Reintegration: Chapter 2
Here's the second chapter of reintegration. I was just hit by a truckload of inspiration and I've planned out the whole fic.
Quatre found himself being shaken roughly awake at 07:00 hours. He suppressed the instinct to disable the person when he met Jayden’s street-tough gaze. Jayden said nothing, but left the room as soon as he was certain Quatre was awake. He was only thirteen, but his eyes were haunted like those of a worn-out old cop. From what Quatre knew, he’d been abandoned to the streets at the age of two, and from the age of 8 had been bounced from foster home to foster home. Nobody wanted jaded 8 year olds, Quatre thought with a bitter smile. No. That wasn’t right. Nobody wanted them, except for the Sims. Jayden had been living here for the past two years, and was not taking Quatre’s intrusion to his safe-haven lightly.
Quatre dragged himself out of bed and pulled on his faded blue jeans. They had been a present from Duo, not long before they’d all been sent to different homes. Duo had said he needed to relax more. At the time, Quatre had laughed and put them away, trying to think of ways to dispose of them without offending Duo. Now though, they were a comfort; a physical reminder that his best friend was out there and cared. He wore them everyday.
The stairs creaked as he went down them, and Quatre winced at the sound. He was supposed to be rehabilitating; learning how to live in peace time. The only thing he had learned in the past 4 months was that old habits died hard, and old war habits died harder. He’d been surviving everyday by pretending he was on an undercover mission, but it was getting harder and harder. Even under deep cover, he could have sent out communication somehow. It would have been necessary.
“Carter!”
The little blur that was his foster sister launched itself at him. She’d taken to his presence in their little family right away. He guessed she was looking for people she could feel attached to. Her parents were killed in the crossfire of an Oz and Alliance battle six months ago. Jayden was still too openly unstable to be Jessie’s rock. But children were resilient, and Jessie’s open joy at life was a healing balm to Quatre’s soul. Picking her up, he headed over to the kitchen table, where toast and eggs were waiting for him. Mark and Elana were looking back and forth between themselves and Quatre. Guilt tore at his heart. His foster parents were trying so hard to make this work. It wasn’t their fault he was miserable. He would have to make a better effort to stay in character.
“How did you sleep, Carter?”
“Very well, thank you Elana.” Quatre smiled at the end of his sentence, and his foster mother grabbed the olive branch and held on for dear life. Crossing the room in two strides, she held a hand to his forehead and began to fuss.
“Do you feel any better?” Quatre opened his mouth to respond, but couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
“Would you like some tea? Can I get you anything, sweetie?”
Quatre swallowed hard as the world faded away for a moment.
“Can I get you anything, sweetie?”
8 year old Quatre was wrapped in blankets and propped up with pillows. There was a large, hand-shaped bruise on his face, and his sister Iria was hovering over him worriedly.
“Quatre, you know Papa loves you, right?”
Little Quatre didn’t exactly respond to the question.
“I… I feel him sometimes, Iria. It’s scary when he drinks that stuff. He’s so sad. So sad. He misses her so very much, and he’s so angry.”
“Quatre, Papa lets his sadness for your Mama get in the way. You look so much like her. I want you to promise me you won’t go near him anymore when he’s been drinking.”
“I can’t do that, Iria.”
“Why not?!”
“When he’s angry with me, I’m sure that he can’t be angry with you.”
“Oh Quat! You don’t need to worry about me. I’m your big sister. I’m supposed to protect you. I love you, Quatre. Don’t you ever forget it. Promise me?”
“‘kay.”
“Carter!? Are you alright?”
Quatre gulped a breath of air as he was wrenched back into this world. He stood abruptly and almost passed out as a wave of dizziness washed over him. Muttering that he would be back after school, he grabbed his books, shoved them into his backpack, and ran into the rainy morning. He ran all the way to the bus stop, where he leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath. Another wave of dizziness hit him, and he was forced to sit down. He squeezed his eyes shut. Don’t think, don’t think. It was useless. Iria was dead, and after the war, his remaining sisters had disowned him. He was alone, except for…
“Jayden?”
The figure kept walking towards Quatre.
“Why are you here? You don’t take this bus.”
