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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...
You only hear half of what I say April 15 AC 206 Trowa sat on the bed and stared at the wall across the room. Everything was either white or gray. Easy to bleach and disinfect, he supposed. He scratched at the outside edge of the bandage on his arm, where the cannula was taped into place. He was trying to leave it alone, but the itch was driving him crazy, and there was nothing to take his mind off it. Actually, the problem was more that there was too much on his mind, and no one to share it with. Quatre was in the bathroom trying to take a shower, a long one from the sounds of it. He'd barely said two words to Trowa that weren't directly related to their quarantine. Both of them were on an intravenous cocktail of antibiotics for the next seven days to aggressively treat the infection. By then, if they weren't dead, chances were good that they'd make a full recovery. There was still no news about whether Catherine had been infected, but Trowa hoped the fact that she wasn't in here with them was a good sign. He got up to pace the room, but after the third time the wheels on the IV stand got stuck and threatened to tip the whole thing over, he was forced to return to the bed, the only place he could sit comfortably without tangling the IV line on anything. Quatre had done him a favor, actually. He'd been floored to see him again, and he was vulnerable, desperate over Angus's condition and now in a near panic over both the lion and his sister. He hadn't even known what to say to Quatre, but he knew that he needed to say something, to bridge the gap between them, to at least become comfortable enough so that – But that was the thing. So that, what? After the first few months living alone, doing odd jobs here and there, he'd felt a little better about himself. Work was sporadic, but through his own efforts. He refused several invitations to join the Preventers, because really. He'd had enough of finding work through connections when he worked for Winner Enterprises. The same went for any suggestions Heero had made about employment opportunities, because you had to admit that it was hard to think of any place where Heero wouldn't have some pull, if he so chose. When the circus had come back into town, he'd gone every night, having supper with Catherine after the show until the last performance, when she voiced what he'd both hoped for and dreaded. "Come with me," she said, and he'd done exactly that.
December 31 AC 199 "Here you are," Catherine announced as she found him seated on a crate by the lion's cage. She handed him a fluted glass filled with a sparkling beverage. He accepted it with raised eyebrows. "It's soda," she said, bumping with her hip as she sat next to him, forcing him to scoot closer to the lion. She rolled her own glass between her palms and looked up at the night sky. "It's beautiful out here." "Not much to see," he gestured toward the starless sky with his free hand. "That's what makes it so beautiful. The complete and utter nothingness, waiting to be filled with sparks." He was quiet, allowing her the romantic notion. He couldn't agree with her, for the bleak darkness still dragged him back to that terrible place, when he'd drifted in space alone and confused. His memories of it weren't crystal clear, but he could still feel what it was like. The nightmares came much less frequently, but there were still times when he awoke in a cold sweat, clawing at the bed sheets and gasping for air. Catherine didn't know what he'd endured during that time and he had no plans on sharing it with her. Fortunately, she was in a dreamy sort of mood and she took his lack of response as cynicism rather than fear. "What resolutions did you make for the coming year?" Catherine never asked if he was making them; she rarely asked yes/no questions because they were too easily evaded. It was part and parcel of spending time with fortunetellers. Their true source of knowledge didn't come from a crystal ball or tea leaves; it came from seemingly idle conversation while people waited in line. It was amazing how readily people accepted the person next to them as being just like themselves and not connected in any way with the circus. A keen memory was just as necessary, but then people were generally the same regardless of where they traveled. What a fortuneteller lacked factually could be concealed with hints that were close enough to the truth. If Catherine ever decided to pack up her knives, she'd do well as Madame Bloom. "I'm going to work on finding my sister a boyfriend," he said. The elbow to his ribs was not a surprise. "Oh, you," she huffed in mock anger. "We were just very good friends, you know." They'd been very good friends, all right. Catherine had briefly dated the Giovanni, the circus strongman, if by "briefly" one meant nine months. Because of her position, she'd refused to allow it to go much further than that, but Trowa suspected she'd sneaked into her trailer after dark with smeared lipstick and a crooked bustier more than once. He hadn't meant to pry, but for some reason she took his teasing tonight as genuine curiosity. "If things were different," she confessed. "He's very handsome, and skilled with his hands – I mean around the circus, helping out, those sorts of things," she added hastily. "And not, you know." If he didn't know before, he knew now, but he didn't want to think about how skilled Giovanni's hands really were. They could still break