'Enveloping' for grandlarseny
Title: Enveloping
Recipient: grandlarseny
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: Catherine's doubts lurk in the back of her mind and in the bottom of her kitchen cabinet. Meanwhile, Trowa has some news to give her.
Author: tealrose39
Catherine's apartment is filled with packets and envelopes. Most of them are for cooking, those clever little packets of seasoning that turns chunks of carrots in boiling water into soup, and those instant mashed potatoes that became creamy, starchy goodness - just add water!
She has packets of beauty products, little samples that she's collected from her various travels. Little foil rectangles of foaming cleanser, enclosed smears of lipstick colors, tiny bits of solid perfume neatly wrapped for the indecisive consumer.
Old bills and postcards and a few letters (who writes anymore these days, anyway?) are scattered in various piles around the trailer, corners curling in varying shades of white yellowing with age.
All these envelopes are expected, familiar, the tableau to every day life.
But one is hidden underneath a counter in the bottom of a cardboard box that sits there gathering dust and insecurity. Usually Catherine can manage to forget the envelope (and more importantly, its contents) for days on end. She'll go about her day cooking up instant foods for breakfast, trying on different shades of pink on her lips, tearing open envelopes with casual disregard.
But every once in awhile, she gets in a cleaning mood and goes looking for bleach (and boy is that every once in awhile) under the counter. Rummaging through the plastic bottles, she'll bump into that dusty box (and more importantly, it's contents) and goosebumps go up her spine. She'll pause, half squatting down, breathing in the musty air, and not dare to even run a finger through the dust on its top.
It's a betrayal of trust, that box, that envelope, those contents.
Because really, what did blood matter? Why would she take it upon herself to press a cotton ball to Trowa's bleeding lip as he lay asleep in the hospital recovering from a bad "reintegration" of colonists and send it and one of her own hairs to a lab for analysis.
He was her brother. She was certain of it. Rather, he was her brother, regardless.
But one part of her knew - it wasn't the blood. It was the memories. There was a once a little boy for whom she'd kiss scraped knees and sing soft lullabies and pet away childish fears. Did that little boy stand before her? Or was he consigned to the darkness of space?
And after all her love, her reassurances to a damaged boy (because he had still been a boy stomping around in a war a size to large, and yet making it work for him) how could she even have that loathsome envelope congealing with unspoken uncertainties lurking under her countertop?
Catherine shoved it further behind the bleach (she never used that stuff anyway) and dropped the curtain, neatly concealing her dusty shame. Her brother was coming for dinner. And she should choose which packets of seasoning she wanted to add to the stew.
***
"So then her Royal Highness asked me to get her a coffee - and make it with two creams," Duo finished with hints of both anger and admiration. "I mean, I suppose I had it coming after the whole pink prank and all...but man, she sure knows how to cut a guy down. There wasn't anything I could do either, not in front of that senator, he'd use it as proof that she couldn't control her agents and she knows I'm not willing to endanger the Colonist Repatriation Act...dude, she played me good! I just have to think of the perfect thing to get her back..." Duo's image buzzed as if it were going into the same type of meditation as its original.
Trowa gave a wry smile at the screen. “Sounds like the two of you are getting along better than anyone thought.”
Duo’s image froze for a second before relaxing into his usual cat-that-ate-the-canary posture.
What was that all about?
“Yeah. Yeah we are. Pink might be growing on me.”
Trowa was too good of an agent to dart his eyes to the corner of Duo’s desk where a pink envelope rested. A pink envelope with a very distinctive broken seal. Trowa’d even be willing to bet his gold epaulets that the envelope was perfumed...it was only the letter that he was uncertain about. What could the Minister of Space Relations (formerly Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs) have to say to Duo in a letter that she couldn’t say in person? Trowa had a hunch, but he’d still like more information.
He was out of luck.
“Well, got to go, old man. These politicians won’t protect themselves, eh?” Duo’s sharp smile gleamed before he threw out, “Have a nice dinner with Catherine - good luck with the news and don't get food poisoning,” and Duo’s image vanished.
