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"The Best Laid Schemes"Written By: Waterlilylf Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing. All rights
remain with Bandai, Sotsu and associated parties. No profit being
made here. Rating: R Warnings: Romance, AU Pairings: 3x6x3, 3x4x3 Summary: A newly-elected president, with the world at his feet. An assassin, waiting in the shadows. A moment where everything is about to change.
"The Best Laid Schemes"
Chapter 3 There were Preventers stationed at the doors to the ballroom. Efficient ones even; they looked hard at his ID and actually scanned his invitation and asked a couple of extra questions. Trowa answered composedly, knowing that everything about his false identity was watertight, glad that the security in here, at least, seemed to be up to scratch. 'I thought you weren't going to come.' Zechs' voice spoke quietly in his ear as he walked inside. 'I was given the royal summons,' Trowa said wryly, raising the glass of champagne he'd collected from a passing waiter to his lips, and scanning the ballroom for Treize. He wasn't quite sure why he was there, although maybe Treize was feeling a bit rattled and wanted some extra security around. Or just to have them both close at hand for later if he fancied company. 'Where is His Lordship anyway?' 'Dancing with the princess. Straight ahead. You'll see.' He saw Zechs first, dancing with Lucrezia Noin, smiling down at her. The waltz had ended by the time Trowa slid through the thronged crowds. As he watched, Treize spun Relena to a halt and bowed low. Just one of his typical courtly gestures, but this one seemed to stretch on as everyone clapped. 'Seriously?' 'Well, he'll have to marry someone eventually,' Zechs observed. He'd left his partner with a slight bow of his own, handing her over to some dark-suited diplomatic type. The Italian ambassador, maybe, Trowa thought. His tone was very carefully neutral, so maybe Treize had mentioned something; he was always doing that, always playing his little games, keeping the balance of power constantly shifting between them. Or maybe he was just trying very hard not to show that he cared. 'He can't play the tragically grieving widower for the rest of his life,' Zechs continued, 'She'd be a good match. It's not like either of us has the right pedigree for it.' 'You do.' 'Not the right background then,' Zechs grated, and Trowa flinched at the tone in his voice. Trowa's past, what he could remember of it, had been constant struggle for the most basic survival, up until meeting Treize, but Zechs had had a home and a family once. 'I'm sorry,' he said uselessly. 'For what? The hero always gets the princess, you know that.' Not much Trowa could say to that, he thought morosely, skulking around the periphery of the dance floor, taking out his phone if anyone looked like they might approach him, and reflecting that Zechs was really far better at this sort of thing. He knew how to make the right sort of small talk, charming people and deflecting any personal questions. Trowa could do that if he had to, but it was damn exhausting and he couldn't really be bothered, and he was tired anyway because he hadn't slept well for the last few nights; hadn't slept at all, really. It was just another mission, he told himself. He had something definite focus on. Of course, he did, really. Two things. Keep Treize from doing anything spectacularly, suicidally stupid – anything else, he amended - and keep the hell away from Quatre Raberba Winner. He settled for idling around the walls, keeping a weather eye on Treize and Zechs, and taking an occasional measured sip of his drink. He didn't like much champagne; he liked the idea of it well enough, but Treize had taught him to appreciate wine, and champagne was too sweet, too fizzy. Anyway, it wouldn't help the headache that had been lurking behind his temples all day and that was currently making a bid for invasion. Damn. He should have just told Treize that he was going home, although he wasn't sure, these days, exactly where that was. There was Treize's mansion outside the city here, and Zechs' apartment but he didn't really feel like going back to either place, not alone. If home had ever been such a thing as a physical place, it would be the villa in Alexandria, even though he hadn't been there in months, and it was years now since they'd all been there together, and he didn't think that Treize would ever go back. It was still where he'd lived for almost five years; where Treize had shown him how to play the piano and chess, and Zechs had taught him to read and he'd had a dog. It didn't matter anyway, he told himself firmly. Home was where the other two were, and always had been, and he'd end up in bed with Zechs, hopefully, unless his partner decided to spend the night with the girl in the red dress. Or with Treize, if he wanted companionship on his big night He wasn't lacking companionship now, Trowa noted sourly. He was on the dance floor again, waltzing with an opulently well-upholstered beauty. 'Oh, dear,' Zechs said in his ear. 'I don't think either of us could ever possibly compete with that. Not with those, ah, assets.' Trowa laughed. 'Well, lucky for us he doesn't normally go for women.' Not for overly-endowed brunettes at any rate. 'Who is she anyway?' 'Carmen Rodriguez,' supplied Zechs, who knew everyone. 'She was Miss Brazil a couple of years ago, before marrying an industrialist who owns most of the country.' 'Not exactly his type, is she?' He took another sip of champagne, watching Treize as he was presented with another partner; a lovely, dark-haired girl in the white dress and pearls of a debutante. 'Kristina Von Stift,' Zechs said, before he could ask. 'The only daughter of an Austrian arch-duke. Very well connected.' 