by
Liz
Trowa rubbed a hand across his bleary eyes. Numbers… always numbers…. He punched a few keys and finally closed the maintenance program he was running. Standing up slowly and stretching his long legs, he looked up at the Heavyarms Gundam high above him, into its cold face almost disappearing in the darkness of the hangar.
With the grace of a skilled acrobat he swung down from the cockpit to the ground on the access cable and began striding across the open floor to the bay doors. Glancing into the shadows, he spotted a pale form resting against Sandrock’s base. Quatre must have fallen asleep working on his Gundam.
Trowa walked over to the sleeping figure. There was no point in disturbing him, Trowa thought. Removing his jacket, he placed it over Quatre to cover him from the drafty hangar air. But as he turned to go, Quatre’s voice called out softly behind him, “Please don’t go yet….”
Trowa turned. “Oh,” he said. “I thought you were –“
“I wish you didn’t have to go so soon,” Quatre said quietly, and there was something strange in his voice. Then he said, “Just answer me one thing: am I going to burn in Hell?”
Trowa blinked. “Quatre, are you awake?”
“Hm, ‘s what I thought,” mumbled Quatre. He stretched out his legs slowly, and took a long, slow breath, his head rolling a little to one side.
“Quatre, you’re not going to burn in Hell,” said Trowa reassuringly, sitting down cross-legged beside him.
“D’you really think so?” Quatre’s voice replied out of the darkness.
Trowa hesitated, unsure whether the sleeping boy was talking to him or someone in his dream. After a moment, he said, “Yes, I’m sure.”
“That’s good,” said Quatre, smiling. Then he added, “What about the soldiers I’ve killed?”
Trowa wasn’t sure how to answer. Finally, he said, “I don’t know.”
“Oh,” said Quatre hesitantly. Then, suddenly, “I hope they go to Hell.”
Trowa looked at him. “What?”
“They shouldn’t have been fighting. We shouldn’t have fought…. I wish I were going to Hell….” Then he was silent.
Trowa watched his still face for another minute before he was satisfied that the other boy was finished. Then he settled back against Sandrock’s cold metal, closing his eyes and crossing his arms.
As the mask of darkness covered him, he became aware of Quatre’s slow, measured breathing beside him. He would need someone to talk to him if he started dreaming again. Someone to answer his questions.
Trowa knew he wouldn’t be able to answer all of Quatre’s questions. He couldn’t even answer his own.