“I didn’t think he would,” Heero replied. “I just meant that... never mind,” he sighed. He looked askance at Trowa, replaying his last words in his mind and sifting through their meaning. Slowly, he asked, “What you told me -- you’ve never told Quatre, have you?”
Trowa shook his head. “He doesn’t know,” he said quietly. “I would sell my soul to every demon in Hell to keep him from ever knowing.”
“You must... love him very much,” Heero muttered, experimenting with the word.
Trowa nodded, but responded only obliquely. “You know, killing Muller isn’t going to help Duo heal.”
Heero scowled, and glanced away; he’d hoped this particular topic would be buried underneath the others. “It still needed to be done,” he retorted, and brushed the bangs out of his face to give his friend a sideways glance. “Besides,” he added, half-defensively -- “It made me feel better.”
For the first time since Heero had known him, Trowa actually laughed. It was a spooky sound, all the more so because he sounded genuinely amused by Heero’s morbid pronouncement. Heero stopped and stared at his friend, a trifle disturbed; the taller boy halted too, and swung around to favor Heero with a strange little smile. It took a moment for Heero to identify the almost visible relief that was bubbling through Trowa, relief at having finally expelled the poisonous memories. He had to fight the smile that kept threatening to appear on his own face; shaking his head slightly, Heero turned away and continued on the trek back to his tent.
All desire to smile vanished as Heero caught sight of the commotion ahead. Raised voices drifted back where they were standing, and a cook-helper scurried back around the corner, shooting nervous glances at whatever was behind him. Heero frowned. They were almost back to his tent. What was causing the turmoil?
He quickened his pace; Trowa had to stretch his longer legs to keep up, but needed no urging when Quatre’s voice rose above the hubbub.
“I already told you -- he can’t be moved! You can just wait until --”
Heero and Trowa rounded the corner and saw that the disturbance, in fact, was centered in front of Heero’s own tent. Quatre stood resolutely in the doorway, arms spread slightly to bar anyone else from entering; the tiny doctor looked almost ridiculous in comparison to the half-dozen men standing in a loose semi-circle around him. One of them, wearing the rank tabs of a sergeant, stepped forward and made an impatient gesture. “Come on, kid, we have our orders.”
Re: Spoil of War, prologue
Date: 2006-02-27 11:28 pm (UTC)“I didn’t think he would,” Heero replied. “I just meant that... never mind,” he sighed. He looked askance at Trowa, replaying his last words in his mind and sifting through their meaning. Slowly, he asked, “What you told me -- you’ve never told Quatre, have you?”
Trowa shook his head. “He doesn’t know,” he said quietly. “I would sell my soul to every demon in Hell to keep him from ever knowing.”
“You must... love him very much,” Heero muttered, experimenting with the word.
Trowa nodded, but responded only obliquely. “You know, killing Muller isn’t going to help Duo heal.”
Heero scowled, and glanced away; he’d hoped this particular topic would be buried underneath the others. “It still needed to be done,” he retorted, and brushed the bangs out of his face to give his friend a sideways glance. “Besides,” he added, half-defensively -- “It made me feel better.”
For the first time since Heero had known him, Trowa actually laughed. It was a spooky sound, all the more so because he sounded genuinely amused by Heero’s morbid pronouncement. Heero stopped and stared at his friend, a trifle disturbed; the taller boy halted too, and swung around to favor Heero with a strange little smile. It took a moment for Heero to identify the almost visible relief that was bubbling through Trowa, relief at having finally expelled the poisonous memories. He had to fight the smile that kept threatening to appear on his own face; shaking his head slightly, Heero turned away and continued on the trek back to his tent.
All desire to smile vanished as Heero caught sight of the commotion ahead. Raised voices drifted back where they were standing, and a cook-helper scurried back around the corner, shooting nervous glances at whatever was behind him. Heero frowned. They were almost back to his tent. What was causing the turmoil?
He quickened his pace; Trowa had to stretch his longer legs to keep up, but needed no urging when Quatre’s voice rose above the hubbub.
“I already told you -- he can’t be moved! You can just wait until --”
Heero and Trowa rounded the corner and saw that the disturbance, in fact, was centered in front of Heero’s own tent. Quatre stood resolutely in the doorway, arms spread slightly to bar anyone else from entering; the tiny doctor looked almost ridiculous in comparison to the half-dozen men standing in a loose semi-circle around him. One of them, wearing the rank tabs of a sergeant, stepped forward and made an impatient gesture. “Come on, kid, we have our orders.”