Trowa frowned. Duo’s habit of leaving without letting the others say goodbye because of some superstitious hang-up from the old days (“If you say goodbye, might be the last time I see ya!”) always frustrated him, though he knew Quatre found it sweet. Heero always left without saying goodbye anyway - though that was just because the guy was allergic to small talk. It was when he got obsessed with philosophy that you had to watch out. “Follow your emotions” indeed. Not to mention that ever since Wufei got food poisoning once after dinner with Catherine (only one time! and Trowa wasn't even sure it was Catherine's food either!) nobody ever let Trowa forget it.
At least Duo had taken his news with aplomb. When bad news hit one of the five of them, Duo always reacted unpredictably - and sometimes you didn't even know his reaction until weeks later. The thought made Trowa sweat a little - but there was really nothing he could do about it.
Poisons had built up in his liver after all his time in space and close work with machinery in unprotected operations. Cheapskates like the Barton Foundation and gangsters never were concerned with their workers on the ground. He would be losing his liver and the idea scared him.
Trowa glanced briefly in the mirror. His skin was yellowed, his eyes bloodshot. Une had had to pull him off his last infiltration mission in a hurry after he had started peeing blood - and that was infuriating. Trowa sympathized with those in space who didn't want to be swept under broad new policies - but not when they were using grenades on civilians. The loss of that source of information made him grit his teeth. His body was failing him, and he couldn’t protect the peace as well as he wanted.
Fortunately, technology had developed to the point where the doctors could regrow synthetic livers with the help of stem cells. It would be a mesh of biological and mechanical and as long as his body didn't reject the new organ he would be...well, not as good as new, but very close to it. Moving along. Surviving.
He was about to ask Catherine the greatest favor in the world - a blood test to confirm their biological connection and then small piece of her liver from which to grow a new liver base for the synthetic one.
Trowa knew that Catherine was his sister no matter what. Any woman who would slap him in the face and then cook him dinner could only be family. If not biologically, then there would be other donors on the list. He only hoped that she wouldn't cry...or worse, insist on cooking for him for solid weeks on end.
***
Catherine heard a familiar soft rap at the door as she was finishing washing some cups.
"Come in, door's open!"
Almost noiseless footsteps entered. There was an odd almost...shuffle in them.
"I really wish you wouldn't do that. You never know who could come in."
She smiled at the usual complaint and gave the usual argument back.
"Trowa, you know I don't like to lock the door when I'm in my own trailer."
Privately, she knew it might be silly to believe that locking her doors meant she had let the war win by making her feel unsafe - but she didn't care. Sometimes you had to do what that messy haired kid had said - follow your emotions.
She turned to smile at her brother - and dropped her dishtowel in shock.
"Trowa! My God, what happened to you! You look terrible!"
Under her florescent lights, deathly sallow skin seemed to sag off his cheekbones, his veins showing blue beneath the papery-thin surface and his eyes blinding in their redness. He held himself as though his bones ached.
But he gave her a gentle smile that did nothing to reassure her and only made her angry. Catherine breathed deep, once and again, and made sure her voice came out caring rather than furious and scared.
"Trowa - what happened?" She gentled her voice more. "Was it your last mission?" She felt a spike of helpless rage at Une. "You know you don't have to talk about it if you don't want, but let me just get some stew in you, ok? Is there anything you can't eat right now?"
Trowa smiled again, that wry and tender smile, and she felt her heart relax...just a little. Then he reached to pull her into a hug and she relaxed fully into him (feeling every one of his ribs and his bony clavicle as she did so.) If he could physically touch her, at least he hadn't been emotionally hurt on his last mission.
That meant she could be more nosy.
She lifted her head. "So what's going on, then?"
He made a face. "Nothing much...just need to get my liver replaced."
"Trowa! Your liver? You only have one!"
"Yes. I guess the poisons I've been exposed to over time just kept building up. And, by the way, I can eat your food - just no alcohol and not too many spices."
The two separated and sat at Catherine's miniscule kitchen table. Trowa began the lengthy process of folding his long legs under the yellowed plastic, lengthier than usual as he carefully avoided bumping into the table. She reluctantly turned away to grab the clean dishes and started spooning out stew.
