Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Scissored Kismets ❯ Somewhere Between Unsure and a Hundred ( Chapter 6 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: Schizoid Sprite
Dorothy goes to the circus to visit Trowa after what happened in the ball the previous night-----and set chaos ensuing because of a bad joke.

Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Romance / Comedy | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 06.10.2009 | Pages: 4 | Words: 5.3K | Visits: 187 | Status: Work In Progress

CHAPTER 6: Somewhere between Unsure and a Hundred

"A difference of taste in jokes is a great strain on the affections." -George Elliot

“You've been out shutterbuggin' again?”
She didn't look up when he spoke but he didn't miss the darkening of the gunmetal gray of her eyes with the aid of the scanty light from the LCD of her camera. She continued pressing, the creases on her brow deepening on each shot that she studied.
“Very ordinary,” she exhaled her own criticism bitterly. “None of them fit for being the frontispiece. No bonus again. ”
“It's just freelance. Good thing you didn't choose to quit your day job.”
She arched a pale brow at his mocking comment and feigned hurt in her wet pout. “Nice thing to say to cheer up a friend, huh?”
“I make it a point to never tell a lie, sweetness,” he said with a feral grin. “Now, lemme see the shots.”
She gingerly detached the ancient DSLR from her neck and handed it to him, eyes nearly narrowing to slits. He accepted the device and chose to ignore the way she appeared as if she wanted to say something. She would confess later anyway.
The first photograph showed the vice foreign minister. Her smiling eyes, unhindered by the shadows of the mask, were a dead giveaway that she was enjoying the night. He let his eyes roam and spotted the nearest man to her—the last man he thought to attend such a gathering—and simpered smugly. Well, if it weren't for his tossed brown hair, he wouldn't have recognized him. It was strange to see Heero donned in a tux and a glittery black mask, as he had only seen him in some sort of green and black rags and bad yellow sneakers. The new outfit didn't make him appear more civilized, though; he looked more like a man fixed up for an emergency event after being chucked out of a time machine.
Faces of unfamiliar politicians came after that, and he passed on them a little faster. He was stopping whenever he sees anyone blonde in hopes to catch Quatre. His first stop was of a woman, so he went on to the next—and went back again when he caught a glimpse of a familiar face.
“Trowa,” he breathed. The tall man wasn't wearing any sort of mask, but that could be justified by his waterfall of hair. The blonde on Trowa's arm wasn't ringing any bell. He pressed on to the next picture, which was of Quatre, with Trowa and the same woman.
“Hey Brookie,” he called, blindly waving for his photographer friend to come to him. Brooke emerged from the opposite side.
“What? Oh, that picture. I don't know him either.”
“Actually, it's her that I can't recognize.”
“You mean Dorothy Catalonia?” She gaped incredulously. “Is that the effect of too much exposure to radioactive space debris or of long-term incarceration in a scrap vessel? Her face is everywhere, especially—“
“Oh, a politician then,” he interrupted. “I find space debris and scrap satellites more interesting than their garbage, really.”
He began scanning the next images lazily.
“She's more of a businesswoman actually, and the garbage you're talking about is where I get extra income so don't sound like politics is the worst thing on Earth.”
“Does it count when I say it's the worst thing on the colonies?”
She gave him a playful slap on the arm and snatched the camera back. “Wait…do you know that other guy?”
“You mean Trowa Barton?” he asked tauntingly. She stopped her frantic pushing on the `next' button and snapped her head up, and he could almost hear her mind repeat the name. “Is that the effect of too much thinking about money or of long-term depression for a failed paparazzi career?”
She instinctively motioned to throw her camera at him and caught herself just in time. There was no way he was going to spill a lot of information about the other ex-Gundam pilot, he decided when an odd light crept upon her face.
“He's Quatre's friend,” he economized the answer when her eyes questioned him.
“Quatre. On a first name basis, huh?”
He just shrugged. “You know Brookie, you can just work full-time for the Sweepers. I have a feeling that you're going to try journalism.”
“I can't see any problem in that.”
“Well, I can,” he cheerfully said. “I might be a space scavenger, but I still care for the field—if I can prevent you from marring its name, I will. After all, it's the media that is the number one adversary of politics.”
“Some press people accept under-the-table payments.”
“Yes, some. The rest are not like you.”
“Hey,” Brooke called at his retreating form, remembering something. “I've heard that a friend of the VFM…a certain Duo Maxwell…wasn't able to attend. Perhaps you know him?”
“You do. I do too, but then I really don't.”

