handler on a minute's notice, do you?!" Quatre realized he was over-reacting, his shrill voice hurt his own ears, but he had to vent all his anxiety to someone before meeting this stranger from the circus. The situation was trying and threatening to become overwhelming. Quatre knew that Rashid understood his emotional ups and downs better than anyone, which was why he apologized. "I'm, sorry, but this is all so frustrating." Rashid smiled, his dark eyes glittered with understanding. His lips remained sealed, Quatre noted, probably understanding his mood, too. Upon reaching conference room 43, there was no need to go in. Anyone could see from the open door and darkened room that it was empty. No one there, talking to animals or not. Quatre was steaming with no outlet for his bad mood. "I can't believe this…man would just blow off our appointment!" "Perhaps Mr. Khushrenada was unable to contact him, sir? Or he needed to return his demonstration animals to their cages?" Both reasonable explanations. "Or… he's gone to find me," Quatre decided independently. "Mr. Khushrenada wouldn't give out my room number, (you would think!) but… Alfie's in the directory! Oh, my! If he's gone to Alfie, he'll tear him apart!" "I do not think the young trainer will hurt Alfie—" Rashid began, picking up his speed to keep up with Quatre's abrupt turn. "—No! I don't want to be sued when Alfie shreds him if the man dares to open his cage!" Quatre cried out and raced to his dog's room. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Trowa "Hold on." Trowa slipped his cellphone into a pocket, clipped on the "Flexi-Leads", and clicked his tongue. Flexi's were his favorite brand of retractable, spring-loaded lead because it would allow a dog (or other animal as the case may be) to wander at a distance without getting caught up in the lead itself. These were not used in competition, but then he wasn't part of it. Two dogs obediently fell into line at his heels, a step or two behind. He left the door open behind him. Let security deal with the conference rooms. Not his problem. Nor were these dogs. Someone else's job was to take care of them. He was there to do training demonstrations, and he hoped to make a big impression. It could be his break; his means to leave the circus and go out on his own. Be his own man. Call the shots! Be in charge of his life! His cell phone buzzed with the sound of impatience. He'd completely forgotten about the call. "Hey, sorry about getting disconnected," he apologized nimbly. "All right. What's up?" "Mr. Barton, I have a favor to ask." "Mr. Khushrenada," Trowa mimicked because he knew the man had a sense of humor, "have you now?" "I desperately need a handler!" "Do you? I'm sorry, I only handle non-primates," Trowa joked, testing the extent of that sense of humor. "Not me personally. Now be serious." "Then why call me? You know I've never done a dog show." He rounded the corner and continued down the hall with his trained dogs. "If I know the kinds of owners you've invited, they can afford plenty of handlers of good quality." "Possibly, but you are in the building, and, well, you are a natural showman, looking to expand your horizons—" The emphasis was not lost on Trowa. He did want to get out of the circus. "—going for the jugular, are we?" "Now, now, I'm not bloodthirsty. I wouldn't ask if I didn't think you could do it and do it well enough to impress the right people." "Yeah, you would." Trowa sighed. He was a fast learner and had actually handled the circus dogs, like the ones he brought today, though, not for a specific breed or for a show. "Do it for the poor beast then." Oooh, Trowa's weak point. "It's a good dog? A winner?" "Absolutely! First rate. A repeat winner." "Tempting, that." Trowa stopped at a new door and hummed a tune. One of the dogs jumped up to the door handle and sprang it open. Trowa led them into the room. It occurred to him that he didn't know the show schedule, just his own. Some events had started, some would continue throughout the week. "When is it?" "Tomorrow." "You're shitting me." "No, I'm not. In the afternoon tomorrow." "Not tomorrow morning first thing? You're going to give me an entire day to practice with the dog? How generous you are." He freshened both dogs' water dishes from his bottle. "I can be very generous, as you know," the older man practically purred. "That's true. So, besides a possible fling in your bed, what's in it for me?" As he listened to Khushrenada's terms, Trowa removed the leashes and