'Fancy that. So, has he said anything to you about actually marrying again?' 'Not as such. You know what he's like, though. Just one or two hints.' 'So, what's the deal for tonight then? He's planning to deflower some girl in the royal suite?' 'Well, hopefully not the princess. Half of Sanq would be after him with torches and pitchforks for touching her. But no, I don't think a girl's on the agenda. I don't know. He mentioned someone he'd met at the reception. Most definitely not a girl, by the sound of it.' 'Probably just teasing,' Trowa said absently, although you never really knew, he thought absently, watching Treize lead the dark girl off the floor. He didn't go back to dance this time, but began to circle the room, leaving sighs and smiles in his wake. 'There'll be plenty of young ladies dreaming of those blue eyes in bed later,' Zechs murmured, sounding amused at the idea. 'And a few young gentlemen, probably.' 'Weeping into their lace pillows,' Trowa agreed. Treize was a terrible flirt, loved making people fall under his spell but it rarely went past that, and he'd married one of the few exceptions. Not wanting to get too close to anyone, Trowa thought, which was something he could understand all too well. That and wanting to maintain that controlled air of detachment. Hard to keep that up during sex with someone. Not if you were doing it properly anyway and, really, if you got him in bed, in the right mood, Treize Khushrenada was the very opposite of controlled or detached. Trowa said something else absently, attention suddenly caught by a glimpse of bright blond hair at the opposite end of the room. There! He'd noticed Winner before, naturally, usually doing his best to stay by the wall, avoiding any company, and he'd carefully turned the other way. He wasn't alone this time, though. Trowa frowned, looking after him and his companion. What the hell was he doing with someone like Septem? He didn't look particularly comfortable about it, but he wasn't making any sort of effort to move away either. Trowa shook his head; he'd heard the stories about Septem, sure, but the man was hardly likely to assault someone in a crowded ballroom. He turned away resolutely, saying something silly to Zechs to make his friend laugh, and taking a rather distasteful sip of champagne, wishing for a real drink. Quatre Winner wasn't any of his concern. End of story. None of his business. Shit. Something wrong, very wrong. A splinter of fear in his soul, and he hadn't felt like that for years, not since he'd been a kid and.... 'Trowa?' Zechs demanded, sounding distressed himself, forgetting himself enough to use his name, as Trowa strode unerringly across the dance floor, ignoring the dancers. 'What is it? What's wrong?' 'Nothing,' Trowa snapped. 'I've got it.' They weren't in the ballroom itself, when he found them, but in a small ante-chamber down in the corridor. Septum had the blond backed against the wall, eyeing the blond like a particularly toothsome morsel of iced confectionary, as if he couldn't wait to sink his teeth into him. The bastard leaned in even closer, clearly taking stillness and silence as acquiescence. Shit, Trowa thought, looking at Winner's face. He was about to do something – cry out, try to push Septem off, yell for Preventers - something that would be impossible to cover up, and would cause all kinds of scandal, and spoil Treize's carefully planned party. 'He's not interested,' Trowa said coolly, stepping around the bookcase. Septem didn't even bother to look at him, running one hand down Quatre's arm. 'Out. Now.' 'I don't think so.' I don't think you're entirely aware of who I am, young man.' Bloody aristocrats, thinking they owned the world and everything in it. Trowa had had well over a decade of Treize though; more than enough time to learn about how to be intimidating. 'Oh, I'm very aware of who you are, General. It's why I'm surprised to see you here actually. I thought you'd have been preparing for the military tribunal next week. Exactly how many soldiers died under your command in Chile? How many civillians?' The asshole started to splutter something, giving Trowa a narrow look, taking in the clothes, the accent. Just to have received an invitation to this shindig meant he was someone, or was very strongly connected to someone. And he knew something that certainly wasn't public knowledge. 'Now, get your hand away from him, or I'll break every bone in it. And if you ever go anywhere near him again, you'd better pray that tribunal finds you guilty as hell, because you might just possibly be safe from me in a military prison. Got that?' Septem cast him a look filled with loathing, but he snatched his hand away. 'If he's yours, try keeping him on a leash. Or teach him how to behave when you do let him run around loose.' 'Oh,' Quatre Winner said softly, just a gentle exhale of breath as Septem stalked off, the door slamming in his wake. 'Thank you. But I could have taken care of it.' 'I know you could,' Trowa told him, equally low. 'But you really don't want to make a scene in a place like this.' The blond – his blond – actually managed a strangled laugh for that. 'What you just did, was that not a scene?' 'A very private one. No one else noticed.' Quatre lifted his head and smiled at him, very faintly, and all of a sudden the universe acquired a new shimmer. 'I see. Well, thank you again.' It sounded just a little like a dismissal, but Trowa stepped closer instead and the other man leaned into his touch, breathed out gently. 'There now,' Trowa murmured, settling an arm around his waist. 'You're all right, Quatre. I've got you.' Quatre murmured something, muffled against Trowa's shoulder, and lifted his head. 