Jayden’s voice was low and gruff when he answered, too low and too gruff.
“You forgot your ID card.”
Oh, right. Public transportation was free on the condition that you presented a valid ID card. He took the card from his foster brother, but didn’t glance at it. He couldn’t bear to see his picture next to the name Carter Sims. Shaking his head to clear it, he looked back at Jayden, who looked like he might say something more.
“Look, man. Don’t think I don’t know this foster shit is tough. I know I was a pain in the ass when I first got here too. But Mark and Elana? They’re my people. I protect my people, and you’re hurting them. I’ll let you off with a warning for now.”
Jayden flashed a six inch switch blade he had sewn into his jacket: the one Quatre had known about for most of the four months he had been staying here. Jayden didn’t pose any serious threat. He acted tough, but inside, Quatre knew he was a scared and hurt little boy, who only wanted to be sure his little family was safe. Jayden was hurting enough as it was, and Quatre was only complicating his life. So he resisted the urge to laugh bitterly and instead nodded seriously.
“I understand.”
Jayden nodded and put the blade away. He smirked cockily.
“I thought you might say that. I’ll see you after school.”
Quatre watched Jayden’s back dully as he walked away in the direction of his own bus stop. Jayden went to a different school than Quatre. He’d been in trouble with the law more than once, and the authorities felt it prudent to keep him under their watch at a special school for JDs. Sneering at the irony of their situations, Quatre got on the bus to his own normal high school for normal kids.
Quatre’s first class of the day was band. Ordinarily, that would have made him smile, but now even the music was losing its ability to soothe Quatre’s aching mind. Mr. Falk, the music teacher, was losing patience with him. When he’d first come to the school, he had been able to write poetry with his strings. Now, the music was locked somewhere inside of him, and he couldn’t remember where he’d put the key. But he picked up his violin nonetheless. He hoped the feeling of the strings under his fingers would transport him back to a time when a flute used to sing with him. Then he wouldn’t hurt anymore.
“Good job Quatre, that’s coming along.”
Quatre smiled ruefully and looked at his sectional partner.
“That was awful, Harmony, and you know it.”
“Okay, so maybe it isn’t close to how well you normally play it, but it wasn’t as bad as last time!”
She was desperately trying to keep both of their spirits up. The music tests were scheduled soon, and with Quatre as her partner, she probably wouldn’t get a great mark. Still, she was cheerful, and never let Quatre know of her frustration. Quatre appreciated her efforts.
“I’ll get it together for the test, Harmony. I’m sorry it’s taking so long.”
“I understand, Quatre. You miss him very much, don’t you?”
“W-what? Who?”
“The boy you used to play music with.”
Quatre stared at her, open-mouthed.
“H-how? How did you know?”
“You’re not the only empath in the world, Quatre. If you’d been paying more attention, you would have noticed me.”
Feeling violated, Quatre interrupted hotly,
“You probed my emotions?!”
But Harmony was calm, and she responded a little sadly,
“Quatre, I didn’t have to. You’re projecting so loudly any empath within a 100 foot radius would feel it.”
“I’m projecting?’
“Yes, you are. You’re probably subconsciously hoping he’ll hear you calling.”
Quatre let out the breath he’d been holding. Yes, that made sense: Trowa had heard him before.
“You’re right. Thanks for telling me.”
“You’re welcome.” There was a slight pause. “Quatre?”
“Yes?”
“I have an idea about your playing, but I want you to forget I said anything if you can’t do it, okay?”
“… alright. Go ahead.”
“I want us to go through the piece one more time. This time, however, I want you to think of him. Play for him, if you like.”
“Think of him?”
“Yes, dedicate the piece to him. That is, unless it’s too painful.”
“No. I-I guess we could try that.”
He could think of Trowa while he played. Maybe, if he felt hard enough, Trowa would feel him, wherever he was. It was the only chance at communication they had.
