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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" The mood was sullen when Trowa and Quatre walked through the front door of their home three hours later. It took them more than an hour to get to the restaurant and probably would have taken longer if not for Trowa's exceptional driving skills. The protesters were abundant and they were angry, filling the streets with their outrage and their propaganda. Dinner had been quiet, the atmosphere around them pregnant with tension and uneasiness. Quatre never touched his Coq au Vin Jaune and Trowa could only stomach a few bites of his own meal. They'd left after an hour, packing up their leftovers and deciding to just head home. Mercifully, the ride back was not as chaotic since the protesters were mostly gone, continuing their march through the city. Only a few stragglers remained behind and traffic had picked up almost back to normal. Quatre was taken back in time to the protests against his family during the war. L4 had been a hostile place for the Winners at the time. Those protests also led to the death of his father and the permanent brain damage done to his oldest sister from the blow to the head and spine she'd taken in an effort to protect her baby brother. Quatre was still riddled with guilt despite Trowa's insistence that it was not his fault. She'd been a brilliant doctor and she was now confined to her home, wheelchair bound, under round-the-clock care. Quatre had seen to it that she was looked after by the best doctors and nurses. He and some of his other sisters rotated extended visits with Iria several times a year. He'd learned how to properly bathe and feed his convalescent sister and actively participated in her physical, occupational, and speech therapies. He remembered how alone he'd felt and so very, very angry. Betrayed by his own people, he'd unleashed a monster within himself so malevolent, he often lapsed into deep bouts of depression at the memories. That he had been capable of something like that, he was often paralyzed with the fear that he could do it again someday. The night terrors had gotten better over the years, but he still had them occasionally, waking from a dead sleep, unable to breathe as he watched Trowa, the one person he loved the most, drift in the cold, dark void of space, forever beyond his reach. Icy fingers would wrap around his neck and squeeze, the Heero in his dream making good on his promise to kill him. Was he any better than these people? Had he not done much of the same in his need for revenge? In fact, hadn't he done worse? He sunk down onto the plush sofa in their living room with a heavy sigh, accepting the glass of Merlot Trowa handed him. He sipped it, the burn of the alcohol welcoming to his frayed nervous system, and closed his eyes, rubbing his temple. Trowa sat beside him and set his own glass on the table. He felt his husband's hand curl around the back of his head and pull him into a strong shoulder. He went willingly, burying his face into Trowa's neck, weary and exhausted. Trowa had forgiven him, so why couldn't he forgive himself? Trowa pressed his lips to the side of Quatre's head. "Hey," he whispered. "Mmm..." "It's going to be okay." Quatre pulled his head back, searching the beautiful green eyes he loved so much. "You don't believe that." "No," Trowa shook his head, eyes firm. "No, I don't. I know it. I'm not going to let anything happen to you." Tears stung behind Quatre's eyes and he blinked them back, breathing heavily through his nose. He raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing in frustration. "I have to call Une." "I know. Just relax for a bit. You're still very stressed out." Quatre raised a brow at his husband. "Since when did you become the psychic one?" "It doesn't take a telepath to know when you're stressed. Besides, when it comes to you, I've always had some sort of extrasensory perception." He tucked a lock of blond hair behind Quatre's ear. Quatre nodded, looking down. "I know you have." He took another sip of wine and leaned his head onto the broad shoulder. "I still don't know how you knew where to find me back on the Libra." Trowa's shoulder lifted slightly. "I don't either. I just knew and I knew you were in trouble. The only thing I could think about was getting to you. You scared me. Especially when you collapsed back at the hangar. I thought I was going to lose you." "Who knew getting stabbed with a rapier would hurt so much?" Trowa chuckled. "I remember when I was taking care of Heero, after he self-destructed. He has something, too, I think. Some kind of empathy. Somehow...somehow he knew that I'd wanted to end my life at the time..." Quatre set his wine glass down and wrapped his arm around his husband, deeply disturbed, wanting to comfort. "He told me," Trowa laughed again, shoulders shaking, "He told me, "It hurts like hell."" Quatre's burst of laughter was muffled as he turned his face into his husband's warm chest. It wasn't a funny situation, but you could always count on Heero not to mince words. "I can totally hear him say that." "He does have a way of getting right to the point. Decorum is not his strong suit." "It's a good thing he has Duo to soften those edges." Trowa stroked his head, the action was soothing to both of them. "It's a good thing I have you to soften mine." Quatre smiled, flattered. He breathed in deep, savoring the warm, comforting scent of soap, detergent, cologne, and Trowa's own unique smell. He felt the heavy beat of his husband's heart beneath his cheek and reminded himself that no matter what happened, right now he was here, safe, in Trowa's arms. Still, there was an unsettling knowledge that Trowa had not yet spoken of, but was front and center in his mind. Quatre caught it easily and wondered if Trowa was deliberately leaving it open because he didn't want, or didn't know how to verbalize it. Quatre voiced it for them both. "She knows, doesn't she?" His suspicion was confirmed when Trowa dipped his chin in