He is standing on the veranda in front of the Institute, trying to let the sunlight warm his small frame. Eyes closed and face toward the sky, he seeks in futility to banish a chill that seems to radiate from his very soul. With a sigh, he leans back against the stone railing and bends his thoughts inward. For weeks now there has been a ghostly emptiness, the faintest traces of an ache chasing starlight.

When he must, a brave mask is summoned with the last vestiges of his strength--all to maintain a public charade of concern and surety. However, it is in the rare moment alone like this where he can let his despair overtake him, let the nameless pain surface. Guilt, longing, dissapointment and anger all ride the grey wave that engulfs his ego. For a space, there is no war, no jaded soldier, only the scouring flames and a broken, frightened child.

"Excuse the interruption, Master." The unexpected voice jolts him from his thoughts. Turning, he acknowledges the servant with a weary smile. "You are wanted in the Director's office, sir. If you would care to follow me?"

Waving off the assistance, he replies, "Thank you, but I remember the way there." He strides off, hoping the meeting is due to the arrival of new information on the promised search. A secretary wordlessly shows him into the main room, closing the doors as she retreats.

A minute passes in the gloom-filled office before he nervously calls out. "Miss Relena? I was told you wished to see me..." He approaches a large desk, his tone becoming more uncertain as the chair does not swivel about to reveal its occupant. "If you will permit me to ask, I was wondering how far your inqueries have gone--the search for pilot Trowa Bar--"

"That is no longer necessary," interjects the unseen figure. Not in view, but always foremost in thought--he recognizes the flat, even tones immediately.

"It can't be," he stammers incredulously.

"Believe, my little one." The speaker rises and turns to face the youth.

"Trowa!" the blonde exclaims. In his joy, he vaults over the desk and wraps the other in a fierce hug. After the inital impact and under a combined attack of smothering kisses and a rib-cracking embrace, the lanky young man barely manages to remain on his feet.

"How did you...? When did you...? Where have you been?"

The first blazing passions subsiding to a steady, controlled flame, the shorter pilot gently snuggles his partner. "I'm not going to let you out of my sight now you've come back."

Tensing, the brunette holds him at arm's length. "I've got to tell you something before we let this go too far. Ever since..." He makes a vague gesture with one hand, trying to collect his thoughts.

"What is it?"

"I don't know if I can trust you anymore. I put my life in your hands and you betrayed me. Expecting the most of you, I was given the least."

Quatre clutches desperately at the forlorn figure. "But it was all I had in me... I'm so sorry."

"That's not good enough. I trusted you--" The voice begins to change, becomes more modulated and older, filled with an infinite sadness. "And you failed me. You killed me, son."

In the dim light, he looks up into his friend's face only to see another's visage. "Father?" he gasps.

"You failed us all."

Pulling away, he notices a darkness cascading over the body. He stares at his own hands in horror--a sticky red-black liquid covers them. Sinking onto the carpet, he screams out trying to keep the spreading terror at bay. "I never meant to do it! I'm sorry... I really am sorry."

A grotesque mockery collapses beside him. "It's not enough. It will never be enough."

"No!"

"No!" I wake up with my heart pounding in my ears. Breath coming in ragged, spastic pants, I frantically scan the room. Just a dream, nothing to get upset over. My skin feels clammy and my pyjamas are soaked in sweat. They cling nastily as I trudge to the bathroom.

I don't bother to switch on the light. Instead, I strip in the dark and step into the shower. Dialing the water as hot as I can tolerate, I stand under the spray for an eternity. The heat is soothing and I start to feel sleepy. Praying there won't be time for me to dream again tonight, I dry off and wrap a clean towel around myself.

Lying on top of the hastily smoothed bedsheets, I watch a shuffling pattern of light dance across the walls and ceiling. Somehow it's very relaxing although I know it's caused by chance movements of tree branches outside my bedroom windows blocking or letting through reflected beams. In the quiet of the night, my nightmare begins to fade.

Tonight makes at least the seventh time I can remember dreaming since returning to Earth. Each time was the same: I would find Trowa and he would die, cursing and blaming me with his last tortured breath. Father's appearance was new, but not totally unexpected. It doesn't take a degree in psychology to deduce these visions are the product of a guilty mind. Try as I might, there's no way I can convince myself that these fears are truly groundless--I made my choices and people died for them. Directly because of my actions, a very dear friend was hurt or possibly killed. Stubborn to the end, it is my fault I could not save my father.

I grope behind my head and wrench a pillow free. Clasping it to my bare chest, I hug the soft warmth. It's only my own body heat being absorbed and dispersed, but I close my eyes and try to imagine it's someone else. I don't want to be alone anymore.

Rolling to my side, I grasp the pillow and pull it snug against the length of my body. I can't smell anything in the linen other than a sharp undercurrent of my sweat and the fading odor of fear. Wanting to bury myself in the sweetly acrid combination of scents that is Trowa, I search in vain. You kept doing this to me--appearing out of nowhere and sending my senses reeling before vanishing again into the mists of war, leaving barely a trace of your visit, just memories. Always before was the unspoken promise that we'd meet again.

Now I don't have even that.

Hearing the door open, I start. Heero stands beneath the lintel, barely distinguishable from obscured shapes in the common room beyond. I sit up and realize the towel has come undone by my movements. Blushing fiercely and uncomfortable at the thought of being practically naked in front of someone, I cover my embarrassment with a display of irritability. "Don't you know how to knock?"

"I did," he responds. Tilting his head, he silently takes in my prudish actions as I attempt to arrange the bedclothes around me. "Are you alright?"

"Of course I am," I snap, wishing he would just go away and leave me with the tiny shred of dignity I have left.

"I heard you cry out."

"A nightmare. Everyone has them, but Gundam pilots are allowed more than the usual allotment. It comes with the lightning fast reflexes and a desire to blow things up." My tone is far more bitter than I meant it to be, but I truly am disturbed and ashamed.

The ticking of a small clock behind Heero becomes loud in the following silence. It chimes the quarter hour, but he still refuses to go. Slowly, deliberately, he speaks again.

"When Duo had nightmares, he always said sleeping near someone else was reassuring. No matter how frightening the dream, it didn't seem so bad if he knew somebody close by cared."

There is a timidity in his voice. Suddenly, he doesn't seem the machine of destruction and chill retribution I had assumed. No, he's as vulnerable and human as any of us. Perhaps more so, with this need to become an agent of death to preserve a fragile peace. He's just as alone as I am.

"I'm not Duo." Slightly softer this time. I can feel the pain when he thinks about the boisterous American.

"No, you're not. You're Quatre." I laugh at his simple statement, but there is an unspoken further part: 'But maybe the two of you aren't that different at all. "Quatre-ness" is not completely removed from "Duo-ness." Let me show you.'

Perhaps I'm reading more into his words than is prudent.

Perhaps I'm not seeing enough...

With some trepidation, I indicate he is welcome to sleep here. Instead, he goes back to his room. I am dissappointed he has not accepted my offer. Before I can rise to shut the door, he is back, carrying a soft bundle which he tosses on the bed. "You need this more than I. They might be a little big." He turns away from me as I pick up the garments he brought. They are one of the sets of nightclothes I had persuaded him to buy a few weeks ago when we decided to stay in the Sanc kingdom. Slipping into them, I notice he's still wearing the Institute's uniform.

I drape the towel on a convenient chair and climb under the sheets. Heero comes over and pulls aside the top blanket enough to slide in. He lies there on his back, stiff and unyielding as an iron bar. Certainly no substitute for Trowa, but...