Grasping his bow unsteadily, he began to play. He closed his eyes, a crystal clear image of Trowa in his head: the way he tilted his head a little bit sideways while he played, the way his brow crinkled a little when he was playing high notes, but most of all, the way he looked at Quatre through hooded eyes as he harmonized. Quatre didn’t even notice when Harmony joined in. Around him, the other students stopped playing and turned to stare at Quatre and Harmony. The room was deathly still except for the two students in the corner, riveting the whole class. Beads of sweat ran down Quatre’s forehead as the music came to a staggering crescendo. He could almost hear where Trowa would come in with his flute. When the last note sounded, Quatre stood perfectly still for one, long second. Then his knees buckled.
Elsewhere, Trowa clutched his heart and gasped.
Heero was exhausted. He’d been sent to four different foster homes in the four months since the separation. They’d all sited his violent behaviour as the reason they could no longer have him their homes. Now he was sitting on an uninviting white couch, waiting for his fifth and hopefully final family to come and pick him up from the social services centre on L1.He’d tried to convince the social workers that he would never fit into the system; that he was a danger to other people. Of course, they wouldn’t listen to him, and they’d simply gone about trying to find him another home. But only four hours ago…
Heero awoke with a strangled grunt to find he was standing, pressed up against the wall with his an oz soldier pinned between him and the wall. He’d broken both of the man’s wrists. Someone was screaming in the background. Looking wildly around for the source of the noise, he fixed his eyes in horror on his foster mother. Matilda was sobbing so hard it was difficult to make out what she was saying. Heero blinked. He was glad to have protected her. Turning to the man in his grasp to knock him unconscious, he gasped in shock. His foster father’s terrified visage stared back at him. Suddenly he could make out Matilda’s words. She was pleading with him.
“Hikaru! Please, please, please. Stop it Hikaru. What did we do wrong? Let him go! Let him go!”
Heero released his foster father and his own knees buckled. Philip, he thought dimly. He’d almost knocked him unconscious.
“I’m sorry.”
Philip had run to the other side of the room as fast as his feet could take him. He was clutching his left wrist in agony. It was badly broken. Heero made to get up. He had to see how badly Philip was hurt. Matilda screamed again.
“Stay back! Don’t hurt him again!”
“I-I didn’t mean to. Please believe me. I’d never-“
But Matilda and Philip were no longer there and the door was locked from the outside. Heero slid back down the wall, hugging his knees.
Two bleary-eyed social workers had arrived less than an hour later, telling him to pack up his things. He’d wanted to apologize… to see if Philip would be alright, but the social workers ushered him out the door before he could say anything. The last thing he saw before he left forever was Matilda and Philip, hugging each other and crying.
He never wanted that to happen again. From now on, he would handcuff himself to the bed at night. It would be better for him to get hurt because he couldn’t defend himself than for him to hurt another innocent. Never again.
Heero saw couple in their early thirties arrive at the door. They conferred with the social workers for a few minutes, and then the they were brought through the sliding glass doors to Heero.
“This is Hikaru Kasamatsu. If you find each other agreeable, he’ll be your foster son. I’ll leave you to get acquainted.”
With that, Ann, the social worker walked out the door and left Heero to fend for himself. He resisted the urge to pull his knees up to his chest as he surveyed the two. They were fairly young, as foster parents went. But something was wrong. The woman seemed to be struggling not to cry. Surely he wasn’t that frightening! Was he? Heero crossed his arms over his chest defensively, and took stock of his body. Shocked, he realized that his arm muscles were bulging threateningly, and that he was coiled up, every muscle tense, even sitting down. Suddenly, he felt too tired to deal with this. He was lost; he had been since the day he was born. This time, he didn’t resist the urge to pull his legs up to his chest. He rested his head on his knees and swallowed hard. A distant part of his mind was screaming at him not to show any vulnerability, not to leave himself open to attack. He crushed the thought. It was that way of thinking that had caused him to hurt Philip.
“I’m sorry.”
The woman grabbed a kleenex and dabbed at her eyes. She had long brown hair and was dressed casually, in jeans and a T-shirt.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Heero said gruffly, slightly puzzled.
“Yes there is! I should be more welcoming. Instead, I’m sitting here blubbering-“
The man spoke up.
“Carla, honey, shh…” He wrapped an arm around her back and soothed.
“My name’s James, and this is Carla.” He took a deep breath, as though readying himself to say something he would rather not have disclosed.