him in two, and Catherine was his sister. He no more wanted details about her sex life than he wanted to share the details of his own with her. "Sometimes, though," she continued, more softly, "I can't help but wonder." It sounded as though she might elaborate on what she wondered, but then they heard the whistle of a bottle rocket as it shot into the air to their left, signaling the end of 199. "Ten, nine, eight…" They counted down together, all the way to one, and when the fireworks began, she gave him a one armed hug and he kissed the top of her head before they toasted the new year and drank their soda. He'd thought their conversation over, but Catherine had other ideas, not the least of which was turnabout being fair play. "I should threaten you with a similar resolution," she said, "but you don't need me for that." "Even if I was interested in Giovanni, I have it on good authority that he's straight." She pinched him in the side, and he jerked away. Damn his sister for knowing he was ticklish there, even after all these years. She soothed any minor irritation he felt by resting her head on his shoulder. "It's good to have you back home." "It's good to be home," he replied. "You were so terrible when you first came back. I was terrified when you first got up on that high wire." "So you told me, every time." "I didn't want to lose you again." "You haven't. You won't. I'm not going anywhere." She put her arm around him and sighed. "It's selfish of me. I don't want you hurt." "Then you shouldn't throw knives at me." "Ha ha." She pinched him again. "If you weren't my sister," he threatened. "You'd what? Hit a girl?" He bumped her with his hip, nearly knocking her off the crate. "I don't hit girls." "It's one of the things I love about you, baby brother." She made a kissing sound in the air and took another sip of her soda. "You know, I can't think of another place on earth I'd rather be right now. This," she gestured around the grounds, "is home. And you know what they say about home." He did, and he wrapped his arm around her and squeezed. They sat that way for a few minutes, each sipping their drink and listening to the sounds of revelry coming from the tents. "You're different," she murmured. "We're all different, duh. That's why we're here, with the circus." "Not that. That makes us special. It's just that you seem more settled than you were during the war." "I had responsibilities then." "That's what I mean. You have them now, but this time they're your own. You chose to accept the ones here; they weren't forced on you." There was little to say to that. While he hadn't had much of a choice, it had still been his decision to take the name Trowa Barton and to take part in Operation Meteor. Trying to correct Catherine's perception as far as that went would be a waste of time, for she would always see him as the innocent victim. Part of him loved her for that; part of him wished she'd see him for who he truly was. Maybe that's why things really hadn't worked out with her and Giovanni. Catherine had very high expectations and although she was smart and savvy, she hated having her romantic illusions spoiled. "I'm glad you're home," she said again. "Me too." She held up her empty glass. "Happy New Year, Trowa." She was back to calling him Trowa. He wondered how long it had been. When he'd first returned to the circus with her, she'd insisted on calling him Triton, but he never felt it fit him. He'd had a number of aliases in the past – had even spent much of his youth going by the highly creative No Name – but Triton was a name he simply couldn't get used to. She'd given up trying to force the issue, and he wasn't even sure when it had happened. He touched his glass to hers. "Happy New Year, Catherine." "Is it?" she asked, turning to face him. "Is it, truly?" He rapped the edge of his glass against hers, hard enough to resonate loudly. "Truly," he assured her, and with those words, he realized how much he meant them.
April 15 AC 206 There was a high pitched groaning sound, coming from the pipes, breaking his reverie, and then the shower was quiet. Quatre was suspiciously dry when he returned from the bathroom, and Trowa looked away. "Tro." "I'm listening," he replied. He didn't need to look at Quatre in able to hear him, after all. "I'm sorry. I reacted badly." Whether he meant today or eight years ago was a toss up, but Trowa was too emotionally drained to hold a grudge, at least for the moment. "Apology accepted." The sound of footsteps and the bed dipping slightly told him that Quatre had chosen to sit next to him. He'd chosen the edge of the mattress furthest from where Trowa was seated, but it indicated that Quatre was receptive to conversation. He would have taken a deep breath, but that would be a sign of weakness, and he'd already shown so much of that to Quatre already, that he refused to display anymore. He turned to face the man who once proclaimed to love him. As he'd noticed at the circus, Quatre was older, as was to be expected after eight years. He wasn't all that much taller, but his face was more angular, less boyish, with a trace of stubble. Shirtless, it was easy to see that his upper body was more rigid, more muscular. His hair, once the color of butter, was sprinkled with lighter shades of blond. No, not blond; white. "Popcorn," he mused aloud. "You want popcorn?" Quatre sounded confused. Trowa nodded slowly. "Yeah." "I'll see if I can get them to bring us some." Quatre got up, but Trowa waved him back down. "Never mind that. Tell me how. Why." He