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Scar Tissue

Summary:

Zechs and Noin have a long-awaited conversation en route to Mars...
'At least it wasn't his face; he no longer wears a mask and does not intend to, ever again. And it means the crew don’t suspect anything different of the rest of him. Noin hasn’t asked, so he hasn’t told. He doesn’t know what she imagines.'

Notes:

After being made aware of the sorry lack of Zechs x Noin content out there, I felt duty-bound to do my bit in my tiny corner of the internet for them XD

 

 

 I haven't read many of the Frozen Teardrop translations, so this likely will not be compatible. And I don't think it matters either way in this case. Enjoy! ^_^

Work Text:

***

He has webbed fingers now. Not all of them, but some. They won't be of any special use on Mars; there's no liquid water on the surface. Not yet, anyhow. That's why he's going there. To transform it all. The planet, and himself. Not only him- a crew. And Noin.

His hands are naked, safe in his cabin, but usually, they are hidden in gloves. Grey ones. Or sometimes, white ones, which he's used to. It's easier to keep them clean here. Nothing really sticks. Here, he is Wind.

He’s had other monikers before. The Lightning Baron. That was Treize Kushrenada’s gift. At the time, he liked it. What a stupid, pretentious title, he thinks, looking back. Wind is simpler. It's an element, like all the others, both welcomed and destructive. No better nor worse.

Unscrewing the cap on the tube he's holding, he unbuttons his shirt. It’s a familiar routine.

“Evil”

“Unhinged”

“War crimes”

“Making a mockery of…”

Preventers. He knows what they say about him. He's always been the subject of rumours, but usually good ones. Wearing a mask that concealed half his face, and being a head above everyone else in every sense would do that. Of course, he would act indifferent when he heard them- whisperings that fed his ego, empowered him, even if some were of the outrageous variety; he was blind in one such tale. Quite how he was able to be an ace pilot in this condition didn't factor into the story. The burns victim one had been untrue then, only now, it has substance.

And so do the other rumours, the ones about his character.

But evil. He isn't sure about that one. How does one know they're evil? Is it defined by what you want to harm in your heart? Or what you manage to harm, that counts?

Earth still spins, content on its axis. It is safe. Nothing happened. Thank you, Heero Yuy.

He rubs ointment behind his knees. It hurts a bit when he straightens his legs. Spending a lot of time sitting isn't good for him. He knows that nobody’s skin welcomes space travel, but his needs extra care. It’s a tiresome rigmarole. Usually, if he can bear it, he waits until it’s his turn to rest, so his crewmates won’t offer him sympathy. Or make more rumours.

But on-duty, his back often gets tight under his clothes. The bumpy, jagged scar tissue resists him when he moves, straining and shiny. Tormenting. It itches all the time, crying to be soothed.

At least it wasn't his face; he no longer wears a mask and does not intend to, ever again. And it means the crew don’t suspect anything different of the rest of him. Noin hasn’t asked, so he hasn’t told. He doesn’t know what she imagines.

A soft knock. "Permission to enter?"

Is that a genuine question, or is there a hint of flirtation? No, that's just what he wants to hear. She's not like that now.

"Granted. Noin."

The door groans open. He has his back to her; he stays that way. He decides he needs to show someone. Her. He needs to put reality into her head. Her footsteps stutter. Then, quiet. There's just a small bulb in here, but he knows she's seen.

Most of his neck is spared; he can wear a long-sleeved shirt and no one would know he'd escaped an exploding Gundam. The detonation was to pay penance, but he doesn’t feel clean. Too little too late. His arms and torso came off the worse. He rubs the moisturising gel on his chest, killing the itch. It will come back alive later. It always does.

He can hear her breathing behind him. Swallowing.

"Can I sit?" she says. It's all she says. No announcement of why she’s here.

A chair scrapes at his side. She slumps a little. Perhaps it was cruel of him not to cover himself up.

"I was just sorting these out." He gestures to his injuries, as though they're nothing much, carries on massaging in the ointment.