response. Quatre groaned. Another hurdle in this already complicated mess. But, Trowa was quick to reassure him. He cupped the blond's face with warm, dry palms. "Hey, she's not going to say anything." "How do you know that?" "Because I explained to her in no uncertain terms that she would deeply regret it if she did." Trowa's eyes gleamed and Quatre was reminded of his husband's skills, his war record. Trowa hadn't been called The Silencer during the war for nothing. Quatre felt his anxiety fade, if only slightly. "How did she even know?" Trowa snorted. "Apparently, she's either a very experienced hacker, or she knows someone who is." "Are you telling me that that woman is capable of stealing information that is classified above Top Secret?" Quatre laughed at the preposterous idea. "I find that hard to believe." "You know better than anyone how important it is to not underestimate people." That sobered Quatre. Trowa was right. He knew all about being underestimated. It happened all the time. It was difficult to look at someone like Quatre and believe he was capable of even half the things he'd accomplished in his twenty eight years. He sighed, leaning his head back on the couch cushions. "I suppose you're right." He shot his husband a wry glance, lip curled in a smirk. "She's really got it out for me, doesn't she?" But Trowa wasn't amused. His eyes were sharp and determined. The soldier in him had been activated, treating any and all threats as high priority. Quatre had seen Trowa in soldier mode only one other time since the war and that was when his sister Cathy had been robbed at gunpoint while the circus was traveling through L2. Duo had provided an intricate layout of the colony and pinpointed where the most dangerous gangs were located. In less than twenty four hours, Zero One and Zero Three found the culprits and disposed of them, quick, clean, efficiently, and permanently. Quatre had no doubt that Edna Seigried would live, or not live, to regret her decision to share the information she had, if she was stupid enough to do so. Still, his approach was more diplomatic. He chugged the remains of his wine, set the glass on the table, and stood up. "I really need to call Une." Trowa nodded in affirmation. "I'm going to contact Wufei." "Isn't he in Shanghai with Sally?" "Yes, but I think he should be informed of what's going on." He pulled his phone out and wandered into the kitchen. Quatre retrieved his own phone from his pocket and pressed the speed dial button for General Une's direct line at Preventer's Headquarters. After two rings, a frazzled-sounding Une barked into the phone. "What!" Quatre was accustomed to the brash woman and took it in stride. "Good evening, General. This is Quatre Winner." He could hear voices in the background as Une paused, then said, "Oh, yes. Hello, Mr. Winner. I suppose I know why you're calling. We're in a heap of shit over here." There was another pause and a muffled shout, "I'm. On. The. Phone. Get out!" Quatre chuckled and Une returned a moment later. "Sorry. Like I said, it's a mad house over here." "Is this as bad as I think it is?" He could feel the General's uncertainty over the phone. "I'm afraid so. This is escalating further than we originally thought. People are angry and for some reason, Parliament is encouraging it. Councilman Zander, the one whose son was killed, has been getting people really riled up. I've been on the phone with the Prime Minister. He says people have the right to protest, which I'm aware of, but he doesn't seem to recognize the very anti-Newtype mob mentality that is starting to take over." "Oh, God..." Une's voice was hushed, urgent. "I should warn you now, please be careful. It's extremely dangerous for Newtypes right now. I'm sure I don't have to tell you this, but if there was any reason to keep your...gifts...under wraps, now is the time." Quatre felt her hesitation, a heavy silence before her next words. "There's talk, Quatre." That familiar dread was back, like a black void deep in his gut. "What kind of talk?" Quatre had to strain his ears to catch what Une was saying as she was practically whispering. "I've heard a rumor, just something in passing, not anything to get too worried about yet, but I think you should know. I heard someone mention something about camps." "Camps?" "Imprisonment camps. Internment camps -" "You mean concentration camps." She was hesitant, not wanting to vocalize it, but he knew she agreed. "Yes, most probably. Like I said, it was just something someone said, it's not a running theme, at least I don't think it is. Just please be careful, Quatre." It took tremendous will power to slow his pounding heart. He felt sick, the wine churning in his stomach like hot lava. He swallowed down the burning lurch of his esophagus and forced himself to speak. "Okay, I will. Keep me posted." "I will. I will call you in a few hours. Hopefully, this will have died down somewhat by then. I'm working with the Prime Minister to establish a peaceful resolution to all this. How's Trowa?" "He's fine. He's on the phone with Agent Chang." "Yeah, and it just so happens that two of my best Preventers are on vacation at the moment," she sighed, aggravated. Quatre chuckled, despite there being nothing humorous about the situation. It came out lifeless, hollow. "Isn't that always the way?" "No doubt Trowa has convinced him to come back." "I hope not. Wufei and Sally deserve the break. I'd hate to have them come home early, especially if there's no reason to." "Good ol' Quatre. Always thinking of others." Une laughed fondly. He huffed slightly, not sure if he was being mocked. "Okay, well...I'll call you soon and hopefully I'll have better news." "Sounds good. Thank you, General." He hung up and just stood silently, listening to the ticking of the Grandfather clock and the soft murmur of Trowa's voice as he spoke to their friend. Quatre prayed to a god he didn't believe in that this wouldn't escalate into something beyond their control.
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