Sharp

By Silverbayn

All disclaimers apply.

Author's Note: Though I use different lyrics from different songs from different artists in this story, this isn't a songfic. Just think of them as quotes that fit the mood of each section. I feel a little music adds life to any tale.

You don't need to bother

I don't need to be

I'll keep slipping farther

But once I hold on

I won't let go till it bleeds

"Bother"-- Stonesour

After Colony 194

The door opened, shocking her out of her agony-induced daze.

She lifted her head from where she was half-sprawled on the table, but that act alone was extraordinarily painful. Yet she ignored the pain and held her chin as high as possible without passing out.

Her vision came in and out of focus, but she saw him clearly enough. His dark eyes watched her remorselessly. He wasn't cold, wasn't cruel, this she knew. He was simply doing what he had to, and, if nothing else, she could respect him for that. Cruelty was stupidity, weakness, a waste of time. She was receiving a valuable lesson from this, and he knew it.

Besides, she could leave anytime she wanted to. She knew that, too.

"You're still here," the assassin said calmly, his gaze never leaving hers. "I'm surprised."

"Don't be." She silently cursed her voice for being little more than a hard-won gasp for air, but was thankful she was at least capable of speaking at all. "I'm a lot tougher . . . than I look."

"Yes, I can see that." The assassin leaned both hands on the table where she sat. The slight movement of the table made her want to howl, but she fought and succeeded at holding it back.

He leaned close and narrowed his eyes at her, as if he were looking deep into her soul. "I can see it now. The endurance, the cold strength, the sheer defiance that is required for all of our kind. You've grown."

Her smile was hardly more than a baring of teeth and a grimace. "Whatever doesn't kill you or drive you insane only makes you stronger."

He smiled also, his expression more controlled. "Such an appropriate adage."

The assassin pulled back, and she dropped her head, letting tassels of sweat-drenched pale blonde hair fall around her face. She clenched her right hand into a fist until her nails made crescent wounds in her palm. Blood dripped to the floor, but it didn't counter the main source of suffering.

"I wonder," the assassin mused, "what would happen if I left you here another night?"

She looked up, the strands of hair in her eyes and the misery coursing through her body not managing to shield the ferocity in her expression or the savagery of her laugh. The sound echoed throughout the abandoned building like a curse.

"I might be comatose or dead," she growled, knowing that little sanity or power was left to her, "but I'd still be here. Just to fucking spite you."

He smiled again with something like respect. "Attitude. I like that. I could shoot you now and you wouldn't so much as flinch."

"Damn straight," she snapped, chest heaving with the effort not to faint.

"Fine, then." The assassin approached the table again. "You've passed with flying colors."

With that, he reached over to her left hand, which had been pinned to the table by the solid dagger driven straight through to the wood, took the handle, and brutally pulled the blade free.

A scream tore itself loose from her throat, but it was as much a cry of triumph as of torture.

She folded over the table, clutching her hand. Her head turned to watch through a blur of anguish as the assassin examined the bloody dagger, with its sterling handguard and golden snake molded around the handle. A beautiful thing, really, beautiful and deadly, as all truly great things were.

Then he dropped her prize on the table before her: A silver necklace with a long chain, its pendant a small, exquisitely crafted dagger with a twisted blade pointing down, the handguard possessing three simple, semiprecious stones. Opal, carnelian, onyx.

White, red, black. Life, blood, death. An assassin's epitaph.

She reached out with her broken hand, though her entire arm was nigh paralyzed, and grasped the necklace, baptizing it in her blood, making it hers.

The assassin nodded to her. "Welcome to the Dagger's Hilt, Midii Une."

And Midii closed her eyes, a faint smile of victory on her lips.

The scars are souvenirs you'll never lose

The past is never far

"Name"-- Goo Goo Dolls

After Colony 197

"Riven? Riven!"

Riven heard her name through the fog of memory, from where she was sitting on a crate outside her motorhome. She had gotten so lost in her recollections that she hadn't even realized that Catherine had been calling her.

With a final, bittersweet glance at the scar on the back of her left hand, she rose and followed the sound of her friend's voice.