didn't need to elaborate. There was only one thing he could be referring to. Quatre sat back down, and it seemed to Trowa that he was now at least a couple inches closer. "I hated it," he confessed. "The job. The thanklessness of it. The contempt." Trowa looked at him, and Quatre sighed. "It may have taken me a while, but I understand what you were feeling. To be honest, I think I always did, but you didn't make it any easier, you know." "I know." The admission caught them both by surprise. It appeared that Quatre was just as unwilling to rake up all the conflicts that working for Winner Enterprises had caused, because he continued on without dwelling on Trowa's confession or making any other references to the corporation. "I needed to do something meaningful with my own hands. Bring salvation instead of destruction. At least that's what I told myself at first. In the end," Quatre shrugged. "I just like helping animals." It sounded so much like a little kid's answer that Trowa couldn't help biting back a smile. "It's OK," Quatre said, fingering his IV tube. "You can laugh if you want." "I don't want. I think it's admirable. And you might have saved Angus' life." His voice cracked. Quatre had somehow inched a little closer, and he placed his hand on Trowa's shoulder. "We don't know that yet." "No, but you came. We didn't think anyone would come." Quatre snatched his hand away, but Trowa grabbed him by the wrist. "Don't," he said hoarsely. "Don't pull away from me now. Later you can do what you want, but just not right now." "Trowa, I-" Trowa kissed him. He knew it was a huge mistake, and he was sure as hell going to regret it later, but right now he just needed Quatre – needed all of him, body and soul. He needed the familiarity of those lips against his. He needed the scent that was uniquely Quat, and he needed that reluctant moan that indicated Quatre's surrender. Trowa was aroused, more than he'd ever been, but he ignored those needs to savor the feel of Quatre's hair between his fingers and his tongue in his mouth. Quatre's fingers touched his arm, lightly, and Trowa maneuvered them so that Quat was on his back and he was nearly lying on top of him. Fuck, was he hard, and from the bulge he felt pressing against his thigh, Quat was, too. "Quat, I've missed this," he said, his lips moving along the Quatre's jaw. "I've missed you." "Trowa," Quat gasped, his hips jerking so his groin came in contact with Trowa's. "Shit, Tro, I think I'm going to..." He'd forgotten that Quatre had been a bit of a quick draw at times. It threw any intention he'd had of going slow right out the window, and Trowa ground his pelvis against Quatre's. "Do it," he said, laving his tongue along the other man's neck. "I- I – Trowa, right there, oh, God." They'd just barely begun and it was already over. All it had taken was listening to that breathy little sigh indicating Quatre's climax, along with the fingernails digging into his side. They were both breathing hard as they lay in a pile of tangled limbs and sticky pants. He collapsed on top of Quatre and gripped the sheet tight. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry." Quatre's breaths were shaky, and he struggled to work his arm out from under Trowa's body. "Don't be," he said, stroking Trowa's hair. "Please, don't be sorry." "I didn't mean to… I just wanted to…" "I could have stopped you. Maybe it was what we both needed." Trowa felt like Quatre had just punched him in the gut. It had clearly been what they both needed, but for what other purpose than closure? Whether he needed that last chapter or not, he couldn't handle it right now, and he scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over the IV stand in his haste. "Now I'm the one who has to piss," he flung back over his shoulder, and unlike Quatre, he really did take a shower. He had to leave his taped arm sticking outside the curtain, and Quatre had wasted all the hot water running the shower for nothing, but as long as it washed all traces of what they'd just done, along with the bitter tears he couldn't help shedding, down the drain, he didn't care. Quatre had either called for a change of clothes or a set had been left for them, for a clean set of white pants was laid out on the bed for him. The clean bed, not the one they'd dry humped on. He got dressed slowly, avoiding looking at Quatre, grateful when the vet escaped to the bathroom once more. He noticed that this time, when Quatre emerged, his hair was wet, and clinging to his neck where the skin was slightly reddened from contact with Trowa's stubble. Fucking hell, it wasn't fair that he could feel this turned on so soon afterwards, but then Quatre had always had that kind of effect on him. He forced himself to think of Angus, and it worked all too well. Quatre sat down on the rumpled bed, a towel slung around his waist. Trowa still refused to look at him. He'd known he was going to regret it; he just hadn't expected it to be this soon. They both sat there, lost in their own thoughts, and finally he heard the rustle of sheets and looked up to see Quatre stretched out on the bed with his back to Trowa. He refused to think of Quatre lying in the same bed where they'd just done that, because then he'd think of what was probably still on the sheets, and how Quatre's skin was in contact with a part of him, at least probably, and that would just give him reason to go back in for a cold shower all over again. Which he did anyway, but it still didn't help him fall asleep until it was nearly morning.