"What poisons do you mean? And when is the surgery?" She made a mental note to start a cooking schedule so that at least he wouldn't have to worry about food while he waited, and to rearrange her own performance schedule so that she could take care of him, which meant she'd need to find a replacement as well as -wait what?
"Sorry, could you say that again, Trowa?" Catherine was embarrassed - sometimes her inner planning got in the way of actually talking to people.
He grinned tiredly over his stew-laden spoon.
"I was just saying that I've worked on a lot of infiltration missions and underground jobs - they aren't the biggest on safety. So the chemicals I've worked with have leached into my system."
"What?!" Catherine's anger became inflamed again. "And Une hasn't done anything about this? Doesn't she take care of her agents?!"
Trowa frowned mildly. Catherine noticed that he was mostly stirring figure-eights into his stew, instead of eating. "Of course. She pulled me off a fairly important mission, even." He frowned harder, forehead creasing as his eyes unfocused, seeing something in his mind.
"And the surgery?" Catherine drew him back to the present.
"Ah. Well part of that depends on you." Trowa fiddled with the spoon a moment, then sighed and let it go slide into the stew. "I was wondering if we could have a blood test. If we're biological siblings, the doctors can use a small sample of your liver tissue to create a new biological/mechanical liver for me. If not, they'll have to go through a donor list."
Catherine sat there, stunned. Her back tightened and she held her breath, as if preparing for a blow - a blow that had already come.
Trowa continued, apparently not noticing her sudden stiffness. "The doctors assured that the process should be fairly simple on your part. And of course, with Une's access, the DNA test at least will be very fast."
He smiled at her, veiled behind his bang and his exhaustion. "Don't worry about anything, I'm sure I'll pull through this. No bullets this time, after all."
And it was too much for her. Right then and there, it was too much to stay silent any longer.
"I already had our DNA tested."
Trowa stilled. His face became...unreadable.
Catherine continued slowly, listening to her own words to hear them out loud for the first time.
"I already had our DNA tested. When you were hurt in those reintegration riots, I took a sample. I...never read the results."
Trowa, she noticed, was not fiddling with anything, was barely moving his chest to breathe. He had become very, very still. Catherine clenched her skirt under the table. Then she smoothed it out, and carefully folded both her hands in front of her plate.
"I thought I was your brother."
Trowa's words were measured but tight, like a new acrobat on a tripwire straining to keep their balance.
Catherine didn't flinch. She had prepared herself for those words - though they still strangled her heart to hear them aloud.
"Of course you are my brother, Trowa. You are always my brother. I just didn't know whether you were Triton. That's all."
She suddenly leaned forward and grasped both his hands tightly in hers. "That's all, Trowa."
Trowa looked out at her from behind a mahogany curtain of hair. He murmured, "Don't hold on too tight. I bruise easily these days."
Catherine released his hands, and he rubbed at them, with aged motions.
"You threw away the envelope?"
"No. No, I still have it - it's under the sink."
Trowa paused, then laughed suddenly in surprise. "Under the sink? With all the cleaning supplies? That you never use? Of course you put it there, Catherine."
Catherine smiled at the familiar, warm tone - though something was still missing. Something was gone. Could she - could *they* ever get it back?
Trowa interrupted her thoughts once more. "Well, let's see it. Let's see the envelope."
Catherine jumped up, almost knocking over the soup pot in her rush. She gripped the back of her chair as she stood looking at her brother - she hadn't thought that demand would come so soon. Then she took the step towards the sink and leaned down to roughly grab the box out from under the sink. The dust went up her nose and she sneezed.
A few seconds later, the DNA results lay on the kitchen table between them. Neither of them were pretending to eat anymore and the soup got colder and colder.
Trowa moved first. He lay a hand on the paper. "Was this so important to you?"
Catherine lay her hand on top of his. "Enough. Enough to get the test without telling you - but not enough to look at it."
Trowa frowned at the sight of her knife-calloused hand resting on his yellowed one.
"Where do we go from here? What do we...do?"
Catherine leaned gently in to lift his chin and softly brushed the hair off his face.
"Well, first I'm going to set up a cooking schedule for you. And then you need to call the doctor's office, brother."
Trowa searched her eyes at the last word.