“Carla and I have been trying to have children for a couple of years.” There was a slightly pregnant pause before he continued. “Last year, we got pregnant, but our baby died while he was being born. His name was going to be Joshua…” James stopped to collect himself. “We’ve been told we can’t have anymore children, so we decided to open our home to children who might want parents just as much as we want them.”
There was an uncomfortable silence after that. James was pouring his and Carla’s hearts out, but Heero was miserable and tired and he just didn’t know what was expected of him. Thankfully, Carla began to talk again, saving Heero from a half-hearted response.
“I-It’s just that we thought you’d be a bit younger.”
Oh… Oh. It made sense now; the way they’d been disappointed as soon as they’d seen him. He hadn’t scared them. He just hadn’t been little enough. God he wished… he wished Trowa had left him to die by himself at New Edwards. Nobody had ever wanted him. Nobody ever would. He was a toy, something people were interested in for a while, but eventually threw away without a second thought. A strangled sound halfway between a bitter laugh and a chocked sob tore its way from his throat.
“I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. Believe me, I wish I was ten years younger too.”
If only… If only someone had picked him up when he was six or seven and taken him away from all this. He wished he’d been in this position back when he had been young enough to change.
“Oh Hikaru! We didn’t mean that!”
“We were shocked when we first got here, but Ann explained why she’d called us over and when we’d heard your story, we decided we couldn’t say no.”
“Why?”
James and Carla exchanged a look.
“Carla and I grew up in a mercenary troop. We know first hand what it’s like to be a child soldier. We want you to come home with us.”
Heero’s brow constricted as he thought this over. He could barely believe what he was hearing. If what they were saying was true, James and Carla would know a lot more about what to expect from him than Matilda and Philip had known. Maybe they would understand. He took a deep breath and asked the most important question.
“You… want me?”
“Yes, we do,” they both answered earnestly.
Heero stood up, looked both of them in the eye, and said:
“I will do my best to be a satisfactory son.”
James barely kept himself from wincing at his foster son’s flat tone. The boy had a lot of healing to do.
“You will be, Hikaru. You will be.”
Quatre found himself being shaken roughly awake at 07:00 hours. He suppressed the instinct to disable the person when he met Jayden’s street-tough gaze. Jayden said nothing, but left the room as soon as he was certain Quatre was awake. He was only thirteen, but his eyes were haunted like those of a worn-out old cop. From what Quatre knew, he’d been abandoned to the streets at the age of two, and from the age of 8 had been bounced from foster home to foster home. Nobody wanted jaded 8 year olds, Quatre thought with a bitter smile. No. That wasn’t right. Nobody wanted them, except for the Sims. Jayden had been living here for the past two years, and was not taking Quatre’s intrusion to his safe-haven lightly.
Quatre dragged himself out of bed and pulled on his faded blue jeans. They had been a present from Duo, not long before they’d all been sent to different homes. Duo had said he needed to relax more. At the time, Quatre had laughed and put them away, trying to think of ways to dispose of them without offending Duo. Now though, they were a comfort; a physical reminder that his best friend was out there and cared. He wore them everyday.
The stairs creaked as he went down them, and Quatre winced at the sound. He was supposed to be rehabilitating; learning how to live in peace time. The only thing he had learned in the past 4 months was that old habits died hard, and old war habits died harder. He’d been surviving everyday by pretending he was on an undercover mission, but it was getting harder and harder. Even under deep cover, he could have sent out communication somehow. It would have been necessary.
“Carter!”
The little blur that was his foster sister launched itself at him. She’d taken to his presence in their little family right away. He guessed she was looking for people she could feel attached to. Her parents were killed in the crossfire of an Oz and Alliance battle six months ago. Jayden was still too openly unstable to be Jessie’s rock. But children were resilient, and Jessie’s open joy at life was a healing balm to Quatre’s soul. Picking her up, he headed over to the kitchen table, where toast and eggs were waiting for him. Mark and Elana were looking back and forth between themselves and Quatre. Guilt tore at his heart. His foster parents were trying so hard to make this work. It wasn’t their fault he was miserable. He would have to make a better effort to stay in character.