April 16 AC 206 "Trowa? Are you awake?" He tried to roll over, to escape the intrusive voice, but that brought his IV line up short and Quatre's grip on his arm prevented him from pulling it out. "I guess that answers my question,", he muttered. Trowa heard the wheels of the overbed table and he struggled to sit up. "Morning?" "Yes. They brought us breakfast." By that, Quatre meant a hard boiled egg, a cold slice of toast, and a thin liquid that was either vegetable broth or tea. Trowa reached for the beverage, completely forgetting the IV, and the connector snapped, leaving the tube hanging from the fluid bag. "Shit," Quatre swore. He swept the tray from the table and went to fetch the utility cart that had apparently been left along with their meals. He took a look at the dressing on Trowa's arm, frowned, and peeled back the adhesive bandage. He pulled it off without warning, and it hurt as Trowa had known it would, but the pain was fleeting. Quatre remained silent throughout the process, leaving Trowa to observe him at work. He was brisk and efficient, and aside from yanking the bandage off, gentle. Unfortunately, he decided it was better to insert the new IV in the back of Trowa's hand rather than in his forearm where it had been, but it wasn't the worst pain he'd ever experienced. He thought Quatre's hands might have lingered just a little longer than necessary when he placed a new strip of tape over the cannula. Trowa knew when Quatre deemed the IV acceptable once again. He'd checked the tubing for bubbles, verified the drip rate – twice – and that's when Trowa lifted his newly bandaged hand to brush a lock of hair out of the vet's face. "What are we doing, Quatre?" he asked. "What the fuck are we doing?" Quatre leaned into the touch before Trowa had a chance to withdraw his hand. "I don't know, but somehow it feels..." Right. It feels right. The words didn't have to be said, because Trowa felt that way, too. The problem was, he knew his perception of "right" wasn't to be trusted when he was overwrought with concern over Angus, and his sister, and the way he felt when he was this close to a half naked Quatre. He should feel anger, or resentment, or at least a little confused. He'd felt the latter at first, but the fact remained that even before Quatre walked back into his life unexpectedly, Trowa had still thought of him during a time of need. He could rationalize it as an act of desperation, and it had been, but he still thought of Quatre first, before Heero, before anyone. It didn't necessarily mean anything, but it should mean something. "You never listened to me," Trowa said, curling the lock of blond hair around his finger. "At least, that's how it felt, sometimes. I think maybe you were 'listening' just a little too much." "No," Quatre replied, covering Trowa's hand with his own. "I might have known what you were feeling, but not why. There were times when I thought I knew you better than you knew yourself." "Sometimes, Quat, you probably you did. I just wasn't ready for that. I wasn't ready for any of it." Quatre sighed heavily. "I don't think either of us was." The stark pain on his face showed how much that admission had cost him. Quatre had been so sure of things back then, so certain that they had something special, something that would defeat all odds. He'd believed that things would all work out, just because they had each other. He'd believed in the impossible. Trowa didn't entirely blame him; the five of them did their share of impossible things back then. They'd also had their share of failures, though, and that was something Quatre never seemed to consider. He wondered now how much of what he'd believed back then was true and how much was a matter of buying into the image of Quatre that he'd built up in his head. He leaned a little closer, encouraged when Quat let him. The door slid open and they sprang apart. Quatre obviously recognized the intruder despite the surgical mask he wore and leapt to his feet, rushing to greet him. Trowa would swear that the blond was thrumming with nervous energy. "Talk to me, Bri." "Tell me, Quat, do you believe in God?" "Brian..." The other man held up his hand. "It's mostly rhetorical, anyway. If you do, then there's hope of a miracle. If you don't, it won't change the outcome any." Angus. They were talking about Angus. Trowa wanted to get up and throttle the man himself but he held his breath, hoping. Just...hoping. "I swear, Brian, I am this close to-" "Listen, Quat, I hope you meant what you said about money being no object, because I took you at your word. I can't make any promises, but if we'd waited any longer, you wouldn't even have time to pray for a miracle." Hope. There was still hope after all. "Are you Trowa?" Brian Whoever-He-Was asked. Trowa raised a hand in mock salute. "I've got a message for you, too. Your sister said as soon as you get out of here, you are, and I quote, so not going near her trailer unless it's with a steam cleaner. Also that you owe her, something about paying for a cut and color, to address the gray hair she now has thanks to you." "Is that all?" Brian hesitated, then shrugged. "She wanted me to wish you a Happy New Year. She was...highly energetic," he added tactfully. He turned his attention back to Quatre. "Before I forget, she also wanted me to give you something." "Oh?" Quatre sounded surprised. "What?" The other man looked uncomfortably from Trowa to Quatre and back, and finally threw his arms around Quatre and squeezed. "Happy New Year,' he muttered on his way out. "I'm surrounded by crazies." Quatre was blushing. Trowa suspected it wasn't because Brian had hugged him, but because it came from Catherine. "So, Angus?" Trowa probed cautiously. He'd heard what Brian said, but he wanted to hear Quat's interpretation of it. "Still touch and go," Quatre told him bluntly. "But...he's being treated aggressively." "So all we can do now is wait." "All we can do is wait," Quatre agreed, but this time the words held a lot more promise than they had the night before.
