04_after | (no subject)

Entry tags:

iria,
oom

(no subject)

Quatre's good at keeping his worries from distracting him at work. It helps that things are busy, right now. He's had to move a few trips around in order to be able to welcome some Earth officials to L4. It's not like Quatre’s an official political figure, but given many things (his friendship with Earth Vice Foreign Minister Relena Darlian not the least among them), his first cousin twice removed had politely requested he be around.

When one’s first cousin twice removed is the prime minister, "family obligations" start to become a little more important than might be expected. Fitting work around the meetings has been—stressful.

However, in the more than a week since his conversation with Enzo, Quatre finds himself slipping back into worries whenever he gets a few, rare moments of peace in his office.

(Quatre’s learned to decompress in the small moments. It’s like getting sleep when you can; two hours sleep will never be as good as eight, but it’s a lot better than none.)

He can’t formulate it into words. Or he can, but too many words. Not words he can say (not words he has any right to say), but the boy’s demeanor troubles him, tugs at his mind.

He wishes he still had the rubber ball Caton gave him when he started work here, to "keep his brain occupied while he was busy thinking". She uses one religiously; you can hear it bouncing in her office as she untangles a problem. Quatre’d tried to justify keeping it to himself - she was right, and it kept his ability to judge distances and angles.

But when it came down to it, Caton had been a grown woman with over 15 years in business when she’d given it to him. She was an executive who helped herself concentrate using a children’s toy. He was a new CEO, young and inexperienced; untested and untrusted. He had been a child, not much older than—whatever Enzo would be, if he were human. He hadn't the room to play with toys.

Still, it nags at him and it has been for long enough that he finally decides to do something about it.

--

Quatre calls Iria ahead of time, to see what her schedule for the night is; when she says it's free, he invites her to dinner.

This being Iria, who hates to leave the house after 3pm, what he's really doing is claiming the dark-paneled conversation room in the main wing, and ordering in Thai. Iria says that she knows he must want to talk, because he can’t possibly eat Thai while walking around.

Quatre almost says "Watch me," but she's right so he just laughs and says he'll meet her at 9.

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Ms. Mertens has already laid out dinner, and Iria is waiting in the entry hall with her, caught up in a conversation about Ms. Mertens' day.

When Quatre walks in, they both look up and Ms. Mertens smiles, ducking a half-nod to the two of them before going to finish cleaning up for the night.

Iria smiles at Quatre. "Evening," she says warmly, voice carefully cast to carry no further than the entry way.

"Evening," Quatre replies, smiling. Mr. Kassab is already gone for the night, so he shucks his blazer and places it into the hall closet himself. He didn't have any hardcopies to bring home this evening, so he just tucks his organizer into his waistcoat pocket.

He leans down to kiss Iria on the cheek, and she touches his elbow gently. "How long's it been since we've had supper?" he asks, after he straightens, resisting the urge to tuck his hands into his pockets as they make their way to the second floor conversation room. (The central wing elevator is tucked away in the back, behind the staircase and nearly in the main kitchen.)

"I don't know about you," Iria says, primly, "but I make sure to eat it every night."

At Quatre's look, she laughs slightly. "Over half a year, under a full one? Too long, at the least. You don't have so many family members who live with you, you know."

"It's the family members who don't who seem to enjoy calling in obligations," he murmurs. "You're much more pleasant."

"It's that bad," Iria's tone is doubtful.

"No," Quatre agrees, "you're right. I just wish I'd had more forewarning, and maybe another few hours in the day."

They're quiet as the elevator ascends. "But you're still the better choice." He glances at her, with a quick grin. "I don't have to make any effort to be charming."

Iria laughs, again, and pinches his elbow to hear him squawk.

(He does it so wonderfully.)

"I'm glad to be of service," she says, prim again, as they enter the conversation room. The table in here, already set with covers over the dishes to keep them warm, is too low to sit at comfortably with her wheel chair. She collapses the left armrest easily, and settles into one of the armchairs with Quatre's help.

Before he moves away, she grabs his left hand to stop him and smiles, uncertain and questioning.

That startles Quatre. After a moment, he returns the smile and squeezes her hand lightly. "It's not that bad, really - I'm just...looking for your expertise."

"Well," she squeezes back and lets his hand go, arranging her napkin in her lap as he goes to sit, "you know I'm good at giving advice."

She's relaxed; she smiles at him once he's seated, leaning in slightly. "My first piece is this: eat first, so you'll be able to think clearly."

"I'll take that under advisement," Quatre says with a quiet laugh; he follows it, and they eat with pleasant conversation about the week. Well, Quatre’s involves a good deal about the officials he’s been dealing with, but they’re pleasant enough to count.

After they finish, Iria sips the tea Ms. Mertens brought up halfway through.

She watches Quatre gather his thoughts, and breathes in slowly, not wanting to rush him to speech.

"I'm trying to decide how much context you'll need," he says, quietly.

"How important is the decision?"

"Likely minimally," he fiddles with his left cufflink absently. "Potentially very."

"Okay," she says, setting down her teacup. "I think you should err on the side of too much, then."

Quatre lets out a breath, and then laughs slightly.