The doctors told him it would stop eventually. The prickles, the numbness. He will need ongoing rehabilitation by medics on Mars. He’s grateful Une declared him fit after his physical; the Director has a reckless streak he is glad for. There had been no physical in order to fight the Christmas rebellion, no time. Now, all there is, is time. Stretching, covering everything over. The covering looks ugly, sometimes.

There’s a tremor in Noin’s voice but she holds it steady, "Are you in pain?"

"I was. When it first happened. It's more of an irritation now, a maintenance issue."

She's still breathing faster. "Did you have skin grafts?"

"Yes." He doesn’t mention they borrowed the most from his buttocks.

He can't reach all of his back to apply the moisturiser. The skin on his arms goes taught as he twists, restricts his movement.

"Here," she says, "Let me." He passes her the tube. She adds, attempting humour, "Reminds me of the beach. At least I won't need to help you with suntan lotion on Mars."

"We could sunbathe, I suppose. Get a radiation tan."

She snorts softly. "You're too pale skinned for sunbathing. You've got freckles."

Her skin is olive and doesn’t burn. He remembers it all. But now he feels it was a dream. Before the Gundam pilots appeared.

The gel moves slowly over his spine, cold and wonderful. The irritation is worse there. It drives him berserk sometimes at night. Her hands smother it quiet. They have a current through them. She’s making his hairs stand up, but he hopes they’re too fine and blond for her to notice. The cabin air is charged between them; it holds a strange calm in which things are brewing, moving into place.

He needs to ask her something. Hasn't dared till now. A coward, afraid of an answer.

"Noin. Why do you love me?"

Her hands keep moving and she says,"I could switch that around and ask you: why don't you love me?"

He is surprised. There hasn't been any tension in the past couple of weeks, as far as he's concerned. Lots of magnetic chess playing and talking about what they will do on the Red Planet. She wins many times. They even laugh. Her repartee catches him off guard.

"You think that I don't love you?" he says.

"You've given me no reason not to." She doesn't sound sad. She's resolute; she's been nursing her questions for too long.

"What would you want from me?"

Who exactly have you waited for, Noin?

She can read that in two ways; what should he do to prove his feelings, or why would she want him at all?

She bends to rub his shoulders. Her breath huffs against his neck, inviting gooseflesh. "What do I want from you, huh? I'm not even sure anymore. It's just a thing. A thing I have. It's unfortunate. I should let it go. "

"Then, why are you here with me?"

She pauses, gives a sighing sort of laugh, "I'll admit, I'm here for love. For Space. That was my first love." Stroking a tough ridge of scar tissue, she adds, "You were second."

Maybe she's joking. Or playing it cool, because that's what he's been doing since their last battle. But still, he knows all the stories from their Academy days. How she fell head first into astronomy and mapped out all the known stars across the ceiling in her childhood room. The room she wasn't in for very long, before loss happened, before OZ. He remembers how she looked in the barracks, face tilted towards the heavens, bright-eyed, when she told him all she knew about the stars. It was more than he did. He admired her. She was more capable than him in mobile suit training, in exams, in being liked. She let him be the valedictorian. He recalls her smiling in the audience as he made his speech. He still doesn’t know which questions she deliberately flunked, which errors she made in her practicals.

She thought he had a purpose more important than hers. Being first would help him. Letting her lose was criminal.

Now, she thinks it was criminal too. That's his guess. It's etched there, in her face, the change he fears. She's harder, or at least she's trying to be. Preventers has changed her.

The ointment is running thin. She squeezes the tube again for more.

"Why can't you answer my question?" Her voice is a murmur, but it has bite. She scoops his hair, rubs slippery fingers behind his neck. It's supposed to soothe, but it makes him ache all over, "Why don't you love me? Answer, it Zechs Marquise."

"I do." The words sound too feeble.

"But?"

He pictures how she cried about her mother and father. Boating accident. Lake Lugano. Sitting on the edge of her bunk as a child, she sobbed on his shoulder, as she told him the news. He doesn't remember really consoling her; perhaps he had. It feels like something he should remember. He only plotted murder for his parents' deaths. Brigadier General Onegell. Bullet in the brain. It felt good at the time. He couldn't cry on her. The Lightning Baron could not be seen that way. Lightning doesn't cry, it strikes. He must be a true warrior, a wall of ice. How different is he now? His Preventer I.D badge says he is, but is he, really? It has only been a year.