'How do you know my name?' Nothing more than mild curiosity in his expression. Trowa shook his head, unable to imagine what it must be like to be that trusting. 'I read the financial papers occasionally.' He trailed his fingers down the back of Quatre's neck, just skimming over the soft hairs, gentling him. 'OK?' Quatre didn't say anything, but his head jerked once against Trowa's chest. 'Good. You're fine now. Listen, did no one ever tell you not to go wandering off with strange men?' He tried to make it sound funny; it just came out stupid and a bit forlorn, but Quatre gave him an odd, choked-off little laugh anyway. 'I – I didn't, not really. I didn't mean to, but he said he knew my father and he wanted to ask me about him, and the – His Excellency introduced us at the reception and I didn't want to be impolite when he asked and, oh, I'm such an idiot, aren't I?' 'Not an idiot, Quatre. Maybe a little bit too trusting,' Trowa amended, although the last few minutes had probably taken care of that. Or perhaps not, the way he was cuddling up to Trowa. Damn it. So beautiful, Trowa thought, looking at him, at the delicate golden filigree of eyelashes tangling with his fringe of hair, the delicate blush. His hand slid through Quatre's shining hair, and traced the line of his jaw. 'Quatre. Look at me, will you?' 'Yes?' He tilted his head obediently. This was it then, Trowa thought numbly. This was how it was. This was what it was like. Just the two of them. Quatre's eyes were the colour you saw in deep ocean, sometimes; beyond the breakers, where sunlight hit a cresting wave, just before it broke. He had to lean down, just a little, to brush his mouth over Quatre's, the blond allowed it for a heartbeat and then pulled back, shaking his head. 'Don't. Please.' 'Shhhh,' he breathed, taking a very deliberate step back, sickened that Quatre thought he might be anything like Septem. 'It's OK. I wouldn't hurt you.' 'I know. It's just...' He swallowed, took a quick breath. 'I really can't, I'm not.... I'm so sorry. There is...somebody else. I'm sorry.' He was gone before Trowa's brain had even taken the words in. Buggering fuck. His own fault, really, for not guessing that someone like Quatre Winner was already taken. Of course he was. He had to be one of the most eligible people in the entire universe. Of course there would be someone. 'All right?' Zechs asked quietly when he walked back into the ballroom a few minutes later. Trowa had a quick look around, couldn't see him anywhere, but he'd clearly been watching. It had to have been pretty obvious what had happened. All of it. 'Sorted, yeah.' 'So why exactly are you talking to me, instead of that very decorative blond?' 'He's taken.' Trowa propped himself in a corner; the band was playing a rather jazzed-up version of the Blue Danube. Treize wouldn't like that, Trowa thought absently. People were waltzing. No sign of Treize himself. 'He's an idiot, if he turned you down,' Zechs told him. 'Oh. His Majesty wants a word. Privately.' 'Yeah.' He took a deep breath, closed his eyes briefly before Treize spoke. 'I gather a certain military gentleman was making a nuisance of himself with one of my guests.' Quatre Winner,' he said baldly. 'That guest.' 'Who?' It was done well, Trowa thought, a half-casual question, and it would have fooled pretty much anyone else in the universe. Trowa knew him too well, though. Treize didn't forget people. He certainly wouldn't forget someone he'd apparently talked to recently, someone who looked like Quatre Winner, someone who was important. 'You know who he is.' 'Oh, the Winner boy from L4. Yes, of course I do. Did anything happen?' 'No. I want to kill that bastard.' 'Hmm. I don't disagree in principle, but let's wait until his trial and see what happens. I'd rather like to see him publicly humiliated and prosecuted, if you don't mind. Thank you for intervening.' 'I shouldn't have had to,' Trowa said curtly. 'Did you actually mean to throw Winner to the wolves like that? Seriously? Introducing someone like that to filth like Septem?' 'It wasn't like that,' Treize said, very calm, very controlled. 'We were talking; Septem and some other officers from his brigade were close by. I could hardly avoid making introductions. Winner's not a child. I assumed he would know how to behave at a party.' 'He's from L4,' Trowa retorted. 'You know what his background's got to be like. You honestly think he'd know how to handle someone like that?' 'Apparently not. Silly boy,' Treize said, fondly indulgent, an unmistakable note in his voice. Oh. It was obvious, if he let himself think about it. So obvious he was a fool to have missed it. There was no way that Quatre Winner, an unknown colonial, no matter how rich his father was, should have been sitting in the front row of the ceremony, among kings and queens and the cream of European aristocracy, in a seat previously reserved for the Duchess of Padua. And he was just Treize's type. Nothing less than the only son of one of the most prominent Colonial families. He was stunning, intelligent, eminently suitable. A lovely young man oozing potential, with the perfect background. No wonder he'd been dropping hints to Zechs about meeting someone at the reception. And then he'd presumably arranged for Quatre to be given one of the best seats at the ceremony, and...whatever. 'Honestly, if Septem was making a nuisance of himself, all Quatre had to do was mention my name,' Treize went on. 'Yeah. Maybe he didn't want to broadcast that you were going to be screwing him after the banquet. Odd, that.' 'All right.' Treize said it in the voice that meant Enough. 'Since the charming Quatre is clearly incapable of looking after himself, find him please, and take him to my suite. That should keep him out of trouble.' ~ * ~ Chapter 4 |