“How did you sleep, Carter?”
“Very well, thank you Elana.” Quatre smiled at the end of his sentence, and his foster mother grabbed the olive branch and held on for dear life. Crossing the room in two strides, she held a hand to his forehead and began to fuss.
“Do you feel any better?” Quatre opened his mouth to respond, but couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
“Would you like some tea? Can I get you anything, sweetie?”
Quatre swallowed hard as the world faded away for a moment.
“Can I get you anything, sweetie?”
8 year old Quatre was wrapped in blankets and propped up with pillows. There was a large, hand-shaped bruise on his face, and his sister Iria was hovering over him worriedly.
“Quatre, you know Papa loves you, right?”
Little Quatre didn’t exactly respond to the question.
“I… I feel him sometimes, Iria. It’s scary when he drinks that stuff. He’s so sad. So sad. He misses her so very much, and he’s so angry.”
“Quatre, Papa lets his sadness for your Mama get in the way. You look so much like her. I want you to promise me you won’t go near him anymore when he’s been drinking.”
“I can’t do that, Iria.”
“Why not?!”
“When he’s angry with me, I’m sure that he can’t be angry with you.”
“Oh Quat! You don’t need to worry about me. I’m your big sister. I’m supposed to protect you. I love you, Quatre. Don’t you ever forget it. Promise me?”
“‘kay.”
“Carter!? Are you alright?”
Quatre gulped a breath of air as he was wrenched back into this world. He stood abruptly and almost passed out as a wave of dizziness washed over him. Muttering that he would be back after school, he grabbed his books, shoved them into his backpack, and ran into the rainy morning. He ran all the way to the bus stop, where he leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath. Another wave of dizziness hit him, and he was forced to sit down. He squeezed his eyes shut. Don’t think, don’t think. It was useless. Iria was dead, and after the war, his remaining sisters had disowned him. He was alone, except for…
“Jayden?”
The figure kept walking towards Quatre.
“Why are you here? You don’t take this bus.”
Jayden’s voice was low and gruff when he answered, too low and too gruff.
“You forgot your ID card.”
Oh, right. Public transportation was free on the condition that you presented a valid ID card. He took the card from his foster brother, but didn’t glance at it. He couldn’t bear to see his picture next to the name Carter Sims. Shaking his head to clear it, he looked back at Jayden, who looked like he might say something more.
“Look, man. Don’t think I don’t know this foster shit is tough. I know I was a pain in the ass when I first got here too. But Mark and Elana? They’re my people. I protect my people, and you’re hurting them. I’ll let you off with a warning for now.”
Jayden flashed a six inch switch blade he had sewn into his jacket: the one Quatre had known about for most of the four months he had been staying here. Jayden didn’t pose any serious threat. He acted tough, but inside, Quatre knew he was a scared and hurt little boy, who only wanted to be sure his little family was safe. Jayden was hurting enough as it was, and Quatre was only complicating his life. So he resisted the urge to laugh bitterly and instead nodded seriously.
“I understand.”
Jayden nodded and put the blade away. He smirked cockily.
“I thought you might say that. I’ll see you after school.”
Quatre watched Jayden’s back dully as he walked away in the direction of his own bus stop. Jayden went to a different school than Quatre. He’d been in trouble with the law more than once, and the authorities felt it prudent to keep him under their watch at a special school for JDs. Sneering at the irony of their situations, Quatre got on the bus to his own normal high school for normal kids.
Quatre’s first class of the day was band. Ordinarily, that would have made him smile, but now even the music was losing its ability to soothe Quatre’s aching mind. Mr. Falk, the music teacher, was losing patience with him. When he’d first come to the school, he had been able to write poetry with his strings. Now, the music was locked somewhere inside of him, and he couldn’t remember where he’d put the key. But he picked up his violin nonetheless. He hoped the feeling of the strings under his fingers would transport him back to a time when a flute used to sing with him. Then he wouldn’t hurt anymore.
“Good job Quatre, that’s coming along.”
Quatre smiled ruefully and looked at his sectional partner.
“That was awful, Harmony, and you know it.”