Catherine Bloom was lugging, or attempting to lug, two enormous containers of water which were likely going to the tigers. Riven reached the other woman just in time to prevent both containers from falling to the ground, taking one by the handle so that Catherine could use both hands for the other.

"Thanks," Catherine said with a tired, grateful smile. "I thought my arms were going to fall off."

"Here, let me take both," Riven offered, and took the other container in one hand.

Catherine's auburn brows shot up at the practiced way Riven balanced the heavy loads. "Wow, I always knew you were strong, but . . ."

Riven smiled. "Not strength, Cathy. The art is in defying the temptation to give in." And defiance is all that's kept me alive so far, she added silently, but didn't say it. She didn't like confiding in Catherine her darker days of existence. Her friend would think no less of her, she knew, but better to leave demons where they lay: In the past.

With that, Riven carried the water to the tigers' cage and dropped them just before the bars. Kuuna, a young Bengal, glanced at her indifferently, then went back to grooming.

Suddenly, behind her, Riven heard a voice that made her skin tingle: "Would you like to feed him?"

Slowly, Riven turned to meet emerald green eyes which, with the tiger's same levelness, looked right back at her. "No thanks, Trowa. The big cats like you best, anyway."

Trowa Barton, or so he called himself, nodded slightly, and turned his attention to Kuuna, crouching in front of the cage and reaching in a hand to stroke the deadly feline. Kuuna purred docilely; had it been anyone else who wasn't his trainer, he would have promptly bitten the hand off.

But Trowa had that way with things, both creatures and people alike. They just trusted him.

Shaking off the thoughts, Riven turned to Catherine. "Do you need me for anything else? I'm free for the rest of the afternoon."

"No, that's fine, Riven. We don't have the show until this evening, so I'm going to catch a nap. You should do the same."

"Yeah, sure. See you later, then." Riven touched Catherine's shoulder briefly, then walked away, through the motorhome area towards the aviary cages that stood near the woods.

Carefully, she opened one, and peered into its dimness. A pair of glittering golden eyes peered back.

"Hey, Talon, Silver," she whispered. The raptor, Talon, so dark he almost faded into the shadows, looked back her, and opened his wings slightly, anticipating flight. His partner, Silver, white-feathered and dusted gray, remained roosting on her stand, her sleek head tucked under her wing.

Riven took the thin chain off Talon's foot with her key, and held out her leather-protected arm for him to perch; he did, and she took him out, closing the door after him.

"Go on, fly." She lifted her arm.

Talon spread his wings and flapped once, twice, rising into the air with little effort. Soon, he caught a thermal, a pocket of warm air, and soared with all the majestic grace for which his kind was famed. Higher, higher, until even the trees couldn't reach him.

Riven laughed softly, watching her hawk revel in his brief freedom. Then she made the soft whistling sound that commanded him to return.

He obeyed without hesitation; raised in captivity since birth, he knew nothing more than human care, and would always return to her.

She always felt a little sad to bade him return; some creatures simply deserved freedom. But he didn't understand the hunt, and might die in the wild. She was all he had.

As she fed him slivers of mouse from a pouch on her belt, she wondered, Was this me, too, once? Born into captivity, then thrust into the wild to fend for myself? Which did I prefer? The imprisonment of those I loved, or the freedom of an unforgiving world?

To this day, she didn't know.

Though deep in thought, she still heard the person approaching, and, as always, never needed to turn to know who it was.

"Trowa," she said quietly by way of greeting, watching Talon dip his long, feathered neck to grab at the mouse bits.

"Midii," he said in the same low tone. In that casual way he had, he easily stripped her of her falsities with only one word: The name only he was allowed to call her, the name only he knew.

Calmly, Midii placed Talon back into the aviary, replaced his chain, and shut the door.

Then she turned to face Trowa.

They mirrored each other: Cool gazes, arms crossed over their chests, unreadable expressions. He had always been in such a way. She had taken it upon herself to learn.

"So," she prompted, uncrossing her arms and shoving her hands into her back pockets, "is there something I can help you with?"

He looked at her a moment, then lifted a hand to touch her face; memory told her that he was tracing the thin scar that went from her right eyebrow to her chin. "You never told me how you got that."