locked the dogs inside their roomy cages for well-deserved rests. When he'd bartered himself a more lucrative deal, he agreed. "The owner is meeting you at the conference room 43, name of Winner." "He can do that, but I'm going to meet his dog first, name of…?" "I don't know the name of the dog. It's in the program directory." Trowa could hear papers shuffling. "Don't bother looking. I'll find out," he assured Khushrenada, "and if I don't think we can work together, the deal's off." "Of course. Be nice to the owner, please. He's… very distressed. He lost two handlers today and—" "—not sure I want to be number three." "Accidents. Won't happen to you. I'm personally looking into both incidents." Which meant he had put his "security" on it. Yuy and Chang. He usually wasted his over-trained personal bodyguards on worthless assignments. Probably good bed warmers, though. Khushrenada added, "Please, Trowa. I won't forget this." Trowa let out his breath. How could he resist? What had he to lose? And being in Treize Khushrenada's debt might be worth any amount of possible embarrassment, which was bound to happen given the circumstances. "Sure," Trowa said. "Don't worry; I'll give them both a chance, but the dog is the most important." Trowa ended the call then checked the directory, looking up the name "Winner" and finding the room assignment, guessing "Alfie" was the dog's name, although "Quatre" was odd enough a name to be the dog's. The fourth of the litter? No matter. He'd either find a room with a dog or a room with a man. Or not. He didn't much care. The room was at the far end of the hallway, as were most of the animal rooms, so the odds were in his favor he'd encounter the dog first. "Ruff?" "Hey, you must be Alfie." "Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof-!" "-Shut the fuck up!" His voice was not loud, speaking barely above a whisper. Dogs heard well so he didn't need to shout. He got his message across, nailing Alfie with a powerful glare. Alfie's little mouth snapped shut like a mouse trap. "That's better." Trowa knelt in front of the dog's deluxe crate, very calm and collected. "Nice place you've got here." "Grr." "Alfie, you pampered pooch, let's get one thing straight. I'm master of all masters and you get one bark and that was it. Now, you listen to me." The man and the dog stared at one another, assessing. "I'm letting you out and seeing how well behaved you are. Get that?" "Grrrrrr." Trowa's hand went up and the growl died in the dog's throat. He coughed. Trowa unlatched the cage door and patted the ground. "Come. Sit." With a great deal of reticence, hoisting his strong little legs as if he were knee-deep in sticky clay, Alfie complied with the commands. "Good boy." Trowa flicked a tiny nibblet of doggy snack into the air. Alfie caught it with a fractional flick of his muzzle and swallowed it whole. "Proud little shit aren't you? Well, that's good. You have to strut your stuff out there like you're a champion." He ruffled the dog's fur, scratched behind his ears, showing Alfie some affection. "You know, I like you, probably more than I will your master. Probably definitely. Okay. Show me your restraint. Sit. Still." Trowa placed a treat on the top of Alfie's head and stared the dog down. "No! Do not move. Still." He heard voices and footfalls coming to the door from the hallway. Alfie's ears twitched; his gaze diverted to the open door. "No. Still," he reminded the dog. He knew he had only seconds before the owner, who Trowa surmised had just entered the room, demanded his pet's attention. "Go!" Trowa said in his low voice. He was pleased that Alfie held out so long. Alfie snapped up the treat as it flipped into the air and then shot across the room, taking flight, and landed in his adoring owner's arms. "Yip!" Only then did Trowa look up to see who it was that deserved so fine a dog. And his jaw dropped. Nearly. Maybe he should have asked Treize about Alfie's owner? He'd been more interested in the dog's character than the owner's. If he'd imagined some old doffer with a beard and thinning hair, that image was wiped clean from his mind with the real thing confronting him. The young man being slathered in dog love was stunning and his bright hair shimmered and shone under the artificial lights. His eyes, blue as the tropical sea, glittered good-naturedly. Oh, God. He's amazing! Trowa suddenly wished he appeared equally impressive, but knew he didn't. His measurements were so ordinary that he could wear off the rack—a