"The context will sound insane. Hold off telling the others; Trowa can vouch for the place, but I don't want it to spread."

Iria smiles, slightly. "I won't call anyone on you for the context," she promises, "but if you start showing more symptoms, and Trowa doesn't hold up, I can't promise to keep it secret."

Quatre nods.

"There's a place," he starts--"they call it a restaurant, but it's more of a gathering place with rooms above that can be rented, and an outdoors. It's called Milliways."

He's quiet.

"It's like the forest in The Place of One Thousand Turnings," he says, finally, "except the timescale's reversed. And not--the same, exactly."

"It's good to know I don't have to worry about you disappearing for twenty years out of the blue."

(Maybe that's too calm of a response, but she's already decided to hold off on questioning the reality of the context until after this discussion is over.)

Quatre lets out an amused breath. "Yes, it is."

He picks up his tea, but he just holds it in his hands. "People don't just come there from different times and countries," he says, after a moment, "but different worlds as well--some are likely close alternate universes, places with the old country-names but space travel beyond what we can do."

He takes a sip of his tea. "Some are...very different. There's a young man I've met there who lives inside a computer.

Iria leans back slightly. setting her elbows against the armrests on the lounge chair (they're wide-set, but not so much as to make it uncomfortable).

"In a physical sense, or...?"

"As information," he confirms. "They call themselves 'data sprites'. Programs and viruses take--form, in their world. And in Milliways they can interact with the physical world in their own forms, and at equivalent size to the human patrons."

He pauses, uncertain for a moment, and then smiles. "It's probably magic; that seems to be everyone's explanation for things that don't make sense."

"How old is he? The young man."

Quatre worries at his lip for a moment. "I'd say fourteen or fifteen, or whatever the equivalent is for a data sprite."

He takes a sip of his tea.

"His world has had two wars, recently, at least one of which against a virus known as Megabyte."

If it wasn't for how Quatre said it, and the context, Iria would be a little more disbelieving. What kind of name is 'megabyte' for a virus?

As it is, she lets out a slow breath and closes her eyes. "The poor boy," Iria says, quietly.

Her eldest was only five when the last war ended, but she can too easily see him tied up in the war. And she was the one who tended to Quatre after one of his worst battles.

She suspects she knows why he's talking over this with her.

Quatre glances up at her, and smiles slightly. "They won," he says. "But Megabyte's in Milliways, now. And the rules allow for no violence or outside grudges."

He sighs. "But Enzo--is convinced Megabyte will break the rules. He's a virus, that's what he does. And he's very...righteously hurt about it. And sullen.

"And I don't know if he'll leave it to security, or if he'll try to handle it on his own, and I don't have the authority to tell him what to do or how easy it is to make mist--"

Quatre bites his lip, hard, and swallows.

Iria opens her eyes, pained by the guilt in Quatre's voice.

"He's not you," she says, quietly.

"He needs to learn how to handle things for himself."

"But what if he handles it wrong?" Quatre asks, and he can hear the tension in his voice. He breathes, concentrates, is thrown off by his sister replying.

"It happens," she says, quietly, smiling at him slight and sad over the tea. "That's how we learn anything, by handling it wrong. You just have to trust him to be able to tell when he screws up. It's his right, as a person, to make the wrong choice now and then."

Quatre hesitates a long moment, staring at her, something he can't name welling up at the reply. (Terror? That's more than stupid, that's idiotic. Why would he be terrified?)

Iria can sense it, too. She sits up, and glares at him. "Quatre Raberba Winner, get a hold of yourself," she says, harshly. At his startled glance, and quick locking of his teeth, she says: "Does he have a history of psychosis?" His eyes widen, and she says, sharply, "Tell me!"

He shakes his head once, sharply. “Not that I know.”

"Did he seem like it? Don’t say you don't know."

Quatre lets out a shaky breath once, and then again.

"No, I didn't notice anything."

"How many people could he kill with the weapons you know he has access to before he was stopped, if he tried to kill this man?"

Quatre chokes at the question, setting down his teacup with a clank. He's shaking his head. "I don't--it depends on the conditions, they're highly variable--"

"Is it greater or less than one dozen?"

"Less."

Iria goes quiet, and smiles gently. She touches Quatre's hand. "See," she says, quietly. "He's not like you at all."

Quatre lets out another unsteady breath, turning his hand to hold hers. He closes his eyes, relieved. (He's not crying, but he feels like maybe he should be.) "What should I do, then?" he asks, quietly.

"Care," Iria says, squeezing his hand lightly. "And don't interfere unless you must. Listening and not pressing is sometimes the best thing you can give a teenager." She laughs, quietly. "Especially if you have the luck to not actually be one of their parents."

Quatre snorts, and keeps ahold of her hand. "It’s just hard," he admits, after a few minutes.

"Well, yes," Iria replies, voice gently mocking. "You are in fact the first person to notice."

A short pause. "You'll be fine, Quatre. I'm sure he will be, too."

"Thank you."

Soon enough, he escorts her back to her family's set of rooms, and makes his way back to his suite off the third floor of the library.

He has some cases to review; it will still be some hours before he falls asleep.

(But his mind, for the first time in days, is peaceful.)

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