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"Here We Go Again"Written By: Mookie
Disclaimer: I don't really need to be Captain Obvious here, do I? No ownership, no money being made. Written for fun, not profit. Pairing: Trowa/Quatre, others may be implied. Warnings: Slash, angst, language, plot contrivances*, possible liberties with canon based on faulty memory Rating: NC 17 *Let's just say that I think this would have qualified for the 2011 (or was it 2010?) Moments of Rapture contest, "everything old is new again". Notes: I heard the song Here We Go Again by Demi Levato many times on the Radio Disney CD, and it eventually spawned a fic idea. The more I listened to it, the more I pictured the protagonists just had to be Trowa and Quatre. While lyrics from the song precede each chapter, this is not a song fic, nor will the chapter content be forced to fit the lyrics exactly. Summary: It hadn't always been that way. In the beginning, they'd all been scrambling to put their lives back together...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- June AC 198 It had been a bad day for Trowa at the office. It wasn't anything he'd heard as the head of the company, but when Trowa got home, later than Quatre for a change, he could feel the waves of anger. "Want to talk about it?" Trowa threw his jacket on top of the hamper and yanked at his tie. "I'm sure you've already heard all about it." Quatre shook his head. "I don't think so." "Of course not," Trowa retorted, flinging his tie across the room. "You know everything, but you know nothing." "Is it about work?" Trowa's shirt went in the same direction as the tie. "Of course it's about work! What else has there been all day except work?" Quatre rubbed at the space behind one ear. Trowa was definitely furious, and growing angrier by the second. He got the distinct feeling that Trowa's rage was directed at him, and he strongly believed that a couple should never go to bed angry. He watched as one of Trowa's shoes flew across the room, striking the wall next to the three-way mirror. "Was it something I did?" "No, and please don't try to fix it." "I can't help it, Trowa. If there's a problem with my staff, I should know about it." "That's Nate's job, not yours. There's a reason I don't work for you directly. Not," Trowa spat out as the second shoe just barely missed striking the mirror, "that it matters to anyone else. Apparently I can do no wrong." Quatre rolled onto his side and propped his head in his hand. If Trowa was angry with him, it was probably because someone else had dragged out the same tired accusation about sleeping with the boss, or someone made a mistake and deflected blame by pointing the finger at Trowa. Beneath Trowa's anger, Quatre detected unhappiness, something he'd not felt before. "I'm not sure I understand the problem." What he meant was that he didn't know why Trowa was so unhappy, and that he wanted Trowa to share that with him. He never said anything sarcastically. Words had to retain their meaning in order for communication to work. Trowa didn't seem to understand that when he was upset. "Of course not. You'd be in charge no matter what." "I know. That's why I want to understand what's wrong." "I'm just pissed off because Ben in accounting thinks it's OK to tell everyone I take it up the ass to get ahead." "I know it's easier for me, but you know that Ben is wrong." Trowa's belt landed on top of the jacket, then slid off the hamper to land on the floor. "It doesn't matter what I know." "But it does!" Quatre cried out. "You're good at your job. Nate thinks so, too, and he would know." Trowa sat down on the edge of the bed with his pants unfastened. The anger was fading, and Quatre breathed a little easier. He moved behind Trowa and kissed the side of his neck. "Feel better?" Trowa reached up and clasped Quatre's hand. "A little." He felt Quatre's tongue in his ear and he felt a flicker of desire in his belly. "A lot." Quatre's lips moved to Trowa's earlobe and he began to nibble on it. The flicker was growing warmer, and Trowa reached up to stroke the side of Quatre's neck. Quatre shivered and let go of Trowa's ear, and Trowa pressed the advantage, dipping his tongue into the hollow of Quat's collarbone. "Quat," he murmured. With the heat of anger gone, all that remained was a comforting warmth. Coupled with Trowa's ability to coax him to readiness, Quatre often reached his climax earlier than he'd like. Fortunately