So Catherine repeated it.
“Brother.”
Recipient: grandlarseny
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: Catherine's doubts lurk in the back of her mind and in the bottom of her kitchen cabinet. Meanwhile, Trowa has some news to give her.
Author: tealrose39
Catherine's apartment is filled with packets and envelopes. Most of them are for cooking, those clever little packets of seasoning that turns chunks of carrots in boiling water into soup, and those instant mashed potatoes that became creamy, starchy goodness - just add water!
She has packets of beauty products, little samples that she's collected from her various travels. Little foil rectangles of foaming cleanser, enclosed smears of lipstick colors, tiny bits of solid perfume neatly wrapped for the indecisive consumer.
Old bills and postcards and a few letters (who writes anymore these days, anyway?) are scattered in various piles around the trailer, corners curling in varying shades of white yellowing with age.
All these envelopes are expected, familiar, the tableau to every day life.
But one is hidden underneath a counter in the bottom of a cardboard box that sits there gathering dust and insecurity. Usually Catherine can manage to forget the envelope (and more importantly, its contents) for days on end. She'll go about her day cooking up instant foods for breakfast, trying on different shades of pink on her lips, tearing open envelopes with casual disregard.
But every once in awhile, she gets in a cleaning mood and goes looking for bleach (and boy is that every once in awhile) under the counter. Rummaging through the plastic bottles, she'll bump into that dusty box (and more importantly, it's contents) and goosebumps go up her spine. She'll pause, half squatting down, breathing in the musty air, and not dare to even run a finger through the dust on its top.
It's a betrayal of trust, that box, that envelope, those contents.
Because really, what did blood matter? Why would she take it upon herself to press a cotton ball to Trowa's bleeding lip as he lay asleep in the hospital recovering from a bad "reintegration" of colonists and send it and one of her own hairs to a lab for analysis.
He was her brother. She was certain of it. Rather, he was her brother, regardless.
But one part of her knew - it wasn't the blood. It was the memories. There was a once a little boy for whom she'd kiss scraped knees and sing soft lullabies and pet away childish fears. Did that little boy stand before her? Or was he consigned to the darkness of space?
And after all her love, her reassurances to a damaged boy (because he had still been a boy stomping around in a war a size to large, and yet making it work for him) how could she even have that loathsome envelope congealing with unspoken uncertainties lurking under her countertop?
Catherine shoved it further behind the bleach (she never used that stuff anyway) and dropped the curtain, neatly concealing her dusty shame. Her brother was coming for dinner. And she should choose which packets of seasoning she wanted to add to the stew.
***
"So then her Royal Highness asked me to get her a coffee - and make it with two creams," Duo finished with hints of both anger and admiration. "I mean, I suppose I had it coming after the whole pink prank and all...but man, she sure knows how to cut a guy down. There wasn't anything I could do either, not in front of that senator, he'd use it as proof that she couldn't control her agents and she knows I'm not willing to endanger the Colonist Repatriation Act...dude, she played me good! I just have to think of the perfect thing to get her back..." Duo's image buzzed as if it were going into the same type of meditation as its original.
Trowa gave a wry smile at the screen. “Sounds like the two of you are getting along better than anyone thought.”
Duo’s image froze for a second before relaxing into his usual cat-that-ate-the-canary posture.
What was that all about?
“Yeah. Yeah we are. Pink might be growing on me.”
Trowa was too good of an agent to dart his eyes to the corner of Duo’s desk where a pink envelope rested. A pink envelope with a very distinctive broken seal. Trowa’d even be willing to bet his gold epaulets that the envelope was perfumed...it was only the letter that he was uncertain about. What could the Minister of Space Relations (formerly Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs) have to say to Duo in a letter that she couldn’t say in person? Trowa had a hunch, but he’d still like more information.
He was out of luck.
“Well, got to go, old man. These politicians won’t protect themselves, eh?” Duo’s sharp smile gleamed before he threw out, “Have a nice dinner with Catherine - good luck with the news and don't get food poisoning,” and Duo’s image vanished.
