lukon_idein (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lukon_idein) wrote2007-04-01 09:13 pm
lukon_idein) wrote2007-04-01 09:13 pm
Emerging from the Pit
Well, it certainly has been a while since I've posted. **Whinge Alert - feel free to skip ahead to story at end of post.** I was in something of a panic after my last post - it led to a slew of really, really amazing feedback and I was completely overwhelmed, and a bit unnerved to think that all these people were reading my stuff. Totally scary. Silly, I realize, because why the hell else does one post to a journal and make it public?? But still, I've been reasonably anonymous so far, which is actually kind of a comfortable place to be.
Knowing people read your posts is great, because it's wonderful to have friends who share similarperversions interests, but it also changes slightly the audience for whom I write my posts - which has for the most part been, um, me. But as my audience gains more of a face I feel more pressure to be careful what I say so I don't offend anyone. Which is a little restricting. But everything comes with a price, I suppose. And then with so many people saying such wonderful things about my stories - it's so exciting but also gave me one hell of a case of writer's block. Or, rather, performance anxiety! The thought that people expect certain things from you is kind of terrifying. Guess I'm just used to blending into the background. (Maybe why I'm so fond of Trowa?)
I have a friend I met in a summer program once - she, one other guy and I were older than most of the other students there and had some work experience under our belt, while everyone else was fresh out of their undergrad lives, so we didn't really have much in common with them. So the three of us hung out together a lot for meals and such, and called ourselves the Island of Misfit Toys. It's usually a small place to be, but I'm used to it. But I guess the entire internet is filled with them - an Archipelago of Misfit Toys!
And there's another friend I made during my current program and she is completely and totally popular. Not that bitchy Queen of the World popular, but the geuinely nice completely thoughtful and fun popular. I've never had a friend like that. I used to find myself feeling jealous every now and then of everyone else trying to claim her time, until I realized what the problem was. Now I mostly admire how she handles people and wonder at how she seems to care about and for so many people. It would be too stressful for me. I'd always be worrying about making everyone happy and needing things from me and it would drive me out of my mind. Literally.
All of which I find a bit amusing in the light of the story I just read on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
love_trowa - Just Might Break by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
taigne. Some of the thoughts rolling around in Trowa's brain in that one are just a little too close to my own. CREE - PEEEE. Still, nice to know I'm not the only to have had thoughts like that. *goes to yellow pages to look for therapist*
So now that my brooding sulk is over - for the time being at least - I finally conquered my fear of writing enough to scribble down this one. An idea which has been kicking around in my head for a while now. Since I still seem to be blocked on the Fresh New Idea front, I figured I'd better just go raid my backlog of Weird Old Ideas. And if any of you have followed my ramblings this far - God bless you, and sorry for being a whiny baby!
Title: Family Ties
Author: Lukoni
Characters: Mariemeia Kushrenada, Trowa Barton (references to 3x4)
Word Count: ca. 2700
Summary: Mariemeia wants something from the man who bears her uncle’s name.
Rating: G
Warnings: Minor peril. Humor. Mild hair abuse.
Notes: Set post-EW. Written forgw500 challenge #166: Comb. This idea came to me a while back after reading a slew of stories that involved T&Q dealing with their own children or those of Quatre’s sisters (especially the most excellent ‘Favorite Uncle’ stories by Windsor Blue) – this is a sort of irreverent response that is in no way intended as a criticism of any of those stories and should not be construed to actually take place in any of those universes. I hope no one will be offended. Feedback/Criticism/Typo notifications welcome. Thanks for reading!
Family Ties
The red-headed girl seethed with fury as she stared at the screen on the wall. This was the last straw. She clicked the comm button on the table beside her.
”Jenkins.”
“Yes, my lady?” came the immediate reply.
“I need your help. Please come see me.”
“Right away, my lady.”
She smiled grimly. Always so efficient and loyal. To her father. And thus to her, now. Inherited, second-hand love. Her eyes flicked back to the screen. There, paused in action, was Quatre Winner, the world’s golden boy. War hero, philanthropist, business genius, charming media darling. He was lifting a little girl with golden hair and luminous brown eyes from the lawn of a stately building. The wedding of yet another of his sisters – Aidah or some such nonsense. The place was crawling with adorable Winner nieces and nephews and the media was eating it up. And there just over his shoulder, was Golden Boy’s tall and silent partner, smiling softly in the background. Always in the background, hair over one eye as if that would really make him invisible. Not this time, however. This time another young Winner spawn, riding merrily on his shoulders, had pulled it back away from his face, and secured it with a gaudy pink tiara – clearly torn from her own once neatly coiffed hair – the little combs on the band digging uncomfortably into the skin at his temples. Her eyes narrowed menacingly.