He bows his head, "I don't want to disappoint you, Noin."

Finishing his neck, she moves to face him, turning over his hands, inspecting them. Seeing the mottled scars, she kneads the moisture into the toughened clumps between his fingers.

"You already have."

His gut recoils, but he knows what she means.

That he became someone she didn't recognise.

That he didn't call her, or even send a message to say he'd survived.

Never truly thanked her in more than just words. For taking care of Relena. For his highest test scores. For believing there was more to him than what she saw; for her misplaced faith in him, even when he threatened her life. Terrified her. It was war. It was different. It's a poor excuse. For giving her so little, pouring secret scorn on her devotion. To scorn himself meant to scorn anyone who cared for him. And even though his body tells of his remorse, oh, does he scorn himself.

“That guy shouldn’t be here.”

“He should have stayed dead.”

He closes his eyes to feel only Noin’s touch. She is disappointed in him. Out loud. Her gentle ministrations seem at odds with her attitude. His skin feels more at ease, but inside, something is burning, cracking. He can't locate just where. Organ after organ, bone by bone, he is failing, fracturing. He thought he was mended when his skin closed. When he entered the cockpit as Preventer Wind.

“Preventer Wind or Pretender Wind?” Someone had said it. Points for wit.

He folds forward, so his hair curtains his cheeks. He trembles, but not in fear. Or perhaps it is fear, but not for his life. He died once and it wasn't so bad. The blinding agony of the blast, of Epyon’s debris slashing him, made him pass out, so the pain vanished before he was retrieved. He was dead through it all. No, under anaesthesia, dreaming through the worst; not bold enough to die like Treize. Waking up after surgery, his skin stripped and rearranged, was grim, but he's never felt like this. This is a new pain. It's worse. She's disappointed in him. And now, he truly sees himself; his eyes smart. They begin to leak. Water pools around the edges like jewels in the microgravity. He digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

She doesn't spring to his aid, like she might have in days gone by. He's on his own, swimming in his own filth. He has to feel this, immerse himself in it. Suffer it. It is right that he feels this and isn't comforted. She says nothing.

He cries and she lets him.

At last, when it feels like she's gone, a soft palm presses against his shoulder. Her chair squeaks nearer, enough that he can feel her cheek against his, her breath on his ear, saying, "But I forgive you."

He shakes his head, "I've not proved worthy of your forgiveness," he says. "Not yet."

She lets his words hang in the recycled air

Her dark eyes are also coated with jewels. They are beautiful. Always have been. Treasure he looked at then pocketed, neglected, saving for a better time, knowing it'd still be there.

Searching her face, he knows she has regrets, too. Lake Victoria, Operation Daybreak, subordinating herself, doubting herself, having mixed loyalties that strained her comrades.

Refusing to fight him isn’t a regret though; he can see it in the softening of her face. There's still some hope too, some innocence, the girl who thought she could preserve every soldier, the girl who loved the stars.

He pulls her close, in a way he hasn't fully enjoyed before, and he realises why. It's because he hasn't wanted her to love him. To love the man he couldn't ever be. But perhaps now, she doesn't want that man, after all. The Lightning Baron, Milliardo- they were only out for revenge, for blood, and they didn't suit her. Now, Zechs doesn't know what he's out for. "Peace" is what he told Lady Une, in order to get his badge. But there's more that he needs. He needs this woman. Lucrezia Noin. He needs her, because he loves her.

Knowing this, knowing it properly, he holds her tighter against him, chest to chest. His damaged skin protests, but he defies it. For the first time, he feels truly grateful that he lived, if only to feel this. She hugs him back and at last, she speaks,

"It doesn't matter if you're worthy.” She shifts from the embrace and takes hold of his chin. “I want to forgive you. It's better this way. I'm on this mission to find my own purpose- to see more of Space, to discover a different world. I'm here for a new life, not following after anyone else." She smiles then, not mocking, just a little teasing, presses a kiss against his mouth, "I'm not coming to Mars with you, Zechs, don't you get it? You're coming with me."

The End