 
 
“When the flyer swings to his lowest point, gravity accelerates him to his maximum speed—therefore it is his maximum kinetic energy and his lowest potential energy. Assuming that the bottom of his swing is the point of reference for all the energy calculations—“
Quatre stopped in mid-speech when his chalked equations were brushed and covered by a steaming bowl of stew. He didn't look up, but he could feel the almost tangible irritation of the woman that was standing from across the table.
“I don't know what your problem is,” Catherine spat, pushing a curl behind the shell of her ear. “But whatever it maybe, leave our table alone. Just so you know, that's one of the first things I purchased with my salary as a knife-thrower. Old and almost brittle, yes, but try to respect something that you can't replace. Then go get yourself a real blackboard.”
He stifled a sigh and apologetically fixed his eyes at the stub of chalk that he rolled on his palm. “Sorry.”
She pulled a chair next to his and slumped down with exaggerated body language that translated to annoyance, muttering something under her breath that made the blonde feel a little sorrier. It was bad enough that she had to play host to him instead of performing for today's circus. He was definitely not helping with his cockeyed antics.
She pushed the bowl aside and peered at the slightly clouded writings he left on the wood.
“Are you into witchcraft or something? What are these, formula for love potions?”
Quatre let out a halfhearted laugh as she rubbed the equals sign between the PE and KE.
“Physics, Cathy,” he said, looking straight at the wall, absently doodling something next to the last equation. “The trapeze act works like a simple pendulum. The artist is a mass on the end of an inextensible string, so the—“
He cut himself off when Catherine leaned closer and lowered her head towards the scribbles.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“That it works like a pendulum?”
“That they're not formula for love potions,” Catherine said, arching one auburn brow as she stabbed her finger at the wood with a dull thud.
He hadn't written any numbers after the last equation but there were other figures. They were almost formless, but the little dent on the top of each and the zigzagging lines that halved them into two sections indicated them as hearts.
Broken hearts…
He didn't like the impish smile that suddenly appeared on her face.
Catherine crossed her legs and tilted her head so she looked like she was sizing up a billiard ball for a crack. “Tell me if I'm—“
“You're wrong,” he interrupted instantaneously. He thumbed the figures to fuzzy stains and pulled the bowl on the top of it.”Whatever you're thinking, just keep it to yourself. I don't need to hear it.”
“Oh, come on, Quatre,” she teased. “Heartbreaks are inevitable. They're a part of growing up. It's not the end of the world if a woman rejects you...and there are a lot of fish in the ocean.”
Quatre ignored the last statement. “I don't believe that a woman rejected me.”
“Translation—I don't want to accept the fact that the girl of my dreams doesn't like me.”
“Catherine, I'm not here to serve as your verbal punching bag.”
“As an emotional one, perhaps?”
“Cathy!”
She burst into convulsive giggles and threw her head back. “Fine then, I won't touch that topic anymore if that's what you want. But…is that why you want to talk to Trowa? I haven't seen him yet after he went to shower. Think he's still changing in his tent.”
He scooped a spoonful of the soup and stared at it. “If I want to talk to Trowa, I don't have to `vandalize' your furniture with Trapeze physics.”
“What do you want then?”
“I want to learn how to fly.”
“What?”
“The basics of Trapeze.”
“What?!”
He enclosed his mouth over the spoon. Catherine's chair almost fell back when she stood up, incredulous.
“Quatre, if you plan to kill yourself just because you've been dumped, you can do it somewhere else!”
“I'm not—“
What he planned on saying was quickly effaced, as his whole attention was dragged to whatever he put in his mouth.
“W-what's this?” came his stifled voice from behind the hand he brought to cover his mouth. He was a bit surprised that the words were still slightly intelligible despite the tortured taste buds numbing his whole mouth.
Catherine raised an eyebrow at his trembling finger pointing to the soup. “Minestrone. It's my specialty.”
Quatre's face went an unwholesome white.
“Any problem? It's Trowa's favorite.”
“Maybe I should see Trowa now…You know, I'm not really hungry…”
For the first time in his life he thought about not going to the circus. Ever.