His touch made her want to buckle down and tell the story in a blur of tears. Instead, she said impassively, "I was once captured by enemies in an espionage mission gone wrong. They gave me the scar, right before I gave them something more permanent."

Trowa didn't react to her words at all. His hand dropped from her cheek to her pendant. He lifted the untarnished silver dagger gently. "And this?"

Midii had to smile, a slight lifting of a corner of her mouth. "My epitaph."

He dropped the pendant and met her gaze again. Something in the way he looked at her made her desperately want to kiss him and run away at the same time. He could look at her with coldness, rage, hatred, disgust or even pity, and she wouldn't so much as blink, but when his eyes held that calm understanding, the vague hint that he wasn't fooled by her at all, she had to look away.

But he wouldn't let her. His fingers reached out to tilt her chin so that they were eye-to-eye once again, green to gray.

Then he leaned down and his lips brushed hers in a light, featherlike kiss. And just when she thought he might pull away and save her from the fierce emotions inside, he kissed her more firmly, with just enough pressure to make her respond.

And she did, trying to keep the intense need she felt out of her response and only half-succeeding; she managed not to deepen the kiss too much and completely lose control. Still, her heart caught when he reached up and slid her hair behind her ear and guided her closer, deeper.

Suddenly, in a haze, she heard someone approaching.

At the exact same moment, they pulled away from each other.

Midii struggled to seem nonchalant, though her slightly fast breathing probably gave her away. As always, Trowa seemed completely unmoved, as if they'd just been having a conversation about the weather.

She glanced up at him, briefly met his deep green gaze, then looked away.

One of the animal handlers came up whistling, starting to tend to the horses not too far away.

Without a word--what was there to say?--Midii shoved her hands in her pockets and left.

It was all she could do not to run . . . back towards him.

Come lay beside me

This won't hurt, I swear

She loves me not, she loves me still

But she'll never love again

"The Unforgiven II"-- Metallica

Trowa watched impassively as Midii walked away, putting his own hands into his pockets. It was a habit they both shared, along with negative reactions to powerful emotions.

It seemed that every time he touched her, she tried to move further and further away. And when she didn't succeed, and she often didn't, she just pretended to shut him out completely. Compared to the strong emotions, mostly resentful, suspicious, and angry, running between them only a few weeks before, this new place they had entered was infinitely more dangerous.

As he went to finish feeding the last of the cats, Trowa recalled how this emotional upheaval had begun.

The first kiss they had shared had been a little after Midii had first appeared at the circus. It had been bruising, daring; she'd done it just to throw him off balance and give herself the upper hand. But it had worked too well. They were both left bewildered, unable to sort their feelings and despising each other for that reason alone.

The second kiss had been strange, the consequence of an unexplainable moment of pure comraderie, the cementing of the trust they had managed to reestablish in the flash of a life-or-death decision. It had been fueled by adrenaline and something Trowa couldn't name, a disturbing kind of desperation to reclaim something he had thought lost forever.

And the third, the one she had just walked away from, had been . . . well, guileless. It was terribly disconcerting and laughingly simple, but he'd just wanted to kiss her for the sake of the act alone.

He'd never felt that way towards a woman before. Granted, that was a little bizarre, and he knew it, what with him being an eighteen-year-old male, but when you spent most of your life without emotions, sometimes even the most basic of desires and reactions just became nullified. Dormant.

The kiss had deeply affected him, although he supposed he hadn't expressed it well at all. He was still working on that, expressing emotions. Just having them at all was a wonder; learning to occasionally crack his oh-so-carefully adapted mask would take far more practice.

Midii had reacted more openly, though she was probably berating herself for that now. Trowa could remember feeling her heart racing, the change in her breathing, something new and curious about the way she'd returned the kiss . . .

She'd been scared.

But why?

I've faced fear

My share of pain

The wasted tears

Of love in vain

I've held you tight

Pushed you away

Now with all my mind

I beg you to stay

"I Don't Know"-- Celine Dion

So it wasn't the first time.