“Okay, so maybe it isn’t close to how well you normally play it, but it wasn’t as bad as last time!”
She was desperately trying to keep both of their spirits up. The music tests were scheduled soon, and with Quatre as her partner, she probably wouldn’t get a great mark. Still, she was cheerful, and never let Quatre know of her frustration. Quatre appreciated her efforts.
“I’ll get it together for the test, Harmony. I’m sorry it’s taking so long.”
“I understand, Quatre. You miss him very much, don’t you?”
“W-what? Who?”
“The boy you used to play music with.”
Quatre stared at her, open-mouthed.
“H-how? How did you know?”
“You’re not the only empath in the world, Quatre. If you’d been paying more attention, you would have noticed me.”
Feeling violated, Quatre interrupted hotly,
“You probed my emotions?!”
But Harmony was calm, and she responded a little sadly,
“Quatre, I didn’t have to. You’re projecting so loudly any empath within a 100 foot radius would feel it.”
“I’m projecting?’
“Yes, you are. You’re probably subconsciously hoping he’ll hear you calling.”
Quatre let out the breath he’d been holding. Yes, that made sense: Trowa had heard him before.
“You’re right. Thanks for telling me.”
“You’re welcome.” There was a slight pause. “Quatre?”
“Yes?”
“I have an idea about your playing, but I want you to forget I said anything if you can’t do it, okay?”
“… alright. Go ahead.”
“I want us to go through the piece one more time. This time, however, I want you to think of him. Play for him, if you like.”
“Think of him?”
“Yes, dedicate the piece to him. That is, unless it’s too painful.”
“No. I-I guess we could try that.”
He could think of Trowa while he played. Maybe, if he felt hard enough, Trowa would feel him, wherever he was. It was the only chance at communication they had.
Grasping his bow unsteadily, he began to play. He closed his eyes, a crystal clear image of Trowa in his head: the way he tilted his head a little bit sideways while he played, the way his brow crinkled a little when he was playing high notes, but most of all, the way he looked at Quatre through hooded eyes as he harmonized. Quatre didn’t even notice when Harmony joined in. Around him, the other students stopped playing and turned to stare at Quatre and Harmony. The room was deathly still except for the two students in the corner, riveting the whole class. Beads of sweat ran down Quatre’s forehead as the music came to a staggering crescendo. He could almost hear where Trowa would come in with his flute. When the last note sounded, Quatre stood perfectly still for one, long second. Then his knees buckled.
Elsewhere, Trowa clutched his heart and gasped.
Heero was exhausted. He’d been sent to four different foster homes in the four months since the separation. They’d all sited his violent behaviour as the reason they could no longer have him their homes. Now he was sitting on an uninviting white couch, waiting for his fifth and hopefully final family to come and pick him up from the social services centre on L1.He’d tried to convince the social workers that he would never fit into the system; that he was a danger to other people. Of course, they wouldn’t listen to him, and they’d simply gone about trying to find him another home. But only four hours ago…
Heero awoke with a strangled grunt to find he was standing, pressed up against the wall with his an oz soldier pinned between him and the wall. He’d broken both of the man’s wrists. Someone was screaming in the background. Looking wildly around for the source of the noise, he fixed his eyes in horror on his foster mother. Matilda was sobbing so hard it was difficult to make out what she was saying. Heero blinked. He was glad to have protected her. Turning to the man in his grasp to knock him unconscious, he gasped in shock. His foster father’s terrified visage stared back at him. Suddenly he could make out Matilda’s words. She was pleading with him.
“Hikaru! Please, please, please. Stop it Hikaru. What did we do wrong? Let him go! Let him go!”
Heero released his foster father and his own knees buckled. Philip, he thought dimly. He’d almost knocked him unconscious.
“I’m sorry.”
Philip had run to the other side of the room as fast as his feet could take him. He was clutching his left wrist in agony. It was badly broken. Heero made to get up. He had to see how badly Philip was hurt. Matilda screamed again.
“Stay back! Don’t hurt him again!”
“I-I didn’t mean to. Please believe me. I’d never-“
But Matilda and Philip were no longer there and the door was locked from the outside. Heero slid back down the wall, hugging his knees.
