Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Deadly Beautiful ❯ Little Things ( Chapter 53 )

A/N: Hey everybody. Third year uni = no. Here is your chapter, wherein you will find A Plot Thread. Actually two. In case you were wondering/keeping track.

 

Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my show, I am making no money off this, please do not take legal action.

 

Deadly Beautiful - Chapter 53

 

by danse

 

~*~

 

Heero rolled up the window of his rented Peugeot as he hit the autobahn, disliking how the wind roared in his ear at high speeds. Quite honestly, it was probably the first thing his brain had properly registered of his environment for the past two hours; he was lost in thought.

 

His pager going off in that Russian hotel room had seemed like a monkey wrench in the machinery at the time, but as it jarred him out of the reverie he'd been in and he'd realized where he was and what he was doing, he'd decided he was thankful for the interruption.

 

Heero's pager had borne a message from J, with a direct order to return to headquarters immediately. Considering Heero had been gone for a month and presumed dead by more than one person, he'd thought this a bit presumptuous but decided he'd kept the man waiting long enough as it was. He'd gone back as ordered, leaving Duo behind to actually get some rest, like he'd originally intended the room for.

 

If he hadn't had to leave.... His hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

 

He was embarrassed and ashamed of himself. What had he been thinking anyway, taking advantage of Duo like that? All of the bewildering rage and violence and tension in the room—all of the tension that had been building up between them ever since they'd first met face-to-face and maybe even before that—all of it had snapped like a stretched rubber band with Duo's verbal slip. And then Heero had let something, he didn't know what (instinct, maybe) take over his body and brain and he'd committed what basically amounted to sexual assault on one of his teammates.

 

You asshole, he thought angrily, his foot pressing down on the accelerator until the engine growled under the hood, he'd just spent four days in a prison cell in the hands of the enemy, enduring who knows what kind of torture, and he probably got no sleep or food either, and then you go and feel him up like a cheap whore not two minutes after he's just finished telling you to fuck off. What is your problem, Yuy? Heero ground his teeth in frustration, feeling a tic in his jaw. The pager had been a godsend, because he still couldn't account for where his common sense had been in that hotel room and he wasn't even sure he could look Duo in the eye now. Not that Duo had exactly just been standing there waiting for him to finish whatever he'd been doing, that was for sure, but he had probably been coming down off of an adrenaline high after their crazy escape and who knew what kind of trauma he'd been experiencing on top of that. Heero felt disgusting.

 

And now he had to go to Liechtenstein to kill some sixteen-year-old girl. “If only life had a money-back guarantee,” he grumbled to himself.

 

***

 

It felt like he hadn't actually stopped moving at all in the past few days, Heero mused as he finally collapsed on the bed in his hotel room. It was the preceding month of laziness—'healing', as Trowa and his sister had insisted it was whenever he'd complained—that was responsible for this. Sighing loudly, he stared at the white, nondescript ceiling for a few minutes, his arms sprawled out to either side of him as he listened to his own breathing. Once his brain felt sufficiently caught up to the rest of him, Heero heaved himself back upright and went to dig through his duffel bag, eventually unearthing the envelope that J had given him with his full briefing inside. He sat down heavily on the bed again to open it and examine its contents for the first time, having not been too bothered earlier to get anything but the barest facts and a destination from his employer. Ripping open the manila flap with a flourish, he dumped the papers all over the bedspread; the first thing that caught his eye was the glossy photo lying on top of some stamped and official-looking documents. He picked it up by a corner and held it up to the light to examine it. It was a paparazzi-quality shot of the target at a mall that looked American, and she herself looked very familiar. After a moment he was able to place the face, not to a real person but to another photograph of the same girl in a school uniform. He dropped the picture back onto the pile in disgust.

 

The same girl.

 

It was the same fucking girl!