The door opened. A tall man with grey-flecked hair and an impeccable black suit walked up to where she was seated on the couch and bowed.
“How may I help you, my lady?”
“You see that man there,” she asked pointing to the screen.
“Quatre Winner, my lady?”
“No, the other one. Behind him.” The man hesitated, unwilling to name the figure. He was a topic generally avoided in this household.
“I see him, my lady.”
“You know who he is?”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Good. Bring him to me.” He hesitated again.
“Right now, my lady?”
“Yes, now.”
“I don’t think your guardian would approve.”
“Of course she wouldn’t approve! That is why it must be now, while she’s at work.” The man looked like he wanted to argue further, but another glance at the stern set of his mistress’s jaw forestalled him.
“Yes, my lady.” He bowed once more and turned to leave.
“Oh, and Jenkins?” she said, as he reached the door. He paused. “If he is uncooperative, you have my permission to use force.” His shoulders stiffened, but he merely answered with a quiet “Yes, my lady,” before shutting the door behind him.
She grinned wickedly at the screen. “This is long overdue, Trowa Barton.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Trowa Barton, war hero, former circus performer, current Preventer agent and spouse of the outrageously rich and famous Quatre Raberba Winner, was polishing off a large pastrami on rye at his favorite deli tucked in a back alley four and a half blocks from headquarters. Not only was their pastrami spiced to perfection and their rye baked fresh every day, they had the best pickles in the known universe. Sal always gave him two, one to eat with the sandwich, and one to savor during his walk back to the office.
A quick glance at his watch told Trowa he still had ten minutes till his meeting started. Plenty of time. He slid a generous tip under the edge of his plate, snagged his pickle and waved goodbye to Sal behind the counter. As he stepped out into the alley he became aware of the unusual sight of a limousine parked a short way from the deli. He frowned, but thought only that it was likely to be vandalized if left for too long even in this part of town. He was not at all prepared for the doors to open as he came up to it, nor for the four large men in dark suits and sunglasses who silently surrounded him. He shifted into a fighting stance, tossing a quick appraising glance at each thug.
A fifth man emerged from the back of the vehicle. Tall and distinguished looking, dark hair with a hint of grey coming in, Trowa felt sure he should recognize the man but he did not.
“Mr. Barton. My mistress wishes to see you.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked a perplexed Trowa, ransacking his brain for any woman he knew who might send large minions after him. Only one name came to mind: Dorothy Catalonia. But that didn’t make any sense. She and Quatre were on the best of terms, and while the two had once been embroiled in a contest of increasingly complex pranks on one another, a truce had officially been declared after the night they spent stuck together floating over the Sahara in a hot air balloon.
“Please come with me. I promise no harm will come to you.” The man was smooth and polished – probably ex-Romafeller – but he did seem sincere. Perhaps it was the worry he could see in the man’s eye.
“Do I know your mistress?”
“You have not been officially introduced.”
“And what does she want?”
“Just to talk.” This was a lie, Trowa could tell, but he suspected it was only because the man didn’t know the answer to the question. There was no menacing swagger behind the words, just a hint of nervous discomfort. The man apparently didn’t want to be doing this. He wondered who could command such loyalty. Une? Except she was waiting for him back at Preventers HQ, and hardly needed a carload of muscle to get him to come back to work.
“And if I don’t want to go with you?”
“I’m afraid I really must insist.” The four thugs took a step closer, infringing on his personal space. He could probably take them, but possibly not without injury – either to himself or some of the passersby. While the alley itself was currently deserted, people were regularly walking past the entrance only a few meters away, and, of course, deli customers could come or go at any moment.
“Are you going to tell me who your mistress is?” The man smiled blandly.
“I will let her explain herself when you get there.” Damn. The man had judged his target well. Withhold just enough information to make him a prisoner of his own curiosity. Diabolical. Trowa had to respect him for that. And for some reason he also trusted him. He sensed no real threat beyond that of being shoved by force into the car. With a silent prayer that he was right and was not about to leave Quatre a widower, he made up his mind.
“What’s your name?”
“Jenkins.”
“All right, Jenkins. I’ll come with you. I hope you don’t mind me eating in the car,” he said, taking a loud, crunching bite of his pickle. With that he pushed past the nearest thug and slid gracefully into the waiting vehicle.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A mere half an hour later Trowa found himself being propelled through a modest but elegant mansion in one of the oldest parts of the city. Quatre had considered buying a place in the neighborhood when Trowa joined the Preventers but the green-eyed pilot had convinced him that a penthouse closer the United Earthsphere headquarters would be more practical. As a strong hand on each shoulder guided him down a hallway, he continued to try to figure out who he was being brought to see. He had a feeling he was being particularly dense.
