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"Incendiary"Written By: The Plotting Housewife Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sotsu
and associated Parties. This work is written for pleasure not profit. Rating: NC 17 Warnings: Yaoi, wrongful imprisonment, Newtypes,
internment camps, eventual rape/noncon Pairings: 3x4, 1x2, 5xS Summary: A group of wealthy college kids are murdered.
There are no witnesses, but there is a suspect. From within the simmering
sludge of irrational fear and prejudice, conspiracy theories are born
and innocent people pay the price. "Incendiary" Part One: Unrest Early morning sunlight streamed in between the slats of the wooden blinds, causing Quatre to squint against it. He groaned, hand untangling from the mound of sheets and blankets to rub his eyes. He shifted slightly, the feel of soft cotton sheets warm and comforting against his bare skin. He turned his head away from the window, trying to calm his mind and slip back into his hazy doze. Distantly, he could hear the water running. Trowa never failed to rise with the sun and start his day with a scalding hot shower. Quatre tried joining him once, but couldn't take the extreme heat. He much preferred a lukewarm shower, his skin too sensitive for the high temperatures. He could smell coffee brewing downstairs. The aroma rose over the fresh linen scent of the bedding and the heady, musky smell of Trowa. The rich, Arabic stuff Quatre loved, and he thanked his lucky stars for such a wonderful husband. His subconscious was now fighting him, wanting to be awake, and he flipped over, cursing. He blinked up at the ceiling, bleary-eyed, and entertained himself with thoughts of his husband, naked in the shower. He envisioned powerful muscles shifting beneath smooth, tanned skin, while Trowa soaped himself up. Water catching the fine hairs on his body, little rivulets running down the long limbs and swirling into the drain. A stirring in his groin had Quatre rolling onto his belly where he lethargically rubbed the tingle away against the mattress, forcing himself to think about the day's tasks. Cops, and clients, and paperwork, oh my. He heard the water shut off and he lay still, staring at the wall. He closed his eyes even though he knew sleep would not come, but not willing to rise quite yet. In the quiet placidity of the morning, he couldn't help but pick up Trowa's thoughts, though he often tried not to read him. He didn't like intruding into other people's minds, but at times like this, it was unavoidable. He idly read Trowa's mental to-do list. The clients he would be meeting with that day. A rather obnoxious middle aged woman whom Quatre couldn't stand. She flirted with his husband at every opportunity, apparently not caring that he didn't bat for her team. Trowa was a bounty hunter and private investigator. He started the business three years ago after an early retirement from the Preventers, a world wide law enforcement agency and part of the judicial branch of the Earth Sphere Unified Nations. He worked with a large clientele that included not only Preventers and other law enforcement, but also private citizens, tracking anyone from criminals on the lamb, to cheating spouses. He'd approached Quatre with his business proposal about eight months after their wedding. Quatre was apprehensive at first, but came around soon enough. Trowa was good at what he did and he always took every precaution to ensure his safety. With Quatre's help, they excelled at getting the job done. During the war, Trowa had been an accomplished actor and infiltrator. He knew how to slip behind enemy lines and slip back out again, unseen, unheard. He could perform with the best of them. Easily fool the most cunning minds. With Quatre's abilities as an empath, and a telepath, they were an unstoppable team. While they worked the business together as equal partners, Quatre's official title was bookkeeper. His gifts as a Newtype were kept very much under wraps with only a select few actually aware of what he could do. Newtypes still faced a very uncertain future and there was plenty of prejudice to go around. Quatre consulted with their clients and relayed any useful information he could garner to his husband when the two were alone. He was the strategic mind behind setting up the operations. He found the flaws within the plans and made sure every 'i' was dotted and every 't' crossed. To fail in that regard could put his husband at risk. Quatre sifted through Trowa's mind, tossing aside trivial thoughts about picking up his dry cleaning on the way home, or making a mental note to call his sister. He honed in on Trowa's memories of their lovemaking the night before. There, he could see himself through his husband's eyes, feel the love and desire Trowa felt for him. He wiggled happily under the covers as he experienced what Trowa felt when he made love to him. Though Quatre often cursed his Newtype abilities, this was the one thing he always cherished about it. It'd gotten stronger since the war. His telepathic abilities had been limited through touch, but now he could easily read thoughts from a good fifty kilometers, if there was little distraction. His ability to read people worked much like a satellite dish. When there was a clear sky, the signal was clear. When it rained, there was static. If his surroundings were chaotic, it was a lot harder to pick up thoughts, and oftentimes the feedback loop would give him migraines. Quatre's ears tracked Trowa's muted footsteps on the carpet as he walked into the bedroom. He cracked an eyelid open and was treated to the sight of his husband, even more fit than he was during the war, naked but for a towel low on his hips. The sunlight filtering through the window cast bright lines across his smooth skin and gave it a golden glow. Quatre admired him with his one open eye, face smooshed against the pillows. Trowa must have sensed it because he turned from his place in front of the open closet, glancing at the blond on the bed, eyebrow raised. Quatre's hand lifted in a parody of a wave, one side of his mouth curling up. Trowa smirked at him, said, "You planning on getting out of bed today?" Quatre's voice was croaky from sleep. "Nope. In fact, why don't you join me and we'll not get out of bed together." "That doesn't make any sense." Trowa selected a pair of black trousers and a blue button down shirt. He draped them across the bed, over Quatre's legs, and walked to the dresser, pulling out a pair of boxers. The towel fell away and Trowa sat on the bench at the foot of the bed, slipping his feet into the underwear. He stood up, pulling the shorts over his hips and walked back around to the side of the bed. He leaned down and brushed his lips against the side of the blond's head. "I've made coffee and I'll make you breakfast," he murmured. Quatre's arm shot out and wrapped around Trowa's neck before he could straighten up, pulling his head down for another kiss. Trowa indulged him, but made a face at his husband's morning breath. "You need to brush your teeth." Quatre pressed his hand against Trowa's face and shoved him away. "Yeah, yeah." He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Grimacing, distaste evident in his voice, he asked, "When's your appointment?" Trowa turned from the mirror where he was buttoning his shirt. "Eight thirty." He was meeting with a wealthy socialite dead set on catching her husband with his mistress. She also had the hots for Trowa. He pushed the closet door open all the way and slid a tie off the rack. "You need to get in touch with Heero about the weapons' shipment," he said, winding the tie into a knot. "Yeah, I know. I'll call him in a bit," Quatre said, yawning, fingers scratching a bare leg. Heero was residing in the United States with his lover, Duo. Their old war comrades supplied them with the guns, ammunition, and other equipment Trowa needed to track his targets and execute raids. Quatre stood and stretched, jaw popping with another yawn. "We should get that case of tear gas today that was on back order." He padded to the bathroom. "Hmmm..." Trowa said, nodding. "Good. Running low on that." He checked his appearance in the mirror, running his fingers through brown hair. Gone were the long bangs in the front that he'd sported as a teenager. He stood straight, tall, broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome. He looked like a man ready and able to take over the world and he looked like he knew what to do with it once he did. Quatre's eyes caught the glimmer of gold on Trowa's finger, thought smugly, And he's all mine. Standing in the threshold of the adjoining bathroom, he glanced over his shoulder, smirking, "I expect breakfast when I'm done. Chop, chop, my good man." He clapped his hands and ducked into the bathroom. Cackling, he slammed the door when his husband advanced on him.
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