tribute to discount stores and low, low prices everywhere. In contrast, the pastel colors of young master's immaculately clean and pressed, finely tailored, designer clothes set him aglow. Sigh. He knew he wasn't a strikingly handsome man himself, a spare and angular face, limp blah brown hair cut short except for bangs long enough to hide half his face, leaving visible one greenish distrustful-looking eye, an ordinary nose, and a chin that barely escaped being weak. Such an insignificant face that people failed to see him unless he was in costume, masked, doing aerial stunts. Trowa particularly didn't like how inferior he felt. He could feel his confidence ebb away into the shadows. It was dangerous for a high wire acrobat or a flying-knife target or a BIG CAT handler to lose confidence. A real game changer. His unremarkable self-image flip-flopped with that of the gorgeous specimen holding the dog, the comparison ridiculous. The dog's owner, clearly part of the privileged few, with his perfect features, laughed at his dog's antics and lit the room with his smile. And then his eyes met Trowa's and the mouth turned down. He looked cross. Trowa decided that it wasn't smart of him to stare too hard or too long, because it turned perfection off. "How did you get in here? This is a private room," Trowa was informed by the lovely one, the one he had surmised to be Alfie's owner. "Ah…" Trowa's voice drifted off as his eyes came to rest on the hulking man standing, glowering in the doorway behind the Bright One. The man (bodyguard?) did not look like a man whom one might care to meet in a dark alley, or perhaps even on a lighted boulevard. The man stood a head taller than the Perfect One, was dark where the other was light, and bore an impressive, black moustache perched like a vulture above his mouth. All in all he reminded Trowa of a bull elephant about to charge. Well, he could talk to birds and bulls… "I'm Trowa Barton. Treize Khushrenada told me you wanted to see me. Here I am." Absurd though it sounded… The taller man responded, "Yes, you are," and, to Trowa's amazement, winked. The wink Trowa took as an encouraging sign. He decided he must adopt a strong personality if he were to win over the young master. Trowa strove to be the strong and silent and virile type, fixing his gaze on a distant horizon, narrowing his eyes like a successful businessman in a whiskey commercial. The idea pleased him, although, he did not like whiskey, or drink it. "Oh!" The young Adonis fluttered like an injured bird. "He told me room 43 and we went there and the room was empty so we thought to check on Alfie and," he paused, "How did you do that?" "Do what?" Trowa asked, confused and still a little dazed by the other man's beauty and not yet polished at his potent personality. He couldn't help but think a beard giving his chin a bit more definition would be an asset for him. "Make Alfie sit for you like that!" the young man answered. "Well," Trowa paused. How was he to explain his methods to a featherhead, beautiful as he was to look at and probably able to buy everything Trowa owned with his pocket change? He was saved putting words to his thoughts when the bodyguard giant cleared his throat and addressed them. "Perhaps, sir, we should first introduce ourselves?" His bushy black eyebrows twitched; Trowa thought he was about to laugh. "I'm certain the young gentleman will forgive the oversight." "Ah, yeah, sure," Trowa began. The younger man blanched. "Of course! I'm sorry. I'm Quatre Raberba Winner and this is Alfie." Trowa shook Alfie's' paw, which seemed extended his way. "We've met." He smiled at Quatre, whose hands were filled, and reached for Rashid's hand. "I'm Trowa Barton and you are…?" "You may call me Rashid." Trowa flashed him a smile. "Trowa." "I believe Mr. Barton was demonstrating his skill at talking to animals when we arrived," Rashid said to Quatre. "Alfie in particular." "I saw." Trowa felt the weight of Quatre's sea blue eyes leveled at him. Apparently it was his turn, so he took it. "I'm an acrobat in the Barton and Bloom Circus and a trainer for all the circus' animals—a trainer of some renown, in fact." He added that last part remembering he was attempting to take on a compelling persona. "Acrobat?" And not a clown. "What a relief!" Quatre said, sighing. "I didn't get that far reading your bio, and I should have." "It doesn't matter," Trowa said, because it didn't matter to him what the outdated "bio" said about him. It was all going to change anyway. "I