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"Blue"Written By: Switchblade003 Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the characters
from Shin Kidousenki New Mobile War Chronicle Gundam Wing. I do, however,
retain all original characters and storyline in this fic. Rating: R, for now. Subject to change. Warnings: Language, dark content, my morbid sense
of humor. The characters might seem a little OOC, but this is my interpretation
of them, and this is an AU, so… Also a confusing writing style.
I’m writing from first-person present tense, and it’s sort
of a stream-of-consciousness flow. Trying to follow the main character’s
train of thought is the fun part. Pairings: Well, I started this with the intention
of writing another 4x3x4, but I’m not sure… Tell me what
you guys think. Summary: Quatre is a cop and partners with Heero Yuy. They share many things but Quatre doesn't know where his life is headed.
Blue Chapter 1 My name is John Winner. I’ve been a misguided, pessimistic cop for a little over three years now. It doesn’t pay too handsomely, but I get to carry a loaded weapon in crowded places. Every job has its perks. I didn’t start out of high school with the intention of being a police officer, but life has a funny way of kicking you in the ass and making you realize your own potential, sometimes, and here I am, lounged around DC’s twenty-fourth precinct, waiting for something remotely interesting to happen. You would think that we’d be busy here in our nation’s capital, but it’s actually not frequent to receive a call around here. See, I work for a pretty miscellaneous branch of law enforcement-paranormal investigations. It’s not all that it’s cracked up to be. No UFOs or aliens abound in DC, just lots of weird, paranoid residents with rodent infestations that go ‘squeak’ in the night. My life is fairly mundane. I’ve never been shot, never been in a high-speed pursuit, never even had to discharge my weapon. Most of my loving colleagues don’t really even think I’m a cop. I think there might be some unspoken but understood rule that real policemen have battle wounds. Or doughnuts. Whatever. The only thing around here that makes me even feel like a law enforcement agent is my partner. Heero Yuy sits across our small, cramped office, sprawled across a chair, counting ceiling tiles. I met him at an odd job that I worked after school. Most people in the office are afraid of him-he looks like the kind of guy who goes postal and kills all of his coworkers in a random moment of uncontrollable rage and gunfire. He has two kids. He’s really not too bad, once you get around his obsessive-compulsive tendencies. I think the kids are one of those. We never really found out if they were his, but his wife-ex-wife-claimed that they were and left them. Come to think of it, we never really found out why she left. Not much of a loss, if you ask me, but Heero misses her sometimes. He’s my best friend, and we’re trying to raise the girls together. He’s ‘Dad,’ and I’m ‘Uncle Quat.’ Oh, my given name is Quatre Raberba Winner. Heh. My dad was an American Army Ranger, and he met my mother on an overseas tour. I had the name changed legally, for… well, we’ll say for convenience. While I’m proud of my heritage and religious roots, I don’t feel like getting shot or fired over them. Life isn’t exactly roses for people of my background, these days. It’s unfair, but that’s life. I’m just trying to work around it. To my family-I don’t really have one, anymore-and my friends-Heero and his daughters-I’m ‘Quatre.’ To everyone else, I’m ‘John.’ "The sergeant was thinking about assigning us to parade duty." Ugh. I hate going on patrol. I always get myself into trouble. I think that might be how I got our asses landed in paranormal investigations to begin with. "He said that uniforms are in order." Heero smirks a little and rubs a hand over his face to hide the gesture. "I doubt that yours fits, anymore." With a frown I glance down at my torso, smoothing a palm over the front of my tee shirt and glaring at my Japanese counterpart. "I don’t eat half as much as you do." For someone so fit, he really does pack it away. I’ve seen him go through a whole pizza by himself and finish the day like a hummingbird. Damn metabolism… "Hey, you know Maxwell, from Arson Investigations? He can down an entire case of beer in an hour." The statement was mildly defensive, and slightly appreciative of the other officer’s prowess with alcohol. Heero isn’t much of a drinker, though he can definitely hold his liquor. I found that out by accident. I’m an angry drunk. It’s why I don’t drink much, anymore, though lately… We’ve lapsed back into our companionable silence, and all is right with the world. For Heero, at least. I don’t know how to describe it, exactly, but for the last few years… I feel like I’m dying on the inside, just wasting away and no one notices. It’s not an intense feeling, but a slow, steady ache of bereavement, and it has to climax eventually. I’m missing something, something very basic, very obvious, but I can’t put my finger on it. Nothing would change much if it does end up killing me, though. Heero has his girls, and my family… well, what few of them remain don’t speak to me any longer. I’m a poster-child for Prozac. "C’mon. Let’s go pick the girls up." Heero’s up and shrugging his sportscoat on, straightening his