April 22 AC 206 Sometimes the waiting was the hardest part, but they'd managed. The only channel that came in with any sort of clarity was the 24 hour news station, and by the third day they'd come up with a fake drinking game, assigning each other points rather than downing a shot. By the end of the week, Trowa was up by four points, although Quatre had hotly contesting Trowa's claim that the roving reporter had mispronounced the name of the desk anchor (two points for mispronouncing a name, plus five for it being someone in the studio). Brian came by with the best news of all on their fourth day of quarantine when he announced that Angus was recovering. His age and the length of time that had lapsed before treatment had made it touch and go for a while, and it would take a while longer before his lungs were completely clear, but he'd still beaten the odds, proving him a fitting companion to a former Gundam pilot. Brian hadn't even finished giving them the details when Trowa had grabbed Quat by both hands and danced around in a circle with him before pulling him close and giving him a quick kiss on the mouth. He hadn't even considered what he'd just done in front of an audience. He was too relieved – too ecstatically happy – to care. He and Quatre parted ways with a handshake followed by a bone-crushing hug that didn't last nearly long enough. Neither of them promised to keep in touch, but the possibility was there, considering that the circus had a tiger and three elephants in addition to Angus, and Catherine now knew of a reliable vet who made house calls. When his sister came to pick him up, she gave Quatre another hug, in person, and kissed him soundly on the mouth. "I can't thank you enough," she gushed, clasping both of his hands tightly and pumping them up and down. He was blushing again when he finally managed to extract his fingers from hers, and he raised his hand in a farewell gesture. Trowa followed Catherine to her car, then stopped and turned around. "Quat!" Quatre looked up, making full eye contact with Trowa for the first time in eight years. "Yeah?" Trowa swallowed, licked his lips, then swallowed again. "I"ll see ya around." Quatre nodded. "See ya." A car pulled up, the driver honked the horn, and Quatre waved one last time before getting in the passenger seat. Trowa watched them drive away until the license plate on the back bumper was no longer visible. Catherine pinched him in the side. "What the hell, Cath?" "The worry you put me through, little brother. I cannot tell you how scared I was when that young man ordered me out of my own trailer, and then when that ambulance came and took you away!" He only half listened to her tirade on the way home. It was a comforting sound, listening to her, and he knew that although she had been concerned, she was half teasing him as well. Only half, though, because she pinched him again when they arrived at his apartment and she sternly warned him that if he did not call her in the morning, she would come all the way down here to check on him herself. It was the first time he'd been back to his apartment since early February. They didn't often travel during the winter months, and while Catherine and nearly everyone else preferred to stick close to the next location on their tour schedule, Trowa chose to escape for a week or two. He loved his circus family, but sometimes the constant traveling got to him, especially in locations where smog or city lights blocked out any view of the stars. Despite his meager furnishings, there was comfort in having a physical place he could call home. He'd tried only once to explain it to Catherine, who was confused how someone could believe that home was where the heart and then turn around and not follow the heart, but now that he was older, he suspected she understood more than she let on. Catherine was afraid of getting close to anyone. The death of her parents and fear of losing Trowa again left her unable to open her heart to someone new. If Giovanni hadn't worked for the circus, she would have found another reason to avoid letting their relationship go beyond a few illicit liasons. It was why she'd been on the verge of tears when Angus fell sick. The circus was all she had, and she fought with everything in her to protect them. It actually made her refusal to accept Giovanni's suit all the more tragic. Circus life wasn't the same as working for a corporation; there wasn't the same pecking order, and it was typical for a husband and wife to jointly run the show. It was what the Blooms had done, if Catherine's stories were to be believed. A family could be both a blessing and a curse, and he was, all things considered, one of the luckiest men in the world.