Trowa frowned. Duo’s habit of leaving without letting the others say goodbye because of some superstitious hang-up from the old days (“If you say goodbye, might be the last time I see ya!”) always frustrated him, though he knew Quatre found it sweet. Heero always left without saying goodbye anyway - though that was just because the guy was allergic to small talk. It was when he got obsessed with philosophy that you had to watch out. “Follow your emotions” indeed. Not to mention that ever since Wufei got food poisoning once after dinner with Catherine (only one time! and Trowa wasn't even sure it was Catherine's food either!) nobody ever let Trowa forget it.
At least Duo had taken his news with aplomb. When bad news hit one of the five of them, Duo always reacted unpredictably - and sometimes you didn't even know his reaction until weeks later. The thought made Trowa sweat a little - but there was really nothing he could do about it.
Poisons had built up in his liver after all his time in space and close work with machinery in unprotected operations. Cheapskates like the Barton Foundation and gangsters never were concerned with their workers on the ground. He would be losing his liver and the idea scared him.
Trowa glanced briefly in the mirror. His skin was yellowed, his eyes bloodshot. Une had had to pull him off his last infiltration mission in a hurry after he had started peeing blood - and that was infuriating. Trowa sympathized with those in space who didn't want to be swept under broad new policies - but not when they were using grenades on civilians. The loss of that source of information made him grit his teeth. His body was failing him, and he couldn’t protect the peace as well as he wanted.
Fortunately, technology had developed to the point where the doctors could regrow synthetic livers with the help of stem cells. It would be a mesh of biological and mechanical and as long as his body didn't reject the new organ he would be...well, not as good as new, but very close to it. Moving along. Surviving.
He was about to ask Catherine the greatest favor in the world - a blood test to confirm their biological connection and then small piece of her liver from which to grow a new liver base for the synthetic one.
Trowa knew that Catherine was his sister no matter what. Any woman who would slap him in the face and then cook him dinner could only be family. If not biologically, then there would be other donors on the list. He only hoped that she wouldn't cry...or worse, insist on cooking for him for solid weeks on end.
***
Catherine heard a familiar soft rap at the door as she was finishing washing some cups.
"Come in, door's open!"
Almost noiseless footsteps entered. There was an odd almost...shuffle in them.
"I really wish you wouldn't do that. You never know who could come in."
She smiled at the usual complaint and gave the usual argument back.
"Trowa, you know I don't like to lock the door when I'm in my own trailer."
Privately, she knew it might be silly to believe that locking her doors meant she had let the war win by making her feel unsafe - but she didn't care. Sometimes you had to do what that messy haired kid had said - follow your emotions.
She turned to smile at her brother - and dropped her dishtowel in shock.
"Trowa! My God, what happened to you! You look terrible!"
Under her florescent lights, deathly sallow skin seemed to sag off his cheekbones, his veins showing blue beneath the papery-thin surface and his eyes blinding in their redness. He held himself as though his bones ached.
But he gave her a gentle smile that did nothing to reassure her and only made her angry. Catherine breathed deep, once and again, and made sure her voice came out caring rather than furious and scared.
"Trowa - what happened?" She gentled her voice more. "Was it your last mission?" She felt a spike of helpless rage at Une. "You know you don't have to talk about it if you don't want, but let me just get some stew in you, ok? Is there anything you can't eat right now?"
Trowa smiled again, that wry and tender smile, and she felt her heart relax...just a little. Then he reached to pull her into a hug and she relaxed fully into him (feeling every one of his ribs and his bony clavicle as she did so.) If he could physically touch her, at least he hadn't been emotionally hurt on his last mission.
That meant she could be more nosy.
She lifted her head. "So what's going on, then?"
He made a face. "Nothing much...just need to get my liver replaced."
"Trowa! Your liver? You only have one!"
"Yes. I guess the poisons I've been exposed to over time just kept building up. And, by the way, I can eat your food - just no alcohol and not too many spices."
The two separated and sat at Catherine's miniscule kitchen table. Trowa began the lengthy process of folding his long legs under the yellowed plastic, lengthier than usual as he carefully avoided bumping into the table. She reluctantly turned away to grab the clean dishes and started spooning out stew.