for him, Trowa hadn't yet been disgusted by his lack of control. Trowa's mouth was warm, his hands were warm, and other more pleasurable parts were especially warm. There was a sliver of ice, sharp and fleeting like a paper cut, and Quatre sat up suddenly, breaking the contact with Trowa's lips. He touched Trowa's cheek, stroking it with the back of his fingers. "You're sad." Trowa knocked his hand away. "I'm what?" "Sad. I thought you were just angry, but there's more to it than that." "You just can't leave it alone, can you?" Trowa snapped at him. "I was working on being pretty happy. I mean, what the fuck, Quat, are you a girl or something?" Quatre wrapped his arms around himself as the icy feeling grew. "I can't help it. I just know." "You just know?" "Not always, but sometimes." "You. Wait. You know, like literally know?" Quatre nodded mutely. "You know." Trowa was off the bed. "Explain to me what that means." "Sometimes I can feel what you're feeling. What everyone is feeling, really, but when it's just the two of us, then you." He struggled to explain the rest, the way it was hard to figure out where his feelings ended and another person's began, or how sometimes he felt it more strongly than others, but he didn't get the chance. "What the hell, Quat. If you know, then what the fuck do you make me explain everything to you for?" Quatre felt a sharp pain in his chest, but he was pretty sure it was his own this time. "Trowa…" Trowa waved a hand at him. "It's not that. It's just…my feelings are private!" He realized how that sounded and took a deep breath. "Sorry. It's a lot to take in, that's all." He sat down on the edge of the bed and flopped backwards to stare at the ceiling. He lay that way for a while, and finally reached one hand overhead. Quatre grasped it and squeezed. "I can't read your mind, Trowa It's not like that. And…it's always been strongest when I'm with you." Trowa rubbed his thumb over Quatre's knuckles. "Are you trying to tell me I'm special?" "You are," Quatre replied. I just wish you'd believe it.
April 15 AC 206 The ride to the quarantine station had seemed interminable, and Quatre had spent the time doing breathing exercises to tamp down the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He'd needed to learn some kind of control over it when he'd completed medical school, for the fear of his patients as well as their owners had been too much for him at first. He'd learned to focus it, and it worked to his advantage, because he knew how to approach a wounded or sick animal. Some were eager for relief, some still playful despite their injuries, and others filled with panic. His ability to handle animals no other vet could approach had quickly earned him a reputation for one of the best, and he took his job very seriously. Leaving Winner Enterprises to go to college had, at first, been the start of a quest. He wanted to start fresh, without expectations. He'd avoided any business or managerial courses – serving as CEO taught him more than any textbook ever would – and settled on a varied schedule that included science, art, and mathematics. That's when he discovered a keen interest in microbiology. The following semester included courses in pathology and hematology, and after that he was firmly pre-med. He'd just finished his first year of medical school when Bessa, a cat belonging to one of Abdul's sisters, got hit by a car. Two of the Maganacs suffered deep scratches on their arms before Yasmin started shrieking that they were hurting poor Bess Bess. She'd looked up at Quatre, waiting quite deliberately until one big fat tear rolled down her cheek, and asked him to help. Bessa hissed at him once but allowed him to set her broken leg. The look on Yasmin's face as she cuddled Bessa, cast and all, left no question what he was meant to do with his life. The hardest thing had been accepting that despite all the training, compassion, or empathy, there were patients that he couldn't save. He bore it the best he could; learning to control the emotional onslaught from others helped him deal with his own. The breathing exercises usually helped, at least a little, but today he felt like a bandage had been torn off his soul. The thought of being quarantined with Trowa was too much to contemplate, and he still had enough concern for his feline patient that he worried about the animal's prognosis as well. It was as he'd told Trowa, though. All they could do now was wait.