That was generally true about most of the things about Midii; she'd done it all. Even love. She'd fallen for Trowa, or rather, Nanashi, years ago, a spark within her that had refused to die no matter how much both she and her life had changed. It was the only constant in her world; that and emptiness.

It occurred to her, then, as she slowly made her way back towards the motor

home she shared with Catherine, that she wasn't walking away because she didn't want to kiss him. She knew that she wanted their kisses to have a higher sum than a grand total of three.

But God, whenever it happened, she felt like she was gradually losing another defense, and it terrified her so much that she found herself shaking inside. If she didn't walk away, she would break down, and that was unacceptable.

Midii had accepted long ago that she wasn't cool and emotionless, and never would be. As she had learned during her agonizing test of worthiness three years ago, it wasn't the inability to feel that made her strong; it was the ability to bypass that feeling if she needed to, out of spite to the world, if nothing else.

That was a piece of what had made her betray her one and only friend: To prove to herself that no emotion, not pain, not even love, was so powerful as to stop her from doing what she had to do.

What she was feeling now, though . . . it was too much. Sometimes it felt like it might burn right through her, it was so poignant.

But wasn't that why she had come back over a month ago? To find this person who made her feel anything, especially love, and explore that relationship? After all she had been through regaining Trowa's trust, it seemed foolish to keep faltering as emotions went deeper.

It was supposed to be easier than this, Midii thought, slamming her door after her and falling into a cross-legged position on the floor against it. Not easy in general, but easier than THIS.

She was kidding herself, and she didn't deny it.

She just didn't know what to do about it.

Tell me how you want to feel

Don't keep it from me

Tell me how it ought to be

Through more than a stare

"Need To Feel"-- Soil

That afternoon, Trowa and Catherine practiced their joint act only hours before the show in the center of the ring. It was simplified from their more recently daring versions of knife-thrower-and-agile-target, but with just enough flare to keep the audience enthralled.

Halfway through, Trowa knew his sister was going to ask before she asked, but he let her do so anyway.

"Trowa, is something wrong?" Catherine inquired, pausing with one dagger raised over her left shoulder, gracefully poised for another throw.

He didn't lie; he rarely could, to her. "Nothing I can't handle, Cathy."

"Yes, I know that." Still looking concerned, she threw the dagger at a point near his foot on the target board behind him. It impacted perfectly. "You just seem so preoccupied lately. Ever since Riven came . . ."

Riven. Trowa didn't know why Midii had chosen that name as her cover, Riven Thorne, but he knew he couldn't be the one to criticize, considering the story of his own chosen title.

"She brought some turbulence with her," he remarked, not even noticing when another dagger hit the target just an inch to the side of his neck. "I'm just adjusting to her presence."

Catherine didn't look convinced. "Yes, about that--is there something going on between you two? At first I thought it was just me, but every time she looks at you . . . well?"

"You'd have to ask her," Trowa replied noncommittally. And that was true, because even he didn't understand enough about what was happening between them to give it a label. And as much as he trusted Catherine, he didn't want her involved and fretting before he and Midii could sort things out themselves. Self-sufficiency was still a strong habit of his.

"I did ask her," his sister countered, launching another dagger, "and she gave a similar answer in the exact same tone. When either one of you get the mind to get distant on me, you do it with a will. Just remember that you can talk to me when something's really bothering you, all right?"

She threw the final dagger aimed at his throat, which Trowa caught right between his palms with ease. "All right. Thanks, Cathy."

She smiled. "I'm your sister, it's my privilege. And could you at least attempt to look the slightest bit concerned tonight? People are going to start to think you're a statue instead of a live target."

An old, familiar conversation. "I'll try."

"At least twitch some. I AM throwing lethal objects at you, you know."

"I know."

And when we walk down the street

The wind sings our name in rebel songs

The sounds of the night should make us anxious

But it's much too late when the fear is gone

"Promises"-- Megadeth

In the center of the ring that night as she performed her act, Riven was forced to keep her concentration on her present task. Silver and Talon depended on every nuance of her movements and soft whistles to guide their complicated dance through the air. Their incredibly acute eyes and sharp hearing could catch the slightest mistake, and they would lose all coordination in an instant. And with the flame-throwing part adding effect, that loss could be fatal.