"What poisons do you mean? And when is the surgery?" She made a mental note to start a cooking schedule so that at least he wouldn't have to worry about food while he waited, and to rearrange her own performance schedule so that she could take care of him, which meant she'd need to find a replacement as well as -wait what?
"Sorry, could you say that again, Trowa?" Catherine was embarrassed - sometimes her inner planning got in the way of actually talking to people.
He grinned tiredly over his stew-laden spoon.
"I was just saying that I've worked on a lot of infiltration missions and underground jobs - they aren't the biggest on safety. So the chemicals I've worked with have leached into my system."
"What?!" Catherine's anger became inflamed again. "And Une hasn't done anything about this? Doesn't she take care of her agents?!"
Trowa frowned mildly. Catherine noticed that he was mostly stirring figure-eights into his stew, instead of eating. "Of course. She pulled me off a fairly important mission, even." He frowned harder, forehead creasing as his eyes unfocused, seeing something in his mind.
"And the surgery?" Catherine drew him back to the present.
"Ah. Well part of that depends on you." Trowa fiddled with the spoon a moment, then sighed and let it go slide into the stew. "I was wondering if we could have a blood test. If we're biological siblings, the doctors can use a small sample of your liver tissue to create a new biological/mechanical liver for me. If not, they'll have to go through a donor list."
Catherine sat there, stunned. Her back tightened and she held her breath, as if preparing for a blow - a blow that had already come.
Trowa continued, apparently not noticing her sudden stiffness. "The doctors assured that the process should be fairly simple on your part. And of course, with Une's access, the DNA test at least will be very fast."
He smiled at her, veiled behind his bang and his exhaustion. "Don't worry about anything, I'm sure I'll pull through this. No bullets this time, after all."
And it was too much for her. Right then and there, it was too much to stay silent any longer.
"I already had our DNA tested."
Trowa stilled. His face became...unreadable.
Catherine continued slowly, listening to her own words to hear them out loud for the first time.
"I already had our DNA tested. When you were hurt in those reintegration riots, I took a sample. I...never read the results."
Trowa, she noticed, was not fiddling with anything, was barely moving his chest to breathe. He had become very, very still. Catherine clenched her skirt under the table. Then she smoothed it out, and carefully folded both her hands in front of her plate.
"I thought I was your brother."
Trowa's words were measured but tight, like a new acrobat on a tripwire straining to keep their balance.
Catherine didn't flinch. She had prepared herself for those words - though they still strangled her heart to hear them aloud.
"Of course you are my brother, Trowa. You are always my brother. I just didn't know whether you were Triton. That's all."
She suddenly leaned forward and grasped both his hands tightly in hers. "That's all, Trowa."
Trowa looked out at her from behind a mahogany curtain of hair. He murmured, "Don't hold on too tight. I bruise easily these days."
Catherine released his hands, and he rubbed at them, with aged motions.
"You threw away the envelope?"
"No. No, I still have it - it's under the sink."
Trowa paused, then laughed suddenly in surprise. "Under the sink? With all the cleaning supplies? That you never use? Of course you put it there, Catherine."
Catherine smiled at the familiar, warm tone - though something was still missing. Something was gone. Could she - could *they* ever get it back?
Trowa interrupted her thoughts once more. "Well, let's see it. Let's see the envelope."
Catherine jumped up, almost knocking over the soup pot in her rush. She gripped the back of her chair as she stood looking at her brother - she hadn't thought that demand would come so soon. Then she took the step towards the sink and leaned down to roughly grab the box out from under the sink. The dust went up her nose and she sneezed.
A few seconds later, the DNA results lay on the kitchen table between them. Neither of them were pretending to eat anymore and the soup got colder and colder.
Trowa moved first. He lay a hand on the paper. "Was this so important to you?"
Catherine lay her hand on top of his. "Enough. Enough to get the test without telling you - but not enough to look at it."
Trowa frowned at the sight of her knife-calloused hand resting on his yellowed one.
"Where do we go from here? What do we...do?"
Catherine leaned gently in to lift his chin and softly brushed the hair off his face.
"Well, first I'm going to set up a cooking schedule for you. And then you need to call the doctor's office, brother."
Trowa searched her eyes at the last word.
So Catherine repeated it.
“Brother.”