 
“You know that you don't have to come here. I won't tell Quatre anything about what I saw.”
“I'm not here for that.”
Dorothy braided her fingers with the strings of the rubber diabolo on his makeshift bed. She'd been casually playing with the juggling prop since she barged into his tent, and though she knew she looked like a simpleton who for the first time held a product of modern technology, the sharp feel of his eyes on her and his cold refusal to make her feel welcomed were downright pleasurable.
“Besides,” she continued, “You saw nothing.”
“Nothing?” Trowa's visible green eye narrowed. He pushed himself away from the metal post and faced her fully with crossed arms. “I saw your tears.”
Yes he did. After he silently led her out of the balcony last night and transferred her to Quatre's arm, she felt a little drawn to him--a little more drawn that is, for she knew she'd been sort of 'intrigued' by him after the Libra incident. She wasn't aware what kind of relationship Trowa and Quatre had, but she was certain that the silent man was closer to the blonde than most people. That fact, and the other that he didn't tell Quatre anything about her showcase of jealousy in a completely wrong situation, seemed to have added to the unusual gravitation. Not that she didn't expect him to spill the beans sooner…but then, he'd said he would keep his mouth shut about the whole thing, just an instant ago. She had this feeling that Trowa wasn't one to break his words.
“They're just water,” she blurted out. “Mr. Winner saw buckets of them before.”
“So he said. But I believe the reason behind each drop is more intriguing and important than their number.”
She aired a gulp of laugh as she pulled herself to a sitting position. She held the spool of the prop up to her eye level like a brightly colored goblet, as if calling for a toast. “I never expected that it would be you who I would be chatting with about tears, Mr. Barton. Reason equates to explanation, and the very water you're so engrossed about now doesn't entail anything but understanding—without using logic. There is no reason for each drop.”
“Because there's an emotion in each of them?” he mused with a hint of disdain. “I can vaguely remember someone saying that love is the only rational act, yet no reason could ever be put beside it. That's why it's so hard to comprehend it.”
“I don't understand why love gets into this,” she said with pretended plaintiveness. Her eyes held a sarcastic smile. She was slowly realizing that she was a master of facades. Two layers over the true feeling inside her? Class act.
“Yes you do,” he shot back before she could continue, as if his eyes sheared past those layers. “But discussing it with you isn't one of my tasks for today. Just state your real reason in coming here and then leave.”
“Why, Mr. Barton,” she let one leg dangle to the side of the bed as she spoke, “I just want to spend some time with an acquaintance from the good old days.”
“We're less intimate than acquaintances.”
“Am I still your enemy? The war's ended already Mr. Barton, move on. Oh, I think I'm overestimating Quatre's friends.”
He made no answer.
“Won't you offer me anything? A drink maybe?” She plunged back to the bed, her eyes never leaving his.
“I don't entertain trespassers, especially a tart.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“I don't believe I like the way you said that.”
“I don't believe I care much.”
He paced towards her with exaggerated slowness. When he reached the side of the bed, he clasped her wrist firmly and guided her up.
“Civilians are not allowed anywhere but in the big top. I'm sorry Miss Catalonia, but if I don't want to lose my job, I think I have to get rid of you.”
She tugged her hand away from his. “Let's say I refuse…”
“I'll tell Quatre you're here to coax me on revealing to you his favorite movies.”
“What?”
“What his favorite color is, where he hangs out during holidays, what kind of books he likes to read, if he likes chocolates. I'm going to tell Quatre you have a crush on him and you're cajoling me into setting you up for a one-night stand.”
“That's…” She groped for a sharp rejoinder to hurl back at him, but she was at a total lost.
“That's what I'll tell him. I'll wager my salary for the whole month—he'll believe me.”
She shakily tossed a handful of her hair to her shoulder. “No, he won't. I'll say it's you who're asking me about my favorites and forcing me to a date.”
“Best friend versus stabbing nemesis? You're on.”
With that, he roughly grabbed her arm and dragged her to a standing position. Dorothy gasped at the sudden rashness but she was more surprised to hear herself laughing. It was a tug-of-war, her arm the rope.
“Let me go you—ow!”
Trowa caught his breath when his foot slid on top of a stack of wooden stilts, causing him to lose his balance and fall down with a crash. Dorothy was also dragged down but she landed on top of him, giggling. Both of them didn't hear the crescendoing thuds of feet on the grass outside the tent, but a worried voice from behind the closed flap quickly silenced them.
“Trowa? What's happening in there?”
There was something in Trowa's reaction to the voice that excited the little demon on Dorothy's shoulder. She could almost feel it tugging at her ear to execute the little plan that bloomed in her head.
“Catherine?” she heard him ask. “Nothing, Cathy it's—“
She placed a hand on his mouth to cut him off. She winked at the questioning frown of his brow. “I'm sorry for the din, Miss Catherine,” she bellowed.
“D-do you need anything?”
“Let's see how you get out of this, zero three,” she exhaled to his ear. She cleared her throat before she yelled, “Maybe…some clean bed sheets?”

 
Outside, Catherine and Quatre mirrored each other's expressions—only she didn't stay long enough to notice that. He wasn't able to stop her when she spun on her heel and broke into a run because apparently, he couldn't get himself out of the temporary paralysis he was in.
That voice…
He watched, with his hands unconsciously clenching to his sides, how the flap was thrown open and how a perspiring Trowa hastily stepped out of the tent.
“Cath…Quatre?”