shouldn't have pre-judged you. So, tell me, is it fun? Are you good at it, being an acrobat?" Quatre asked. "Sometimes fun. I'd say more exhilarating. There's always the possibility of breaking my neck that keeps it real." Quatre laughed. He must have thought it was one of Trowa's wry jokes, although it hadn't been. The laughter was so sweet, though, that Trowa didn't correct his misinterpretation. "Alfie's a good dog," Trowa said knowing that would be safe. Rarely was praising a pampered pet a bad idea. "We'll get along fine." "Mr. Tousand had years of experience handling dogs, including Alfie, which I don't expect you to replicate. I know this is all very sudden and I'm grateful you are here. At least you have experience showing dogs." "Actually, I haven't. This will be a first for me." Trowa smiled fractionally to give off an air of confidence which he didn't possess. "A fun experience, I hope." Wrong. Quatre Winner's brows drew into an angry frown. "This is just a lark for you?! It's my dog's future!" "Your dog's what? Future? No, it isn't. He just wants to make you happy. If strutting his stuff in that arena brings him treats and your approval, then he's game. You know he doesn't really care, don't you? About the show." Not only did Trowa believe that the dogs didn't care squat, but he was hard-pressed to care himself. Trowa was not too keen on these wealthy dog owners who just wanted to win prizes without doing the work, like, apparently, this one, eye candy that he was. "Yes, he does!" Quatre insisted. "He loves the attention and loves winning!" "I… I'm sure he does," Trowa said, backing down from his stance and quietly acknowledging the unknowable. It was an argument he wasn't going to win against the passionate owner anyway. Although, he sure was cute all fired up like that! Quatre nodded, as if having earned his due. "Alfie is the best in his breed category. And I think he's the best at the entire show. We can't discount the little Maltese though." Maltese? God, he could crush one of those little barking toys underfoot by accident! Rashid stepped in, luckily, before Trowa expressed his opinion of Maltese toys. "May I say, sir, that I consider Mr. Merquise's entry to be highly overrated?" "No, you may not!" Quatre snapped. "Millefleur's home is wall-papered in ribbons and she is very popular with the spectators, which can influence the judges. But most importantly," he stopped and looked Trowa in the eye. Trowa stopped thinking about the pretty little locks of hair that curled ever so softly around that delicate shell-like ear. "Yes?" "Millefleur's handler is sensational," Quatre finished with a shake of his head, bringing out the amber and gold lights in his loose cut bangs. "That is Mr. Duo Maxwell," Rashid clarified for Trowa. "He brings out the very best in the breed he shows, also." He smiled. Quatre quirked an eyebrow. "That's what I meant." "Of, course, sir." Trowa tucked away that information for later use. Duo Maxwell was apparently both attractive and competent— making him tough competition. Maybe he could get a few tips from the guy. "I see. I am good with dogs, though," Trowa said in his defense. "But no show experience. You admitted that. What do you offer me, Mr. Barton?" "Now, Mr. Winner," Rashid stepped in, "the young man is doing us a service, and he has a certain amount of charm, you must admit." Quatre hugged his dog a bit tighter. Alfie was keeping his eyes locked on Trowa as if this new interesting master were about to drag him out of his owner's arms, but Quatre seemed to interpret his interest differently. "Alfie does seem to like him." Trowa smiled and answered, "Yes, thank you. I offer you my charm. A certain amount of it. Some people have attended my animal training demonstrations and so there's the notoriety of that." Quatre looked him over, measuring him in some way. "I don't see that I have any other choice but to put my faith and my dog in your hands." "We'd be honored if you would help," Rashid put in, his tone of voice mollifying to make up for Quatre's deficiency. Quatre sighed, giving up the fight. "Yes. Of course. What do you need?" "Access to Alfie and…" Trowa thought a moment, "…I'll get back to you with the rest." The three men exchanged contact information and parted with the promise of a key to Alfie's room. Not that Trowa needed a key. But he was too wise to tell Quatre that. No need to give rise to more speculation as to his many gifts. TBC…
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