Her act was popular for its sheer complexity and grace. But the truly frightening acts included the lion-tamer himself, Trowa, and his knife-throwing sister, Catherine. Neither the lion nor the knives were dulled in anyway, and unlike Riven and her raptors, a mistake in those acts involved serious wounds or death--for the people.

She completed the act swiftly, cleanly, with a burst of flame, and the audience went wild.

With Talon on her shoulder and Silver on her arm, she bowed and retreated behind the curtain. Part of her was relieved to be out of the spotlight. As much as she loved doing the show, being so distracted was dangerous.

"Great act, Riven!"

"Yeah, flawless, as usual."

"That flame-throwing thing still gets me every time."

Fellow performers gave her congratulations, and she nodded and murmured quiet thanks. They were nice people, but she only really knew Trowa and Catherine. No one else knew how to approach her and become friends.

Riven preferred it that way. What she didn't need were more social complications.

After giving the raptors to one of the handlers, she headed for her motor home.

It was cold outside. She rubbed her bare arms, wondering why the manager insisted she wear this form-fitting leather outfit; the pants she could live with, but the halter really was too much.

Sex does sell, she thought wryly, remembering the way men in the audience always gawked at her and not her act. She wasn't bad to look at, she supposed, but the scar, though faint, was a repellant to men, not because it diminished her attractiveness, but because it enhanced the lethal look in her eyes.

Men avoided dangerous women. They somehow instinctively knew that those were the most deadly creatures of all.

A favored quote came to her mind: "The way to fight a woman is with your

hat. Grab it and run."

John Barrymore had been a wise man.

Riven stopped and looked up at the broad expanse of stars across the sky.

One of her weaknesses; she loved to look at the sky, night or day, rain or shine, even when she was little. Her father had always told her that that was how she was going to meet her soulmate: By running him over while looking up and not forward.

And he would joke: Hopefully, not while you're driving a car.

Thinking of him and her brothers, all long dead, didn't bring horrible pain like it used to. Those scars were as healed as they were going to get, and she could remember the good times without bitterness.

Suddenly, she was jolted from her musings by the sensation of something

heavy on her shoulders, and a sudden warmth in her body.

A jacket. Brown leather. But whose . . .?

"It's late, Trowa," Midii murmured, turning to look at him. He was wearing black jeans and a thin black sweater and didn't seem cold at all.

"All the more reason for me to walk with you," he said reasonably.

She didn't argue, and for awhile they went in silence.

When they were close to her place, in an area more or less deserted by others, Midii stopped and said, "Your conversational skills are always lacking, Trowa. So if you have something to say, say it."

Hear me

And when I close my mind in fear

Please pry it open

See me

And if my face becomes sincere

Beware

Hold me

And when I start to come undone

Stitch me together

Save me

And when you see me strut

Remind me of what left this outlaw torn

"The Outlaw Torn"-- Metallica

Trowa waited a few beats, his eyes focused on her levelly. Midii looked back at him just as coolly, and he wondered how many levels there were to her, just how deep that storm in her gray eyes went. And how far would he have to go before reaching the center of that storm? Could he even do it?

"You came to me, Midii," he said. "Not the other way around. Why are you trying to run away now?"

He saw her gaze flicker, but the reply came surprisingly clear. "I'm not. I just need time to sort some things out." She was fingering that pendant again. She

always did, when she was unsure. "There's still a lot about everything that's happened that I don't understand."

"Then talk to me."

"I can't. I can't talk to you about everything."

"Try me."

Her eyes flickered again, and he recognized something there, something he'd seen before in others' eyes, in Catherine's eyes when she'd first met him, in a nameless soldier's eyes right before Trowa shot him through the forehead. Each time he saw that look directed at him, it left him colder than before: Fear.

Fear of what? Him? Or perhaps herself?

Maybe she realized what he'd seen in that split second, because her face smoothed, and the sense that she was drawing away was almost palpable.

"Goodnight, Trowa," Midii said expressionlessly. She tossed his jacket to him and turned to leave.

But he couldn't let her. Not when he was so close.

"Midii," he began, and that was all it took.