September 3 AC 206 "Trowa?" Catherine called. He couldn't hear her over the spray of water from the hose. He knew from experience the elephants would somehow find dirt to throw over the backs, forming a muddy paste, but at least they'd be clean for a little while. "Trowa Barton, I need you right this second!" He heard her shrill cries, and he cursed himself as he turned off the water. He hadn't been expecting it quite so soon, but he'd known that it was a possibility at any time. "Trowa!" she was screaming at the top of her lungs now, and he burst into her trailer, out of breath, half expecting to see the baby's head peeking out from between his sister's legs. He was relieved to see that wasn't the case, at least not yet. "It's time?" "No, I just called you in here to bring me ice cream. Yes, it's time, and Giovanni went to-" "Bring you ice cream. I know. I saw his truck leaving." She waved him over, and he headed to her side, then remembered what he'd just been doing and went to the sink to wash his hands first. "Want me to call and have him meet us at the hospital?" "No," she gasped, reaching out blindly to grab two of his fingers. She squeezed. "No, no time." "No time? You're having the baby here? Right now?" She slapped him on the side of the head, a habit she'd picked up from her boyfriend. "You're usually much smarter than this." She squeezed his fingers again. "There must be someone I can call," he said. "Women had babies all the time without help," she groaned, although it sounded more like she was trying to convince herself that it would be all right. "Most women weren't carrying the spawn of a man as wide as this trailer." "You're just jealous," she grunted. Trowa watched her face contort with pain, and tried unsuccessfully to get her to let go of his fingers. At least if she was holding his entire hand, it wouldn't hurt so much. "Catherine, are you pushing?" "What does it look like I'm doing?" "I don't think you're supposed to do that yet." "Why not?" she started to cry. "I don't know what else to do." Trowa got up and reached for Catherine's cell phone, sitting on the edge of the counter. With her death grip on his fingers, he could only swipe at the corner of it, then he sent it spinning closer to the wall. He made one last lunge for it and wanted to cry himself, with relief, when his fingers closed around it. His relief was short lived when he realized there was no cell phone service here in the trailer. "Catherine, I just need to go outside for a couple of seconds, OK?" "No! Don't leave me alone in here!" He tried pulling his hand away again. "Catherine, be reasonable." "You try being reasonable when a baby elephant is moving through your birth canal!" For someone who'd just taken offense at his barbs about the size of her baby's father, she had no problem dissing him herself. He just hoped Giovanni would get here soon.
Unfortunately for Giovanni, he was having troubles of his own. His truck got a flat tire, he'd forgotten to charge his cell phone and now the battery was dead, and worst of all, Cathy's ice cream was melting. Melting! She'd have his head on a platter if he brought her a pint of double chocolate chocolate fudge soup. Their relationship had been on again, off again since that first time he'd kissed her. She'd slapped him soundly, but instead of turning on her heel and storming off, she'd grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him back. He should have known then what he was letting himself in for, but he'd never known a woman like Catherine Bloom. She was a contradiction, his Cathy was, and for all the reasons he told himself he was better off without her when she'd break up with him – again – he had twice as many reasons why he wanted her back. Part of the reason was simply because of the traveling. It was hard to form a lasting relationship with someone when you were on the road more days out of the year than home. The other reason was he'd never found a woman he desired for her mind as well as her body, before Catherine. He'd had his share of shallow women who'd admired him for his body and brute strength, and there had been a number of years when he'd enjoyed it, too. Things with Catherine were different in nearly every way imaginable. It became almost a game between them, although the game usually left him frustrated, but he had too much respect for her to push for more than she was willing to give. She'd blamed him for her current condition, even though they'd only done it once. They'd been responsible and he'd worn a condom, but the damn thing had broken during his final thrust into her. Sperm of Steel, she'd spat at him when she stormed into his tent to tell him what their one night of passion had resulted in. He didn't correct her about all the other times they'd found alternate ways of pleasuring each other. Even if he hadn't been shocked by the news, he was fond of his man parts and wanted to keep them attached. A man didn't piss off a woman who wielded knives the way Cathy did, even if he was crazy in love with her. He hadn't realized that he was gripping his cell phone so hard, he'd crushed it to pieces with his bare hands. He smacked himself in the head when the cracked casing and the majority of the internal circuitry fell to the ground. He was so stupid; he had a car charger somewhere in the truck and if he'd thought about it instead of worrying about Cathy's hormonal rages, he could have plugged the phone in and called to let them know he'd be late, then he could have contacted roadside assistance. She was going to tell him that it was his own fault, and this time he couldn't disagree. Not when he'd just gotten a flat last week and was still driving around on the spare. He'd had time to replace it; they weren't leaving town until the end of the week. He was frugal by nature, though, and didn't want to buy tires at the first place he went to. Those guys would rip him off if he seemed desperate. Giovanni looked woefully at empty space where a spare tire should have been. All the strength in the world was not going to make a new one appear out of thin air. Cathy was going to be so pissed at him.