 

An unwelcome review played through his mind of his first two missions involving the assassination of this girl, both of which had failed horribly and had led to his meeting Duo Maxwell and the eventual fucking-up of his emotions, the effects of which he was feeling in the present. Twice he'd been interfered with, twice he'd failed, and what the hell was she doing in Europe now? What was so important about this spoiled-looking teenager that J had apparently felt the need to test the 'third time's a charm' theory? Heero leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes in frustration.

 

When glaring at the floor for several minutes failed to make him feel better, he reluctantly raised his head, turned on the bedside lamp in defiance of the fading sunlight, and turned his attention back to his briefing material. Myriad photocopies of official documents mingled with pages of handwritten reports mingled with newspaper clippings and photographs, and it took Heero more than an hour to get through it all. When he was finished, he finally had a very clear picture of what was going on lately and some idea as to why this girl was important to anyone.

 

She was deposed royalty, returned to claim the throne of her country but not yet ascended or even widely known about yet, although Heero doubted that would last much longer. An explosion in Washington, D.C. had killed her adoptive father (suspected assassination, apparently) and in short order she and her adoptive mother had relocated to Liechtenstein, where they were now residing quietly. But not quietly enough to avoid detection, obviously. J had probably run his best spies into the ground to uncover all of this information, Heero thought.

 

While the right to rule a country seemed important, one had to consider that it was a very small nation with not much in the way of exports and not a lot of pull in international politics. Not a lot of evident pull, anyway. It was the history of the royal family that lent any relevance to its sudden and imminent return. Relena Friedenskraft-cum-Darlian came from a line of pacifistic rulers that had buoyed a tiny, insignificant nation enough to weather both World Wars, the Nazi occupation, and several other European conflicts besides. Most of the Friedenskraft kings and queens had carried a lot of respect and therefore clout (albeit somewhat behind-the-scenes clout) with other, stronger European nations, dispensing advice and sometimes funding in exchange for protection and consideration. For hundreds of years, the name Friedenskraft had carried weight much more significant than the family's holdings could have earned.

 

“Imagine if World War III started in Europe,” Heero mumbled quietly to the empty hotel room. Hitler had understood well the power of symbols in swaying a people to a singular cause.

 

So did OZ, probably.

 

The hush seemed more contemplative as the teen carefully put all of the gathered intelligence back in the manila envelope and turned out the light.

 

***

 

Colours of twilight painted the desert sky as a lone, black helicopter made its landing on a solitary-looking concrete pad. Quatre glanced sideways at his sister, who was staring out the small window, probably lost in thought. Her movements were abrupt and a little bit hurried as he watched her snap back to the present and start to gather herself to leave the helicopter. He gave himself a little shake and rubbed at his eyes before following her example; he hadn't slept for the past two days.

 

The siblings stepped out onto the hot pavement, their bags slung over their shoulders and their hair whipped around by the wind from the rotors above. The loud thup-thup-thup the rotors made seemed to be telling Quatre's heart how things were supposed to be done, and his breath was hitching in his chest as a result.

 

He caught sight of the car, parked several metres away with the sky reflected off its glossy, black exterior, and the man standing in front of it, in a pressed gray suit and sunglasses and with his bodyguards a discreet few metres behind him. Iria's hand found his and squeezed quickly before she broke away and trotted forward to greet the man waiting. He gave her a hug, a warm smile obvious on his face, before turning his attention to Quatre, who was still approaching, and extending his hand.

 

“Quatre,” he said, deep tones that Quatre hadn't heard in years rolling past his ears over the noise of the helicopter.

 

“Father,” Quatre managed, grasping his hand and trying to remember to use a firm, confident grip.

 

Mr. Winner drew him into a manly, one-armed hug, their handshake trapped between them. “Welcome home, son,” he said, clapping Quatre on the back.

 

Quatre locked eyes with Iria over his father's shoulder. Her face looked like he felt: apprehensive and self-conscious. “Thank you,” he whispered.

 

***

 

Relena shut off her hairdryer and frowned at her reflection in the mirror, turning her head this way and that. After a few moments of examining her hair and the way the morning sun caught it, she sighed and sagged in her bureau chair. Long, straight hair was so boring. She was contemplating digging out her curling iron when she suddenly caught sight of her alarm clock reflected in the mirror. She whipped around to look at it, cursed softly, and snatched her hairbrush off the bureau in a panic.