"Dr. Winner," one of the men in haz mat suits greeted him as the door to the trailer opened. "This way. Quickly." Quatre recognized the voice, muffled as it was. "Dr. Hopkins," he acknowledged. He followed Hopkins out of the trailer, knowing that time was critical, but he still had to ask. "Where's Brian?" "With Ms. Bloom." One of the other epidemiologists was walking ahead of them, leading Trowa to the medi-van, and Quatre had to make one last attempt. "Remind him what I said, Hopkins. Money is no object." "I'll tell him." They'd barely taken their seats on the vinyl covered bench that ran along half of the interior when the doors shut behind them, and the van began to move. He knew when they'd reached the main road because that's when the sirens began blaring. "Catherine. What about Catherine?" Trowa asked, getting to his feet. Quatre waved for him to sit back down. "Less chance of exposure. Until they're sure, they're not going to keep her breathing the same air as the two of us." Trowa nodded, but he didn't look convinced. Quatre recognized the signs of shock and felt guilty for the relief that swamped him. This was something he could handle. "Sit down," Quatre ordered. "We're not going anywhere for a while." His medical bag was still on the circus grounds, but there were supply cabinets across from them and he knew that, although there was nothing he could do, the illusion might be soothing for Trowa. He located a tongue depressor, a penlight, and a stethoscope and squatted down in front of Trowa. "Keep your head still, and follow my light with your eyes," he said, moving it from left to right. He could feel Trowa's breath against his face and ignored the faint memories that were beginning to stir. He ran through the most basic of tests, just to give Trowa something to focus on, and by the time he'd finished, Trowa's breathing sounded back to normal. He double-checked with the stethoscope just to be sure. "No change to your baseline," Quatre pronounced, folding up the stethoscope and placing it back in the drawer. He sat down next to Trowa and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes to avoid any further conversation. If Trowa thought he was sleeping or exhausted, he'd leave him alone, at least until they reached their destination. To his surprise, the motion of the medi-van on the road really was making him drowsy, and he might have dozed off it the van hadn't rolled to a stop when it did. The precautions that were taken reminded him of radiation exposure. They were ordered to strip and then walk through a shower that resembled a car wash. Once they were clean and in the decontamination room, they found white hospital scrubs (no shirt, socks, or underwear) and booties. Their last stop was the room they would call home for the next week or two. Two beds, two over bed tables, and a television located in a recess in the wall and covered by bullet proof Plexiglas. "All the comforts of home," he murmured. He hadn't intended the comment for Trowa's ears, but a forced chuckle told him he'd been heard anyway. Trowa gestured to both beds. "Dibs?" Quatre shook his head. "Be my guest." Fortunately there wasn't time for awkward silences, for the door slid open and a medical utility car entered the room, pushed by a physician's assistant wearing a full face mask. "Him first," Quatre said. He couldn't help supervising the procedure, from sterilization to insertion to the verification of drug allergies. He would have done it no matter who was in the room with him; he couldn't help it. Fortunately the PA was too busy doing her job properly to worry about being judged by a veterinarian. It was Quatre's turn next, and he almost wished for something to go wrong, anything to keep the young woman from leaving him alone in the room with Trowa. "Have either of you eaten?" she asked as she closed and locked the top of the sharps container. "Soup," Trowa said. "I had soup earlier." "Dr. Winner?" Quatre shook his head. "I'm fine, thanks." It wasn't until after she was gone that he realized if he'd requested something, then someone would definitely have to come back. This was ridiculous, he chided himself. He couldn't have expected to avoid Trowa forever, even if he'd done so successfully over the past eight years. He hadn't even considered the possibility when he'd received the call to treat a sick lion, having made numerous house calls in the past to zoos and circuses alike. He hoped Brian was doing all he could. The only chance Angus had of survival was prompt treatment, and from what he'd seen and what Catherine had told the answering service, the lion was most likely infected 12 to 24 hours earlier. Immediate problems aside, there was still the question of how the animal had contracted the plague in the first place. He wouldn't actively be involved with the investigation – that was for the epidemiologists – but he could at least satisfy his own curiosity before the real interrogation began. "The circus animals," he began. "Did you obtain any new ones recently?" "No," Trowa shook his head. "They've all been part of the troupe for at least six years, most of them longer." "Any strays come by?" Another shake of the head. "They're too afraid of the big cats, and Catherine wouldn't stand for any chance of rumors that someone had seen a rabid raccoon. Bad for business; scares off the locals." "Anyone new, anyone take a vacation abroad or off planet?" "No. Nothing like that." "What about exotic foods?" "All the time. The grosser, the better. You think that's why Angus got sick?" "I don't know. Possibly. There are a lot of variables, but they'll check into it." He'd run out of things to say, and they lapsed into awkward silence, each absorbed with his own thoughts.