He'd managed to knock a roll of paper towels to the floor, run a few under the faucet, and wipe the sweat from her forehead with them, enduring insults about men in general the whole while. "I am going to find that flute you think I don't know about, break it into pieces, and shove every one of them up your ass!" she screeched when she grew tired of blaming his entire gender and decided to focus on him instead. In any other situation, he would have been alarmed that she knew about that little secret, but he had bigger things to worry about than whether she knew about only the flute's existence, or about the nights when he couldn't sleep and went outside to play under the stars. "I don't know why you're blaming me for what your boyfriend did to you," he said when she called him a fucking bastard for the third time. "He's not my boyfriend," she said, reaching up and grabbing his collar. "So you let just any guy get in your pants." She was close to strangling him, but at least she wasn't trying to push. He had a feeling he was going to have to check down there to figure out when she was supposed to, but he was postponing that as long as he could. "He is not. Just. Any. Guy," she told him, pulling his collar tighter with every word. "Air would be good," he croaked, and she released her grip. He wiped the hair off her face again with the damp towel, only to have her bat his hand away. "Too warm," she complained. "I want a cold one." "If this is how you are with Gio, it's no wonder he's taking the long way home." "Not funny, Trowa," she wailed. "Oh, shit, this hurts." He wet another towel for her and dabbed at her face. "Hang in there, Cath. Just hang in there." "I've been hanging in there. I just want this to be over." It was the complete opposite of what Trowa wanted – not because he enjoyed his sister's pain, but because he wasn't prepared for this anymore than she was. Every time he suggested at least trying to make it to the hospital, she accused him of wanting his nephew to be born in a backseat with no one to help. Attempts to point out they had no one to help them here were countered with the fact that at least here they had medical supplies, soap, and water, and people who knew where they were. The only problem with that logic was that everyone else on the grounds, those who hadn't gone into town for the night, were engaged in a high stakes poker game right now. Whether they hadn't heard Catherine screaming earlier or they'd brushed it off as another of her third trimester tantrums didn't matter, because the fact was they weren't here and Catherine refused to let him go outside to make a call, let alone run for help. "Oh. Oh, Trowa," she burst into tears. "Catherine?" "I don't want you to leave me, but you're going to have to. I can't…I can't do this alone." She finally released the death grip on his fingers, allowing the blood to begin flowing again. He'd deal with the discomfort later; his was nothing compared to Catherine's and he had to get someone here who had any kind of birthing experience. He grabbed the phone and flung the door open, dialing her doctor's emergency number as he ran for the tent where the poker game was going on. Catherine was beginning to regret letting him go. She was going to have this baby here, alone, with no one to catch him or make sure he was OK, and she had no idea what she was doing. She couldn't even cry properly, because everytime she started bawling, another contraction would hit and she couldn't catch her breath long enough to do more than whimper. She wanted to scream for Trowa to come back, but she didn't know if he was just outside or if he'd gone to find the others, and she didn't want to waste what little energy she had unless she had no other choice. The next contraction hit. They were closer together, and that meant she was closer to having the baby. Oh, why didn't she pay more attention in those birthing classes? Breathing. There was something about breathing in there. She sucked in a lungful of air and held it as long as she could, releasing it on a cry of pain as the next contraction hit. Holding her breath was the cure for hiccups, not childbirth. The door slammed open and she was weak with relief. "Trowa, what took so fucking long?" It wasn't Trowa who knelt down next to her. She looked past the doctor, at Giovanni who was standing there wringing his hands, and yelled, "you brought the fucking vet?" Quatre touched her shoulder and said, "I'm going to need to take a look at your progress." He glanced at Giovanni, and Catherine wailed, "you don't need his fucking permission, just do something!" It seemed to take forever. She hurled insults at Giovanni most of the time, with a few thrown toward Trowa, when he returned. For the most part, she spared Quatre, although she did ask him once if his experience was with puppies or kittens. "Yes," he'd replied. "And some foals and a couple of calves. One of those was an elephant calf, though." That had made Trowa laugh, which earned him slap in the head from Giovanni. He'd looked at Quatre, who'd turned around at the sound, and they exchanged smiles before Quatre had returned his attention to his very human patient. When it was time for her to start pushing, Quatre gestured for Giovanni to come over and hold her hand, which he did, dropping kisses on her brow with every push. She was visibly exhausted by then and saved all her criticisms for Quatre, who took it without complaint, even when she told him if her baby oinked when he came out, it would be Quatre's fault. He did look a little like a pig to Trowa, but that was probably because he hadn't been cleaned yet. Quatre gave the honor of bathing the newborn to Trowa, while