 

Less than two minutes later, she was jogging down the hallway, her customary joined braids bobbing up and down behind her head as her footsteps thudded dully in the thick Persian rugs. People form habits because they don't have time for anything else, she thought in annoyance as she turned the corner that led to the breakfast room. And I shouldn't have to do gym class when I jog three miles a day between the bathroom and my food, either, she added as she slowed down to approach the doorway. Pargan had nothing but disdain for running in the house, no matter the motivation.

 

“Good morning, Yo—Miss Relena,” Pargan said, looking up from pouring Noin's coffee. She was slowly breaking him of the 'Your Highness' thing, but it was taking time. At least he made more of an effort now. Perhaps Noin had something to do with that. Relena returned the greeting and sat in the chair across from Noin, nodding at Pargan as he poured her a demitasse of coffee to go with her orange juice and toast.

 

Neither she nor Noin was very talkative at breakfast, so they ate in comfortable silence for several minutes as Noin scanned the newspaper and Relena stared absently out the window. She was studying a rosebush across the lawn and idly chewing a mouthful of toast when someone suddenly popped into her field of vision, striding across the lawn in jeans and a t-shirt. She dropped her toast in her surprise and turned quickly to look at Noin, eyes wide. Noin was still reading the paper.

 

Frowning, Relena swallowed hastily, wincing in discomfort, and, at a loss for words, emitted a high-pitched squeal, her hands flapping in a panic as she finally attracted her bodyguard's attention. Noin glanced up sharply at the noise and then sat up straight, her face all business with a slight tinge of worry visible underneath. “Miss Relena, what is it?”

 

Relena jabbed a long-nailed finger toward the window. “There's someone wandering around outside!” she finally hissed.

 

Noin looked to the window, furrowing her brow, and then suddenly relaxed. “Oh, that's just the new gardener,” she said with a grin. “You had me really worried for a moment, there.” Apparently satisfied with this answer, Noin went back to her newspaper.

 

Relena wasn't appeased yet. “We have a new gardener? Since when?” she demanded.

 

Noin looked back up at her over the top of the page. “I finished checking up on him late yesterday, and he started at five o'clock this morning. He's working Monday through Friday.”

 

Relena crumbled the edge off of her toast. “What's his name?” she asked.

 

Noin's face scrunched up in thought for a second. “...Karl Gehlen. He's from Austria but he came here in his early teens to live with an uncle and he's been here ever since. Nice, soft-spoken guy.” She gave Relena a shrewd look. “Are there any important details I'm forgetting, Miss Relena?” she asked in a distinctly teasing tone.

 

Relena ignored her. “No, I think that is more than adequate, Noin,” she said primly, picking up her orange juice. “I am always glad to hear that you are thorough in your work.”

 

Noin snorted, and Relena would have glared if she hadn't been drinking right then. When she put down her glass, Noin stood up and folded her paper. “Well, Miss, let's get going or you'll be late for school. Wouldn't want that, would we?”

 

Relena groaned and got up to follow Noin out of the room, grabbing her bookbag off of a nearby chair as she left. She had a test in Math today. It was the only subject she currently had a hope of passing in spite of the language barrier, but tests were tests.

 

As Noin guided her little, blue car down the gravel drive, Relena peered out the window as discreetly as she could manage, looking for a better glimpse of the new gardener, Karl. She got one, and her eyebrows nearly shot into her hairline when she saw him.

 

God, he's cute! Wait till I tell Dorothy! she thought with a silly grin, hugging her bag to her chest. That Math test didn't seem so ominous, anymore.

 

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A/N: I find Relena's trials of a (comparatively) normal teenage life a striking contrast to, well, everyone else. And it amuses me greatly. Don't get too disgusted by her innocence and carefree-ness; she doesn't know any better. YET.