His two escorts ushered him through a set of glass doors into a large formal dining room and shoved him down into a chair at one end of a long mahogany table. He found himself facing a larger-than-life sized portrait of Treize Kushrenada. Light dawned. Jenkins bent to whisper in his ear.
“I trust I need not tell you that if you hurt her, I will kill you,” said Jenkins sternly in his ear. Trowa met his eye and nodded solemnly. Satisfied, the man and his entourage quietly withdrew. The chair at the opposite end of the table began to swivel slowly around.
“Mariemeia,” Trowa said softly. He was met by the fierce blue-eyed gaze of a pretty young woman whose childhood he’d glimpsed so long ago. He suddenly remembered the feel of Trowa, the real Trowa’s arm around him as he showed young Nanashi a picture of a girl that would someday be queen. That was six years ago. The girl had not become queen, and had changed much from the girl he remembered seeing in that photo. Her hair was longer, her body more mature, and there was a certain sadness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. But she still had that penetrating stare. The same one the original Trowa had had. And that stubbornness. The same stubbornness that had gotten the arrogant pilot killed. They hadn’t been friends. Not really. But the brash Barton had appreciated what the young mechanic could do and always brought him a candy bar when he came down to inspect his gundam.
“Uncle Trowa,” said the girl with false casualness. Trowa’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “So good of you to come.”
“I... I beg your pardon?” He seemed to be saying that a lot today.
“I said Uncle. Trowa.”
“But...”
“You’re not my uncle? Oh but you are. Since you killed the real one, it is your responsibility to take his place.”
“I didn’t kill him.” It never occurred to Trowa that she had believed that all this time. He was suddenly surprised no one had yet stuck a knife in his back. He wondered if one was coming shortly. She scowled at his response, unwilling to believe it. He wasn’t sure if he should be telling her this, but then he felt the truth was always better in the long run than those cloying lies adults always felt were needed to protect children. “It was Simms. Dr. S’s assistant.” She scowled again.
“But you took his place.”
“Yes.”
“Then you took on his responsibilities too. Including me.” This was not what Trowa was expecting. Actually he had no idea what he had been expecting but it was not this.
“And what exactly does that mean?”
“You have to be my uncle.”
Trowa raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“Do uncle-y things with me.”
“Such as?” At this Mariemeia frowned.
“I don’t know. I’ve never had one before. But Macey’s uncle took her to the moon base for her thirteenth birthday. And Lydia’s uncle sends her a trunkful of snacks at the beginning of each term. And when Constantia wanted to try red wine and her parents wouldn’t let her, her uncle gave her some when they weren’t looking.”
Trowa had no idea what to say to this. He felt that somewhere along the way he must have fallen down a rabbit hole and ended up at the strangest tea party he could imagine.
“So you want me to give you junk food and alcohol and take you on trips?”
“No! Yes. I don’t know. Just do uncle-y things. I’ve seen you do it.”
“You have?”
“Sure. Who can have missed all those lovely photo ops with Quatre Winner and all his adorable nieces and nephews over the last few years?” The venom underlying these words was unmistakable. And Trowa began to get an inkling of where this girl was coming from. “And you are usually there too. Crawling with little brats. And let me tell you that pink tiaras don’t become you.”
Trowa smiled at this mortal insult, though he had the good grace to blush ever so slightly in embarrassment. This was followed up with the hint of a dangerous gleam in his eye. Quatre would have recognized this immediately as a sign that he was about to be tackled and tickled mercilessly. Mariemeia was not yet familiar with it.
“So you want to sit on my shoulders and play with my hair?”
“No! Of course not!!”
“Or ride around on my back while I pretend to be a rampaging lion?”
“No!”
“Or dress me up in frilly dresses and serve me tea?”
“NO! What? You... they make you wear dresses?” she asked in astonishment.
“No,” he answered gravely. Then she noticed the tension around the corners of his mouth that indicated mirth being suppressed.
“You.... you... you’re teasing me!”
Trowa got up from his seat and walked over to her end of the table. He smiled his infuriating half-smile at the cloud forming on her brow. But before she could explode he perched on the corner by her chair and said “Lesson number one of uncles – they tease you incessantly but never out of malice.” Her face cleared at that.
“So you will be my uncle, then?” As he looked at the tentative hope glimmering in her eye he knew he could not refuse a fellow orphan in distress. He knew what it was like to crave family. To create one where one was lacking. To want to force someone to love you. And he recalled how many of her family members he’d seen die. Helped to kill. Maybe she was right. Since he’d kept Trowa’s name, the least he could do was take on some of his responsibilities.
“As long as it’s all right with your guardian.” The girl paled somewhat at this.
“You’re not going to tell Lady Une about this, are you?”