Giovanni complimented Catherine like she'd just discovered the cure for male pattern baldness. That was until Quatre told her she wasn't quite done, and explained the concept of placental expulsion. It appeared neither parent had paid much attention during their childbirth class, as this news was welcomed with something akin to disbelief, although not nearly as much as when Quatre asked her, in all seriousness, if they were planning on saving it to for later consumption. Even though Trowa was familiar with the practice, living among so many different cultures as he did, if anyone had asked, he'd have said it was a devious trick of Quatre's to keep Catherine's mind off the fact that she still had a bit more pushing to do. Afterwards, while Catherine and Giovanni cooed over their son, Trowa followed Quatre who was headed outside to bury the placenta. It was another tradition he was familiar with, and he chose a location near Giovanni's tent. The traditions he knew didn't say anything about good fortune, but he figured Gio could use all the help he could get. He insisted on doing all the digging; it was the least he could do. When the job was done, they washed their hands under the outside faucet attached to the animal feed shed, and he felt that same sense of rightness he'd felt during their week of quarantine. "Thanks, Quat. For everything." "You don't have to thank me," Quatre replied predictably. "But you're welcome." Trowa leaned his elbow against the shed. "In all the excitement, I never did get a chance to ask. I mean, it's obvious Gio brought you here, but how?" Quat shook his hands off, flicking his fingers toward the ground, and shrugged. "I don't know, I just…" he trailed off and shrugged again. "Knew. You just knew." He nodded, and Trowa straightened and took a step closer. "Quat?" "Hmmm?" He was within arm's reach now. "Do you know what's going to happen now?" It was a rhetorical question, because he pulled Quat to him and kissed him as if his life depended on it. He didn't care that Quatre had blood on his clothes, and it seemed that Quatre didn't care either, because he buried his fingers in Trowa's hair and kissed him back. Quatre was the one to end the kiss, pushing at Trowa's chest and taking a step back. "We're doing it again, Tro." "You say that like it's a bad thing." "No! I don't mean it that way. I mean, there's always something else going on. It's the circumstances that are forcing us together." "Maybe there's such a thing as fate." Quatre yanked at his own hair in frustration. "And maybe we're just seeking comfort for the moment!" Trowa didn't believe that, but Quatre was right. They'd seen each other three times since their breakup – once during their exposure to the plague, once when Quat came by to check on Angus, and tonight. But Quatre had known. He'd known Trowa needed him tonight, and that had to count for something. He nodded. "OK. Maybe we are." Quatre didn't look very happy that Trowa was agreeing with him, but he nodded. "Before you leave, can I ask you just one more thing?" The blond nodded. Again. The guy was beginning to look like a bobblehead. "What are you doing tomorrow night?" "I'm on call" His eyes opened wide, and he looked wary. "Why?" "Until when?" "That's two questions," Quatre pointed out. "Nine o'clock." "Want to have dinner? Maybe see a movie?" The corners of Quatre's eyes crinkled, the beginnings of a smile, and then Trowa saw the shadow of doubt cross his face. "I work a lot of long hours." "I assumed you did." "I'm not always home when I think I'm going to be." "You never were." "I get calls in the middle of the night." "Quat, if you don't want to go on a date with me, just say so." "No," Quatre replied. "I mean, no, I don't not want to go, not that I don't want to go. I mean, yes, if you want, I'd love to catch a late film with you. We can even go earlier, as long as I have my cell phone on vibrate." "Nah," Trowa said. "We'll go later. That way I can at least pretend I have you all to myself for a couple of hours." This time Quatre did smile, from ear to ear, and it lit up his face just like Trowa knew it would. It made his knees weak and caused a little pang in his chest. "OK. It's a date." "Meet you at the Royal around 9:30?" "No," Quatre said. "If you don't mind, I'll come pick you up." Trowa patted his pockets, looking for a pen he didn't have. "Sure. Let me give you my address." Quatre flushed guiltily, and Trowa laughed. "You don't need it, because you already know where I live." "Not on purpose," Quat protested. "But you did call nearly everyone else when you needed help moving in." "I'm not mad, Quat," he said reassuringly. "I'm actually…kind of glad." He walked Quat back to his car, amused to see that he hadn't arrived in an ambulance or medi-van. The man might know things, but he didn't know everything. Before Quatre could open the door, though, Trowa spun him around and kissed him again, shoving his thigh between Quatre's legs this time, and enjoying the answering moan. This time he was the one who pulled away. He patted Quatre on the back. "See ya around eight, then," he said cheerfully, and walked to his own car. There was no reason for him to stay here tonight, and he wanted to clean up his place before company came. He was whistling as he followed Quatre's car to the main road, a raunchy tune he'd learned from Giovanni when the strongman had been in his cups. Company was definitely going to come tomorrow night - several times, if he was lucky. Quatre's car turned left. Trowa turned right, and a grin spread across his face. He was, all things considered, one of the luckiest men
in the world.
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