"What? What!?" She whirled on him. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to trust me."

"Of course I do! I'd follow you to Hell and back, you know that!"

He looked at her unwaveringly. "Then why do you keep looking at me as if you're afraid?"

She didn't have an immediate answer for that. He watched her hesitate, her pupils dilating with raging emotions that she seemed loathe to express freely.

The look on her face right then struck him with familiarity, and he tried to remember where he had seen it before.

Then it came to him: That night, in that field, six years ago . . .

She ran her fingers through her hair, closing her eyes tightly, as if holding back tears. "I trust you, Trowa. How couldn't I? I love you. But I can't--I mean, sometimes, I just feel like I--I don't know."

She was shaking. He could see the fine tremors in her body, especially in her hands.

Concerned, Trowa stepped closer. But she fell back, shaking her head violently. "No. No, don't. If you touch me right now, I might . . ." Midii trailed off. He now knew what she might do, and that she was afraid she would do it and there would be no turning back.

He didn't stop advancing. "This has nothing to do with me, does it? It's about you. You and this mask you won't stop wearing."

"You are the last person to stand there talking to me about masks," she snapped, still backing away, but he heard her voice quaver.

His eyes narrowed. "I wear mine out of habit, Midii, not out of fear of being true to others. It's part of me, now. Yours isn't."

"Stop it." She had her arms wrapped tightly around herself, and he wanted so much to hold her, but she wouldn't let him touch her at all. The fact that she didn't just turn and run told him to keep trying.

"You don't have to hide from me."

"I'm not hiding! You can see right through me, obviously!"

"Then what is it?"

"It's too much! I can't love you like this and still live without you!"

Silence.

They had both stopped moving at the same moment. Midii was backed up against a tree, arms wrapped around her waist, her eyes on the ground. Trowa was standing not six feet from her, and he had paused because he was silently processing her words.

So. That was what she had been keeping from him.

"Midii." He said her name very softly, trying to get her to look at him.

She refused to look up, though, and crossed her arms tightly, looking as if she wanted to be anywhere else but there.

"Midii, look at me." Trowa walked up to her and gently tilted her chin with his hand so that he could see her face, but she removed his grip and turned away. She did this quickly, but not so quickly that he didn't see the tears in her eyes.

"I understand," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder, which she pushed away.

"I don't know if you do," she said in a voice that threatened to break. "My one strong point is being able to do whatever I have to, whenever I have to, without letting my emotions get in my way. If it ever came down to leaving you, I need to do that and not look back. But if I did, I don't think . . ." She took a shaky breath. "I don't think I would live long."

She pushed off the tree and walked past him, stopping a few feet away, and said nothing more.

Trowa was quiet, also, considering his response, then he asked, "That night you betrayed me, how did you feel about it?"

Midii said nothing for a moment. Then, she made a bitter sound. "Like I'd just torn out my own beating heart."

"You ignored your own emotions and did what you'd had to do. Understandable, certainly, but perhaps not right." He paused when he saw that she lifted her a head a little, listening to him. Then he continued, quietly. "Once, a friend of mine, a fellow soldier, told me that the only way to live a decent life is to follow your emotions. It's the only way to look back on what you've done with the least regret."

"Did he manage to survive?"

That almost made Trowa smile. "Yes."

"So what are you saying?" Midii demanded, turning to look at him. "That it's fine if I'm this weak, overemotional wreck?"

"There's nothing weak about having emotions," Trowa countered. "I wouldn't have made it through the war alive without them. They gave me a reason to fight."

Her hand was on that pendant again. "I never really had a reason. I stayed alive mostly to defy everyone who wanted me dead or thought I couldn't pull through. Whatever I wanted or felt, if I could prove I could make it, I was worth something."

"And what are you trying to prove now?"

She shrugged helplessly. "That I'm still that person, I guess. After all, she kept me alive for six years."

This made Trowa shake his head. "There's a difference between just existing and real living. Believe me."

Midii looked at him solemnly. "I do," she said softly. "The only time I ever felt I was really alive . . . was with you." She wiped away tears before they could finish falling, frustrated when the tears just kept coming. "God, I'm such a basket case."