“Of course.” He raised his hands defensively to stave off her protests. “Rule number two: uncles can’t be secret. That’s just not how it works. If you try to hide me, she’ll think you’re hiding a boyfriend and will have you shipped off to the colonies faster than you can say Milliardo Peacecraft.” Mariemeia stared at him for a second with wide eyes, then burst out giggling.
“I will do my best,” Trowa informed her, “to keep the kidnapping part out of the story, but Une really does need to know that you... we... plan to become friends.”
“I... I can’t talk to her about stuff like that.”
“Of course you can. She’s a very understanding person under all that armor, you know.” Eyes downcast, she sighed and kicked absently at the table leg.
“And I will work my uncle-y magic on her from my end. But you have to support me by letting her know this is what you want. Otherwise she’s going to think I’m some creepy pedophile who’s been hiding behind Quatre all these years.” Again she looked momentarily stunned at his candor, but then, as she began to recognize his humor, she laughed.
“I hope you don’t say things like that to Quatre Winner’s nieces.”
“Not on your life,” he said, winking at her. “They’re all sweet and sheltered. My side of the family is made of much tougher stuff.” He could almost see her swell with pride at the idea of this special bond between them. It was the same thing he felt when he went to visit Cathy and her family and she’d always have a special hug just for him. He never thought he’d have a chance to give that feeling to someone else. It made him feel just a touch proud himself.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Chang?” Trowa asked, responding to the strident ringing of his phone, recently returned to him by Jenkins, who had taken it from him during their limo ride.
“Barton? Where the hell are you?”
“I’m sorry I missed the meeting. Something unexpected came up.”
“I’ve got a deli owner here that says he saw you getting hustled into a limo.”
“An unfortunate misunderstanding. Everything’s fine now.”
“Are you sure, 03?” An old gambit of theirs to make sure Trowa wasn’t being forced to lie to him. Trowa smiled, remembering the time it had saved his life. He was glad he wouldn’t need it today.
“Yes, 05.”
“Save the sweet talk for Winner. Une’s ready to serve your head on a platter for missing this meeting.” Trowa’s eyes drifted to his new young protégé steadfastly tossing a series of apples in the air then patiently picking them up off the lawn when she dropped them.
She scowled at him when she saw caught him watching her. “I’ve almost got it,” she insisted. He grinned.
“Don’t worry,” he told Chang. ”Une will understand.”
~ fin ~
Knowing people read your posts is great, because it's wonderful to have friends who share similar
I have a friend I met in a summer program once - she, one other guy and I were older than most of the other students there and had some work experience under our belt, while everyone else was fresh out of their undergrad lives, so we didn't really have much in common with them. So the three of us hung out together a lot for meals and such, and called ourselves the Island of Misfit Toys. It's usually a small place to be, but I'm used to it. But I guess the entire internet is filled with them - an Archipelago of Misfit Toys!
And there's another friend I made during my current program and she is completely and totally popular. Not that bitchy Queen of the World popular, but the geuinely nice completely thoughtful and fun popular. I've never had a friend like that. I used to find myself feeling jealous every now and then of everyone else trying to claim her time, until I realized what the problem was. Now I mostly admire how she handles people and wonder at how she seems to care about and for so many people. It would be too stressful for me. I'd always be worrying about making everyone happy and needing things from me and it would drive me out of my mind. Literally.
All of which I find a bit amusing in the light of the story I just read on
love_trowa - Just Might Break by taigne. Some of the thoughts rolling around in Trowa's brain in that one are just a little too close to my own. CREE - PEEEE. Still, nice to know I'm not the only to have had thoughts like that. *goes to yellow pages to look for therapist*So now that my brooding sulk is over - for the time being at least - I finally conquered my fear of writing enough to scribble down this one. An idea which has been kicking around in my head for a while now. Since I still seem to be blocked on the Fresh New Idea front, I figured I'd better just go raid my backlog of Weird Old Ideas. And if any of you have followed my ramblings this far - God bless you, and sorry for being a whiny baby!
Title: Family Ties
Author: Lukoni
Characters: Mariemeia Kushrenada, Trowa Barton (references to 3x4)
Word Count: ca. 2700
Summary: Mariemeia wants something from the man who bears her uncle’s name.
Rating: G
Warnings: Minor peril. Humor. Mild hair abuse.
Notes: Set post-EW. Written for
gw500 challenge #166: Comb. This idea came to me a while back after reading a slew of stories that involved T&Q dealing with their own children or those of Quatre’s sisters (especially the most excellent ‘Favorite Uncle’ stories by Windsor Blue) – this is a sort of irreverent response that is in no way intended as a criticism of any of those stories and should not be construed to actually take place in any of those universes. I hope no one will be offended. Feedback/Criticism/Typo notifications welcome. Thanks for reading!Family Ties
The red-headed girl seethed with fury as she stared at the screen on the wall. This was the last straw. She clicked the comm button on the table beside her.