August AC 198 He was hot, he was irritable, and during the last half of the meeting, he'd felt like banging his head against the wall. His headache couldn't possibly be any worse if he had. Everyone had been unreasonable. Sales wanted to start promoting the product by the end of the quarter. Research balked, citing several improvements they wanted to make to the design. Manufacturing wanted new equipment as well as approved overtime, and that was just for the prototypes. Finance and accounting wanted to slash as much as possible to maximize profit, and the independent consultants responsible for product safety had a brought up a whole slew of new concerns. Finance jumped all over that, accusing them of padding their payroll budget. Manufacturing pointed out that the old equipment wasn't capable of meeting a tolerance as tight as the design provided by Research. Around and around they went, until Quatre finally slammed his hand on the table. "Enough!" A hush fell across the room at the unexpected outburst, from their mild mannered CEO of all people. He rubbed behind his ear and took a deep breath. "If we pull out now, we lose what we've invested. However, if there are any real safety concerns, we need to determine whether it's more cost effective to pursue their elimination, or-" "Just like a Gundam pilot to treat human life like a ledger entry," sneered one of the consultants. Someone in the room gasped, and Quatre felt a cold rage seep into his skin. This wasn't the first time he'd been accused of devaluing human beings. He could scarcely blame anyone after what he'd done to that colony, even if he hadn't completely been himself, but not everyone knew all the facts surrounding the incident. It was something he had to live with, every day of his life. It was why he'd forced himself to the helm of Winner Enterprises. If his grief at his father's death had weakened him so much that he allowed Zero to influence him, to cause so much death and destruction, then he in turn had to use that power to rebuild, to improve life for those who suffered so much. That there was profit to be made from his efforts was a necessary evil, for without it, he couldn't continue his work. Low cost energy sources suitable for use on the colonies had been a pet project from the beginning, so that no one would suffer from temperature extremes where the colony's environmental controls were least effective. On the heels of that were devices of convenience, to move colonials from a life of basic survival to a life with simple burdens lessened, allowing for a bit of enjoyment. He didn't excuse his actions and didn't expect anyone else to, but never had anyone dared bring it up in the hallowed walls of Winner Enterprises. "As I was saying," he said through gritted teeth, "we need to determine if it is more cost effective to eliminate these safety concerns, or if we should completely scrap the project and cut our losses now. I would never condone a cost-benefit analysis where loss of life or limb was part of the equation." There was a murmur of approval around the table, although it could have been simply because he was Quatre Raberba Winner and could have nothing to do with whether anything he said had any merit. What made him angriest, however, was that the product might not pose any threats beyond those that had already been identified and corrected, or there could be genuine problems that hadn't been foreseen in the initial design stages. The safety consultants might be doing their job, or they might want to bleed Winner Enterprises dry for their own personal gain. There was something not quite honest about someone in the room, but he couldn't pinpoint the source. He'd tried in the past and it had made him lightheaded, giving rise to rumors of a completely different sort. Quatre turned toward the consultants, refusing to single out his accuser. "I want a list of all safety concerns that have not been previously submitted, along with any proposed solutions you may have, and I want this on my desk by the close of business tomorrow." He had nothing more to say, and for the first time ever, he was the first one out of the room. On the way to his office, he realized he'd failed to adjourn the meeting. The hell with it. They were all smart, well-educated men and women. They'd figure it out. His mood had not improved by the time he got home, nor had his headache. Trowa was visibly annoyed with him for being late. Quatre didn't need his space heart to determine that; it was evident in the tight lips and terse greeting. They ate their meal in silence, which wasn't all that unusual. The difference this time was that the silence was palpable, uncomfortable, and he felt resentment well up in him. "I didn't come home late just to piss you off," he commented as he reached over for the salt shaker. "I didn't flatter myself thinking you had," Trowa replied. His hands handled cutlery the way he handled an instrument; delicately, precisely. Quatre watched his boyfriend cut a small sliver of dolmah and bring it to his mouth. He shouldn't think of the way someone ate as elegant, but there was no other word for it. Usually he found it fascinating, a facet of Trowa's