Trowa shrugged. “I heard that you had all the soul of a snake. Some people said you were a great soldier and a military genius. Other rumors said you had sold your soul to a demon to attain your rank. None, though, suggested that you were in the habit of going around salvaging prisoners of war.”
“I am not,” Heero replied shortly, and stared at his hands.
After waiting a minute, during which Heero volunteered no new information, Trowa prompted, “Then why?”
For a minute, Heero didn’t reply; Trowa was asking the same questions that Heero was demanding of himself, and he didn’t have answers for either one. “I don’t know,” Heero said at last, giving up and resorting to the truth. Trowa just looked at him, the eyebrow going up again, and Heero felt prompted to add, “I had to.”
“Ah.” The word was spoken in a tone of curious satisfaction, and Trowa settled back as though Heero had just said something of great importance. Heero glowered at him, wanting to know what he had said that was so meaningful, but Trowa only gave him a slight smile and shook his head. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually,” was all he would say.
Heero intensified his glare, and was just about to demand an explanation, when suddenly two noises snapped their attention back to the others in the room. The first was a shocked gasp from Quatre, immediately followed by an inhuman growling. Heero surged to his feet in time to see Quatre stumbling backwards, a red-glittering needle in his hand. The patient had awakened, and a snarl peeled his lips back to show teeth, eyes flashing furiously. Beside him, he felt Trowa start forward, then suddenly freeze in place, but had no attention to spare for him. The boy’s wild gaze swept over the room, over Heero and Trowa, and the growl became almost a whine as the two men advanced on him. He scrabbled back over the table, backing away as quickly as his crippled leg would allow, until he hit the wall; then he hunched as far into the corner as far he could, shaking. His strange violet eyes darted fearfully between the three men in the room, and he flinched every time on of them moved. Trowa looked at him; looked at the terror evident in his body language, and at the tension in Heero’s, and moved instead to his lover’s side. “Are you all right, Quatre?” he asked softly, not wanting to raise his voice.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Quatre replied in a slightly shaken voice. He raised one hand to a rapidly blackening eye. “...For someone as beat up as he is, he sure can hit hard...”
Trowa caught Heero’s eye, and gestured to the sedative still lying on the table. Heero nodded grimly and picked it up, moving towards the injured boy; Trowa guided Quatre a little ways away, so as not to frighten the patient further.
He picked up one of the washcloths, soaked it in cold water, and held it against the growing bruise to try and lessen the swelling. “Quatre,” he said, “is it just me, or is there something familiar about that boy?” Unable to pin it down earlier, Trowa had dismissed the sense of almost-recognition; now that he had seen the boy’s very distinctive eyes, the feeling had returned doubled.
Re: Spoil of War, prologue
Date: 2006-02-27 11:16 pm (UTC)Trowa shrugged. “I heard that you had all the soul of a snake. Some people said you were a great soldier and a military genius. Other rumors said you had sold your soul to a demon to attain your rank. None, though, suggested that you were in the habit of going around salvaging prisoners of war.”
“I am not,” Heero replied shortly, and stared at his hands.
After waiting a minute, during which Heero volunteered no new information, Trowa prompted, “Then why?”
For a minute, Heero didn’t reply; Trowa was asking the same questions that Heero was demanding of himself, and he didn’t have answers for either one. “I don’t know,” Heero said at last, giving up and resorting to the truth. Trowa just looked at him, the eyebrow going up again, and Heero felt prompted to add, “I had to.”
“Ah.” The word was spoken in a tone of curious satisfaction, and Trowa settled back as though Heero had just said something of great importance. Heero glowered at him, wanting to know what he had said that was so meaningful, but Trowa only gave him a slight smile and shook his head. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually,” was all he would say.
Heero intensified his glare, and was just about to demand an explanation, when suddenly two noises snapped their attention back to the others in the room. The first was a shocked gasp from Quatre, immediately followed by an inhuman growling. Heero surged to his feet in time to see Quatre stumbling backwards, a red-glittering needle in his hand. The patient had awakened, and a snarl peeled his lips back to show teeth, eyes flashing furiously. Beside him, he felt Trowa start forward, then suddenly freeze in place, but had no attention to spare for him. The boy’s wild gaze swept over the room, over Heero and Trowa, and the growl became almost a whine as the two men advanced on him. He scrabbled back over the table, backing away as quickly as his crippled leg would allow, until he hit the wall; then he hunched as far into the corner as far he could, shaking. His strange violet eyes darted fearfully between the three men in the room, and he flinched every time on of them moved. Trowa looked at him; looked at the terror evident in his body language, and at the tension in Heero’s, and moved instead to his lover’s side. “Are you all right, Quatre?” he asked softly, not wanting to raise his voice.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Quatre replied in a slightly shaken voice. He raised one hand to a rapidly blackening eye. “...For someone as beat up as he is, he sure can hit hard...”
Trowa caught Heero’s eye, and gestured to the sedative still lying on the table. Heero nodded grimly and picked it up, moving towards the injured boy; Trowa guided Quatre a little ways away, so as not to frighten the patient further.
He picked up one of the washcloths, soaked it in cold water, and held it against the growing bruise to try and lessen the swelling. “Quatre,” he said, “is it just me, or is there something familiar about that boy?” Unable to pin it down earlier, Trowa had dismissed the sense of almost-recognition; now that he had seen the boy’s very distinctive eyes, the feeling had returned doubled.