”Jenkins.”
“Yes, my lady?” came the immediate reply.
“I need your help. Please come see me.”
“Right away, my lady.”
She smiled grimly. Always so efficient and loyal. To her father. And thus to her, now. Inherited, second-hand love. Her eyes flicked back to the screen. There, paused in action, was Quatre Winner, the world’s golden boy. War hero, philanthropist, business genius, charming media darling. He was lifting a little girl with golden hair and luminous brown eyes from the lawn of a stately building. The wedding of yet another of his sisters – Aidah or some such nonsense. The place was crawling with adorable Winner nieces and nephews and the media was eating it up. And there just over his shoulder, was Golden Boy’s tall and silent partner, smiling softly in the background. Always in the background, hair over one eye as if that would really make him invisible. Not this time, however. This time another young Winner spawn, riding merrily on his shoulders, had pulled it back away from his face, and secured it with a gaudy pink tiara – clearly torn from her own once neatly coiffed hair – the little combs on the band digging uncomfortably into the skin at his temples. Her eyes narrowed menacingly.
The door opened. A tall man with grey-flecked hair and an impeccable black suit walked up to where she was seated on the couch and bowed.
“How may I help you, my lady?”
“You see that man there,” she asked pointing to the screen.
“Quatre Winner, my lady?”
“No, the other one. Behind him.” The man hesitated, unwilling to name the figure. He was a topic generally avoided in this household.
“I see him, my lady.”
“You know who he is?”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Good. Bring him to me.” He hesitated again.
“Right now, my lady?”
“Yes, now.”
“I don’t think your guardian would approve.”
“Of course she wouldn’t approve! That is why it must be now, while she’s at work.” The man looked like he wanted to argue further, but another glance at the stern set of his mistress’s jaw forestalled him.
“Yes, my lady.” He bowed once more and turned to leave.
“Oh, and Jenkins?” she said, as he reached the door. He paused. “If he is uncooperative, you have my permission to use force.” His shoulders stiffened, but he merely answered with a quiet “Yes, my lady,” before shutting the door behind him.
She grinned wickedly at the screen. “This is long overdue, Trowa Barton.”
Trowa Barton, war hero, former circus performer, current Preventer agent and spouse of the outrageously rich and famous Quatre Raberba Winner, was polishing off a large pastrami on rye at his favorite deli tucked in a back alley four and a half blocks from headquarters. Not only was their pastrami spiced to perfection and their rye baked fresh every day, they had the best pickles in the known universe. Sal always gave him two, one to eat with the sandwich, and one to savor during his walk back to the office.
A quick glance at his watch told Trowa he still had ten minutes till his meeting started. Plenty of time. He slid a generous tip under the edge of his plate, snagged his pickle and waved goodbye to Sal behind the counter. As he stepped out into the alley he became aware of the unusual sight of a limousine parked a short way from the deli. He frowned, but thought only that it was likely to be vandalized if left for too long even in this part of town. He was not at all prepared for the doors to open as he came up to it, nor for the four large men in dark suits and sunglasses who silently surrounded him. He shifted into a fighting stance, tossing a quick appraising glance at each thug.
A fifth man emerged from the back of the vehicle. Tall and distinguished looking, dark hair with a hint of grey coming in, Trowa felt sure he should recognize the man but he did not.
“Mr. Barton. My mistress wishes to see you.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked a perplexed Trowa, ransacking his brain for any woman he knew who might send large minions after him. Only one name came to mind: Dorothy Catalonia. But that didn’t make any sense. She and Quatre were on the best of terms, and while the two had once been embroiled in a contest of increasingly complex pranks on one another, a truce had officially been declared after the night they spent stuck together floating over the Sahara in a hot air balloon.
“Please come with me. I promise no harm will come to you.” The man was smooth and polished – probably ex-Romafeller – but he did seem sincere. Perhaps it was the worry he could see in the man’s eye.
“Do I know your mistress?”
“You have not been officially introduced.”
“And what does she want?”
“Just to talk.” This was a lie, Trowa could tell, but he suspected it was only because the man didn’t know the answer to the question. There was no menacing swagger behind the words, just a hint of nervous discomfort. The man apparently didn’t want to be doing this. He wondered who could command such loyalty. Une? Except she was waiting for him back at Preventers HQ, and hardly needed a carload of muscle to get him to come back to work.
“And if I don’t want to go with you?”