personality that reflected just how self-contained he was around others. Sometimes Quatre congratulated himself on being the person who could see this side of Trowa as well as the passionate side, whether it was expressed though music or physical touch. Tonight he found it irksome. "Of course not. That would mean actually sparing a thought for someone besides yourself." He winced as the words flew out of his mouth, but ill-placed pride kept him from apologizing. Trowa set his fork down on the side of his plate and looked at him coolly. "I often think of Catherine," he said, and Quatre knew the slight was deliberate. Just because he'd deserved it didn't make it any easier to swallow. There was no reason for him to take his frustration out on Trowa, who hadn't even been involved in the project. He knew he was being irrational, but he was just so damn tired of being the nice guy all the time. "I'm sure you two will be very happy together," he shot back, pushing himself away from the table. "Trying to tell me something?" Trowa asked. His voice was deceptively calm. "Maybe I am." Quatre crossed his arms over his chest petulantly. "It was your idea that I move in with you in the first place, you may recall." "I don't remember asking you." He'd finally cracked that calm veneer; Trowa shoved his plate away and got to his feet. "You want to go there, Quat?" Quatre lifted his chin in the air. "We're already there." "Fine," Trowa yelled. He came around the table and got in Quatre's face, pointing his finger. "First of all, this," he said, gesturing between them, "was more your idea than mine. I had plans after the war that didn't include you." Quatre fought the urge to flinch. It was hard to say how much was truth and how much was Trowa merely retaliating because he was hurt. He couldn't stop himself, though, from continuing the fight. "How good of you to take pity upon me, then." "How good of me? Please. Only one of us can be the martyr in this relationship, and it's clearly you, Saint Quatre, who sacrifices all and provides for the common folk. I would bow down and show my gratitude if I actually gave a rat's ass." His face was inches from Quatre's now, and a small spray of spit hit his cheek. He reached forward with both hands and shoved as hard as he could. "Hardly a saint. I'm obviously keeping you here, as you can tell by the chains and barred windows." "Not all prisons have walls." It was too much. He hadn't wanted to fight, not truly, but he'd started it and he had to finish it, even though he couldn't understand why. "Then leave. That's right," he said at Trowa's look of surprise. "Get the fuck out. I won't have you staying here because you feel sorry for me." That last part was the only bit of truth that had come out of this argument, and pain lanced through his chest. He grabbed at the front of his shirt, as if that might help, and sank to his knees. "Quat!" Trowa dropped to his knees as well and began unbuttoning Quatre's shirt. "Fine," Quatre croaked. "Fine. It's not…physical." Trowa's eyebrows furrowed with concern. "What are we doing, Quat?" He rested his head on Quatre's shoulder. "This isn't us." Quatre awkwardly patted him on the back. For some reason, he still wasn't ready to put it behind him. "Maybe it is." "The fuck it is," Trowa said fiercely. Before Quatre could open his mouth to argue further, Trowa's lips were covering his. He didn't even make a token show of resistance. The feel of Trowa's tongue against his own had heat of a completely different nature coursing through his blood. Fifteen minutes later, they lay on the dining room floor. Both of them were still fully clothed save for their shirts, untucked and only half-fastened, and there were telltale stains in the front of their pants. Trowa was playing with Quatre's right ear, and for the life of him, Quatre couldn't remember why he'd been so pissed in the first place.
April 15 AC 206 "Quatre." Trowa's voice pulled him back to the present, and he looked up. "I'm sorry. I was just…" "I know. Me too." Did he know? He couldn't possibly, Quatre decided, although he'd been wrong before. "Look," Trowa said, moving to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. "I just wanted to say-" Quatre got up suddenly, banging his knee on the bare metal bedframe. "Hold that thought," he said. "I just have to pee, really bad!" Shit. As excuses went, it was among the most pathetic, but he just wasn't capable of handling it all right now, not when Trowa was involved. It took an embarrassing amount of time to get into the small bathroom with his IV and especially to close the door behind him, but he managed. For good measure, he reached into the shower stall and turned the tap handle. If Trowa hadn't figured out he needed privacy by his outburst, he'd know it now. The realization that what he was doing now was exactly what he'd mentally accused Trowa of eight years ago left a bitter taste in his mouth. He sat down on the toilet and rubbed at his face before his fingers crept unerringly to his right ear. Deep breaths. In. Relax. Exhale. Just keep breathing. His heart hurt, but worse than that, he had no idea
why.
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