Two bleary-eyed social workers had arrived less than an hour later, telling him to pack up his things. He’d wanted to apologize… to see if Philip would be alright, but the social workers ushered him out the door before he could say anything. The last thing he saw before he left forever was Matilda and Philip, hugging each other and crying.
He never wanted that to happen again. From now on, he would handcuff himself to the bed at night. It would be better for him to get hurt because he couldn’t defend himself than for him to hurt another innocent. Never again.
Heero saw couple in their early thirties arrive at the door. They conferred with the social workers for a few minutes, and then the they were brought through the sliding glass doors to Heero.
“This is Hikaru Kasamatsu. If you find each other agreeable, he’ll be your foster son. I’ll leave you to get acquainted.”
With that, Ann, the social worker walked out the door and left Heero to fend for himself. He resisted the urge to pull his knees up to his chest as he surveyed the two. They were fairly young, as foster parents went. But something was wrong. The woman seemed to be struggling not to cry. Surely he wasn’t that frightening! Was he? Heero crossed his arms over his chest defensively, and took stock of his body. Shocked, he realized that his arm muscles were bulging threateningly, and that he was coiled up, every muscle tense, even sitting down. Suddenly, he felt too tired to deal with this. He was lost; he had been since the day he was born. This time, he didn’t resist the urge to pull his legs up to his chest. He rested his head on his knees and swallowed hard. A distant part of his mind was screaming at him not to show any vulnerability, not to leave himself open to attack. He crushed the thought. It was that way of thinking that had caused him to hurt Philip.
“I’m sorry.”
The woman grabbed a kleenex and dabbed at her eyes. She had long brown hair and was dressed casually, in jeans and a T-shirt.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Heero said gruffly, slightly puzzled.
“Yes there is! I should be more welcoming. Instead, I’m sitting here blubbering-“
The man spoke up.
“Carla, honey, shh…” He wrapped an arm around her back and soothed.
“My name’s James, and this is Carla.” He took a deep breath, as though readying himself to say something he would rather not have disclosed.
“Carla and I have been trying to have children for a couple of years.” There was a slightly pregnant pause before he continued. “Last year, we got pregnant, but our baby died while he was being born. His name was going to be Joshua…” James stopped to collect himself. “We’ve been told we can’t have anymore children, so we decided to open our home to children who might want parents just as much as we want them.”
There was an uncomfortable silence after that. James was pouring his and Carla’s hearts out, but Heero was miserable and tired and he just didn’t know what was expected of him. Thankfully, Carla began to talk again, saving Heero from a half-hearted response.
“I-It’s just that we thought you’d be a bit younger.”
Oh… Oh. It made sense now; the way they’d been disappointed as soon as they’d seen him. He hadn’t scared them. He just hadn’t been little enough. God he wished… he wished Trowa had left him to die by himself at New Edwards. Nobody had ever wanted him. Nobody ever would. He was a toy, something people were interested in for a while, but eventually threw away without a second thought. A strangled sound halfway between a bitter laugh and a chocked sob tore its way from his throat.
“I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. Believe me, I wish I was ten years younger too.”
If only… If only someone had picked him up when he was six or seven and taken him away from all this. He wished he’d been in this position back when he had been young enough to change.
“Oh Hikaru! We didn’t mean that!”
“We were shocked when we first got here, but Ann explained why she’d called us over and when we’d heard your story, we decided we couldn’t say no.”
“Why?”
James and Carla exchanged a look.
“Carla and I grew up in a mercenary troop. We know first hand what it’s like to be a child soldier. We want you to come home with us.”
Heero’s brow constricted as he thought this over. He could barely believe what he was hearing. If what they were saying was true, James and Carla would know a lot more about what to expect from him than Matilda and Philip had known. Maybe they would understand. He took a deep breath and asked the most important question.
“You… want me?”
“Yes, we do,” they both answered earnestly.
Heero stood up, looked both of them in the eye, and said:
“I will do my best to be a satisfactory son.”
James barely kept himself from wincing at his foster son’s flat tone. The boy had a lot of healing to do.
“You will be, Hikaru. You will be.”