“I’m afraid I really must insist.” The four thugs took a step closer, infringing on his personal space. He could probably take them, but possibly not without injury – either to himself or some of the passersby. While the alley itself was currently deserted, people were regularly walking past the entrance only a few meters away, and, of course, deli customers could come or go at any moment.
“Are you going to tell me who your mistress is?” The man smiled blandly.
“I will let her explain herself when you get there.” Damn. The man had judged his target well. Withhold just enough information to make him a prisoner of his own curiosity. Diabolical. Trowa had to respect him for that. And for some reason he also trusted him. He sensed no real threat beyond that of being shoved by force into the car. With a silent prayer that he was right and was not about to leave Quatre a widower, he made up his mind.
“What’s your name?”
“Jenkins.”
“All right, Jenkins. I’ll come with you. I hope you don’t mind me eating in the car,” he said, taking a loud, crunching bite of his pickle. With that he pushed past the nearest thug and slid gracefully into the waiting vehicle.
A mere half an hour later Trowa found himself being propelled through a modest but elegant mansion in one of the oldest parts of the city. Quatre had considered buying a place in the neighborhood when Trowa joined the Preventers but the green-eyed pilot had convinced him that a penthouse closer the United Earthsphere headquarters would be more practical. As a strong hand on each shoulder guided him down a hallway, he continued to try to figure out who he was being brought to see. He had a feeling he was being particularly dense.
His two escorts ushered him through a set of glass doors into a large formal dining room and shoved him down into a chair at one end of a long mahogany table. He found himself facing a larger-than-life sized portrait of Treize Kushrenada. Light dawned. Jenkins bent to whisper in his ear.
“I trust I need not tell you that if you hurt her, I will kill you,” said Jenkins sternly in his ear. Trowa met his eye and nodded solemnly. Satisfied, the man and his entourage quietly withdrew. The chair at the opposite end of the table began to swivel slowly around.
“Mariemeia,” Trowa said softly. He was met by the fierce blue-eyed gaze of a pretty young woman whose childhood he’d glimpsed so long ago. He suddenly remembered the feel of Trowa, the real Trowa’s arm around him as he showed young Nanashi a picture of a girl that would someday be queen. That was six years ago. The girl had not become queen, and had changed much from the girl he remembered seeing in that photo. Her hair was longer, her body more mature, and there was a certain sadness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. But she still had that penetrating stare. The same one the original Trowa had had. And that stubbornness. The same stubbornness that had gotten the arrogant pilot killed. They hadn’t been friends. Not really. But the brash Barton had appreciated what the young mechanic could do and always brought him a candy bar when he came down to inspect his gundam.
“Uncle Trowa,” said the girl with false casualness. Trowa’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “So good of you to come.”
“I... I beg your pardon?” He seemed to be saying that a lot today.
“I said Uncle. Trowa.”
“But...”
“You’re not my uncle? Oh but you are. Since you killed the real one, it is your responsibility to take his place.”
“I didn’t kill him.” It never occurred to Trowa that she had believed that all this time. He was suddenly surprised no one had yet stuck a knife in his back. He wondered if one was coming shortly. She scowled at his response, unwilling to believe it. He wasn’t sure if he should be telling her this, but then he felt the truth was always better in the long run than those cloying lies adults always felt were needed to protect children. “It was Simms. Dr. S’s assistant.” She scowled again.
“But you took his place.”
“Yes.”
“Then you took on his responsibilities too. Including me.” This was not what Trowa was expecting. Actually he had no idea what he had been expecting but it was not this.
“And what exactly does that mean?”
“You have to be my uncle.”
Trowa raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“Do uncle-y things with me.”
“Such as?” At this Mariemeia frowned.
“I don’t know. I’ve never had one before. But Macey’s uncle took her to the moon base for her thirteenth birthday. And Lydia’s uncle sends her a trunkful of snacks at the beginning of each term. And when Constantia wanted to try red wine and her parents wouldn’t let her, her uncle gave her some when they weren’t looking.”
Trowa had no idea what to say to this. He felt that somewhere along the way he must have fallen down a rabbit hole and ended up at the strangest tea party he could imagine.
“So you want me to give you junk food and alcohol and take you on trips?”
“No! Yes. I don’t know. Just do uncle-y things. I’ve seen you do it.”
“You have?”
“Sure. Who can have missed all those lovely photo ops with Quatre Winner and all his adorable nieces and nephews over the last few years?” The venom underlying these words was unmistakable. And Trowa began to get an inkling of where this girl was coming from. “And you are usually there too. Crawling with little brats. And let me tell you that pink tiaras don’t become you.”
Trowa smiled at this mortal insult, though he had the good grace to blush ever so slightly in embarrassment. This was followed up with the hint of a dangerous gleam in his eye. Quatre would have recognized this immediately as a sign that he was about to be tackled and tickled mercilessly. Mariemeia was not yet familiar with it.