tie a little too enthusiastically. He might not have many people skills, but he makes up for it in dedication to his own family. He’s the most reliable, loving guy I’ve ever met. I think that if it weren’t for him, I would have shot myself a long time ago. My watch reads five in the evening exactly, and I stand, stretching my arms over my head. I don’t wear suits to work anymore. One day I woke up and just decided not to. My characteristic jeans and tee shirts don’t go over too well with Administration, but they won’t fire me over it. I’ve learned just what I can get away with, here. Heero tosses my hooded sweatshirt at me from the doorway and starts to the elevators. My car is downstairs, but I doubt we’ll be taking it. I came to DC from Cambridge, Massachusetts, and I didn’t sell my car before I left. No one in DC owns a car-it’s stupid. There’s no where to park and auto-theft is a prevalent danger, but I love my car. It’s hard to find an ’88 Iroc Camaro in black. Especially with T-tops that don’t leak. The wife, as I like to call Heero in his more moody moments, doesn’t like putting the girls in my car, however. Apparently I drive like a maniac, but who couldn’t around here? I guess we’ll take the squad car… My line of thought has taken me all the way to the parking garage on the ground level of our building, and sure enough, Heero’s standing beside our designated cruiser. Number 07. That’s the number of years it’s been since the last time that I dated someone. Not that I don’t look from time to time, but it takes a lot to interest me in someone. Heero’s good-looking, but I’m not sure if he swings both ways. And even if he did, I doubt that I’m his type. "Are you all right?" I look up from my contemplating, over the roof of the car, and he’s quirking his eyebrow at me. He still has a bit of an accent when he speaks. Sometimes he’ll pronounce ‘r’s and ‘l’s interchangeably. When he gets pissed he’ll mutter in Japanese. My thoughts are rambling, again. I’m such a scatterbrain. "You’re acting weird. You have been for days, now." It’s not an accusation, just an observation, and he’s giving me the option of evading a response. My hand strays up to the silver studs in the cartilage of my left ear. It’s a nervous habit that I have. I think I got my ear pierced out of nervous habit, too. Or maybe I was drunk. I got drunk once in college and woke up with a tattoo. Fraternities suck. "Quatre." He raised his voice. Heero never raises his voice. The intonation will change in his speech, or he’ll emphasize certain words by altering his pitch, but he only shouts when I’ve done something to piss him off. Even the girls don’t get him mad enough to yell… There’s a sharp sting across my cheek, blunt force, and I’m reaching for my gun, cocking back the safety and aiming on pure instinct. Heero’s faster. His gun is held sideways to my temple, his cobalt eyes calm. He always looks dead when he wields that damned thing. "I’m no longer giving you the option of answering me. You either tell me what’s wrong or I beat the shit out of you." Well, damn. I put my gun back into it’s holster at my thigh and push his away, down. He’s looking at me expectantly, and I want to get away. "I just don’t feel good. Can I have a bad day?" It came out a little more hostile than I’d wanted, and he frowns, running a hand through his messy dark hair. It sticks out in every direction, even when he brushes it, and I think it drives him nuts. He’s a stickler for ‘neat and orderly.’ I’m his complete opposite. "Sorry…" I think I came across a little too abrasively. Oh, well. I pull him into a level embrace, shaking my head. "No, I’m being a dick. Don’t worry about it." Strong arms around my shoulders and then gone, but he looks hesitant to relinquish his hold. We’re both so damned lonely… I slide into the passenger’s seat and lean against the window. I wish I wasn’t me. Then I’d have friends, a decent job, a family… If wishes were horses, I’d own a glue factory. I’d be either very rich, or very sticky. My mind is a frightening thing. Heero reaches around me, snaps my unfastened seatbelt, and glares. I never wear the stupid thing. It makes driving so much more interesting. God knows I pine for being hit and thrown through my windshield on the interstate. I wonder if he’d miss me if I died… I accidentally got myself into a crossfire about a year ago, between some dealers in the downtown district and the ATF. Heero came barreling in, guns blazing, and got me out-I’d lost my weapon earlier in a fistfight with one of the bastards. He cursed me for being so careless and stalked off. Maybe I’m just a pain-in-the-ass sidekick to him. Who knows… "You need to wear this," he breathes into my ear, almost murmuring to himself, and he’s buckling my seatbelt. I frown down at him, and he turns to glare at me, and we sit there for a moment. He has beautiful eyes. Very dark, very blue. I could die in his eyes. I think that if I ever really did go insane, I’d see his eyes everywhere. Relena Peacecraft was an idiot to leave him. "And you need to eat. You look half-dead." His face softens and he closes the distance between us, placing a chaste kiss to my forehead like he does to the girls, and then the car’s transmission rolls over and we’re moving. If he weren’t in the car I’d pray for a head-on collision. +++ TBC.
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