“So you want to sit on my shoulders and play with my hair?”
“No! Of course not!!”
“Or ride around on my back while I pretend to be a rampaging lion?”
“No!”
“Or dress me up in frilly dresses and serve me tea?”
“NO! What? You... they make you wear dresses?” she asked in astonishment.
“No,” he answered gravely. Then she noticed the tension around the corners of his mouth that indicated mirth being suppressed.
“You.... you... you’re teasing me!”
Trowa got up from his seat and walked over to her end of the table. He smiled his infuriating half-smile at the cloud forming on her brow. But before she could explode he perched on the corner by her chair and said “Lesson number one of uncles – they tease you incessantly but never out of malice.” Her face cleared at that.
“So you will be my uncle, then?” As he looked at the tentative hope glimmering in her eye he knew he could not refuse a fellow orphan in distress. He knew what it was like to crave family. To create one where one was lacking. To want to force someone to love you. And he recalled how many of her family members he’d seen die. Helped to kill. Maybe she was right. Since he’d kept Trowa’s name, the least he could do was take on some of his responsibilities.
“As long as it’s all right with your guardian.” The girl paled somewhat at this.
“You’re not going to tell Lady Une about this, are you?”
“Of course.” He raised his hands defensively to stave off her protests. “Rule number two: uncles can’t be secret. That’s just not how it works. If you try to hide me, she’ll think you’re hiding a boyfriend and will have you shipped off to the colonies faster than you can say Milliardo Peacecraft.” Mariemeia stared at him for a second with wide eyes, then burst out giggling.
“I will do my best,” Trowa informed her, “to keep the kidnapping part out of the story, but Une really does need to know that you... we... plan to become friends.”
“I... I can’t talk to her about stuff like that.”
“Of course you can. She’s a very understanding person under all that armor, you know.” Eyes downcast, she sighed and kicked absently at the table leg.
“And I will work my uncle-y magic on her from my end. But you have to support me by letting her know this is what you want. Otherwise she’s going to think I’m some creepy pedophile who’s been hiding behind Quatre all these years.” Again she looked momentarily stunned at his candor, but then, as she began to recognize his humor, she laughed.
“I hope you don’t say things like that to Quatre Winner’s nieces.”
“Not on your life,” he said, winking at her. “They’re all sweet and sheltered. My side of the family is made of much tougher stuff.” He could almost see her swell with pride at the idea of this special bond between them. It was the same thing he felt when he went to visit Cathy and her family and she’d always have a special hug just for him. He never thought he’d have a chance to give that feeling to someone else. It made him feel just a touch proud himself.
“Chang?” Trowa asked, responding to the strident ringing of his phone, recently returned to him by Jenkins, who had taken it from him during their limo ride.
“Barton? Where the hell are you?”
“I’m sorry I missed the meeting. Something unexpected came up.”
“I’ve got a deli owner here that says he saw you getting hustled into a limo.”
“An unfortunate misunderstanding. Everything’s fine now.”
“Are you sure, 03?” An old gambit of theirs to make sure Trowa wasn’t being forced to lie to him. Trowa smiled, remembering the time it had saved his life. He was glad he wouldn’t need it today.
“Yes, 05.”
“Save the sweet talk for Winner. Une’s ready to serve your head on a platter for missing this meeting.” Trowa’s eyes drifted to his new young protégé steadfastly tossing a series of apples in the air then patiently picking them up off the lawn when she dropped them.
She scowled at him when she saw caught him watching her. “I’ve almost got it,” she insisted. He grinned.
“Don’t worry,” he told Chang. ”Une will understand.”
~ fin ~
no subject
no subject
no subject
Mariemaia's jealousy of Quatre's nieces and nephews, combined with Trowa's insight into her lack of family, and how he related that all to his growing up and his relationship with Catherine was very touching. Thank you for sharing! It was wonderful to refresh my flist and find Lukoni fic today! Glad you're feeling writey again. Thank you for sharing!
As to the other stuff... I too get stymied by performance pressure when it comes to what I write and my lj audience. Isn't it funny how praise can induce insecurity? I guess there's (for me) a worry that maybe the thing that received the praise was just a fluke and I don't really deserve it. For what it's worth, you do deserve the praise. You write beautifully and with such humanity, regardless of whether you're writing humour or drama. Keep doing what you're doing and trust that it isn't a fluke, and we'll keep reading. :D
I worry a lot also about offending people. I don't really have any advice or insight, just sympathy! It's easy to say don't worry about offending 'us', but it can be hard to feel that confidence. At any rate, don't worry about offending me. I am very hard to offend, unless you start torturing kittens or suchlike.
Once more, thank you muchly for the fic!
no subject
no subject
no subject
Isn't it funny how praise can induce insecurity?
No kidding!! I'd really never noticed that phenomenon before! Thank you for the pep talk! And I think YOU deserve all your compliments too - your writing totally kicks ass!! (Such fabbo angst; such delicious smex...)
I will work on feeling more self-assured and less wussy (easier said than done!) and I promise not to promote torturing kittens in my journal. (No promises about not torturing hot gundam pilots dressed as kittens...)
Thanks a million for taking the time to address my insecurities. YOU ROCK!
no subject
I suspect Une will not only understand, she will be pleased.
no subject
I think Une will be pleased too - she always did have a soft spot for Tro. :)
BTW, I nominate you to write the story of the failed prank that led to Quatre and Dorothy getting stuck in the hot air balloon over the desert. For some reason I was picturing the balloon itself to be emblazoned with a giant pair of fornicating cats. Don't ask me why. I guess I just wanted to hear one of them utter the phrase 'fornicating cats'. Sometimes my brain scares even me....
no subject
It would have to be Dorothy, I can hear her using that phrase. *sweatdrops at the idea of writing Dorothy and backs quickly away*
no subject
Yes, I could definitely hear Dorothy saying that. No, wait... Don't run... It's only Dorothy - sweet, kind, universally adored Dorothy... What's to be scared of? Not buying, it, huh? Oh well. I'm tempted to write it myself, except I can't figure out for the life of me how to get them both into the balloon together. Talk about writing oneself into a corner!
no subject
Kind, sweet, universally loved /Dorothy/? *checks for a fever*
It was a reenactment of the scene in Mummy 2 where they get Rick O'Connell's friend to take them to where the Scorpion King's pyramid was only someone got confused and switched derigable for hot air balloon. Dorothy had it set up to prank Quatre by having the balloon air brushed with chemicals so when the heat from the sun hit it the image of fornicating
quatswould show up. They're in the balloon waving to the ppl (photo op)when the rope holding it in place snaps and the balloon floats up (Dorothy's prank). Unfortunately there is a freak storm and the balloon gets blown out over the desert and they have to wait til morning for it to get hot enough for the hot air part of the balloon to become ineffectual and make them drift to the ground where they are rescued by the crew that has been following all night.no subject
no subject
no subject
I don't know about other comms and such, but GW500 specifically is meant to be fun for both the writers and the readers. No pressure except what you put on yourself. I know that can be worse, speaking as someone who has fairly
neurotichigh expectations of herself. Relax, enjoy, have fun.*hugs* If you need/want to chat my email addy is on my profile. Feel free to drop me a line.
no subject
I definitely appreciate that about GW500 - it is always a relaxed, fun and welcoming place to hang out and to post. *hugs super mods* Sometimes I forget to look for people's fic elsewhere, cuz there's just so much good stuff posted right there.
Thanks again for the support! I might just take you up on further
therapychatting. :Pno subject
I'm glad to hear you say that about the comm. It's good to know that what we're doing is working.
You're very welcome, my inbox is always open.
no subject
no subject
Thanks so much for the super feedback!!
no subject
Favorites: "If you try to hide me, she’ll think you’re hiding a boyfriend and will have you shipped off to the colonies faster than you can say Milliardo Peacecraft." AND "He felt that somewhere along the way he must have fallen down a rabbit hole and ended up at the strangest tea party he could imagine" which just made me LAUGH my ASS OFF with the TEA reference!
I'm sure I'll have something more interesting to say later, but for now that's it. GREAT fic. GREAT idea! I just LOVED the whole conception!
no subject
Thanks for reading!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
But your version of him is just perfect, as far as I'm concerned. ;}
no subject
So I'm very glad that you think my version of him is down to earth, since that's really how I see him. And I'm happy to know there are others out there who see him that way too!! We fans of sensible!Trowa have to stick together! Thanks so much for commenting.
no subject
Mariemaia was perfect. I have such love for her. I might have wished she was a liiiiittle bit younger than twelve in this, though; she felt more like nine or ten to me, but y'know. Whatever.
Despite this being a comedy and the fact that I totally laughed out loud in places, I was definitely tearing up a little too (and really, that's the best kind of comedy, no? the kind with real feelings in it, too). The so fitting comparisons of their childhoods, Trowa's actual connections to her family, it all just made me wibble.
Mariemaia's attitude, too, was just the perfect balance of straightforward childishness and petulance and the real poignancy of her situation, which just gets me every fricking time. This girl!! Such love!
So, in summary, I just loved everything about this fic.
no subject
Yeah, there is no reason a comedy can't have other emotional content as well! I'm happy you think I captured her personality well - we fans don't have much to go on, since she doesn't get a whole lot of screen time.