Knowing she wouldn't come to him, Trowa slowly went over to her and put his arms around her. At first, she seemed about to pull away, but then she relaxed and folded into him, her head tucked beneath his chin. She felt cold, and he held her a little closer.

How long they stayed like that, he didn't know. All he knew was that after awhile, Midii lifted her head, and touched her lips to his.

She tasted warm and sweet. And this time, there was no hesitation, no holding back on her part. She deepened the kiss, and he returned her passion. He felt a sensation bolt through him, knifelike, merciless and wonderful, frightening and yet, somehow comforting.

Sharp and sweet.

So this was what it was like to love.

And all I can taste is this moment

And all I can breathe is your life

Sooner or later it's over

I just don't want to miss you tonight

"Iris"-- Goo Goo Dolls

Later, they were in his motorhome, sitting on his bed, and Midii was gently fingering her dagger pendant, reflecting on the events before. Now she could think of kissing him without cringing, without worrying about what would happen to her if she let go. After all, she could trust him. Not only with her life, but her heart as well.

She felt his eyes fall to the pendant. "Are you ever going to tell me the story behind that?" he asked without sounding intrusive, and once more, she wanted to tell him everything. Then again, he could get a stranger to pour out a life story to him without even trying; it was just one of his mysterious abilities.

Tilting her head slightly to the side, she smiled at him. "Are you ever going to

tell me the story behind you, Nanashi? I think we both have long, long tales to offer. How about we do it one day a time?"

He looked at her for a long, long moment, then, as an answer, leaned forward and kissed her.

When it was over, she took a deep breath and nodded. "I'll take that as a yes."

She thought he almost smiled, but maybe that was just her.

Her eyes wandered to the clock, and her eyebrows raised. "It's late. Catherine's going to be wondering where I am." She was half-tempted to ask if she could stay with him instead, but that was a step she knew neither one of them was ready to take. At least, not yet.

Something came and went in his eyes, and she knew he had been thinking the same thing. "Let me walk you there."

Midii stood and he followed her out the door into the night.

Suddenly, she had an inspiration. Without unclasping it, she raised the necklace over her head and carefully pulled her hair through it, then, lifted it and put it around Trowa's neck instead.

He looked nonplussed. "What is this for?"

"I want you to wear it for a little awhile. It isn't a cross, and considering the price I paid to get it, I don't think God will protect you, not this time." His gaze met hers, and she knew he recalled the words she had spoken when she had given him a cross that had saved his life, long ago. "But think of it as a promise."

"Of what?"

"I don't know." Midii shrugged. "Things to come?"

Trowa touched the dagger, then kissed her, gently, on the forehead. "Yes," he agreed. "Things to come."

~end~

Afterword: Okay, perhaps it wasn't so much an ending as a 'to be continued' but then, the best stories always are. And trust me, I intend to continue it. In my head, I already have.

I look forward to any and all questions and reviews, including constructive criticism, because it makes me a better writer. And when I say constructive, I mean no bitching about how Midii is horrible for Trowa because he's in love with Quatre, because if you're into that, read another fic, or at least wait until I write my own yaoi fic. Until then, give me feedback I can actually use.

Just to say it here, I know nothing about Midii's past, and I'm just using my own character theories. But there is a deeper story to her dagger pendant and where she received it, the organization called the Dagger's Hilt, which will be examined in my other Trowa and Midii stories. You'll see more of assassin's guilds, especially my favorite, the Bloodguard, in my other Gundam Wing stories.

The first scene in this story is vaguely reminiscent of a scene in the supernatural television series "Angel", and all regular viewers of the show should recognize it. My dialogue and, of course, plot and characters are different, and I'm using a dagger instead of a screwdriver. (Ouch). I thought it was an excellent way to test someone to see if they were strong enough to fight in a painful world.

I'm a huge rock, metal, and alternative music fan, so this fanfic is also reaching out to rock fans of any sort, especially Metallica. Look me up through e-mail; I'd love to hear you rave about the unquestionable coolness of rock.

Oh, and one more thing: I strongly suggest you read my epic next-generation fic, Casus Belli Nemesis, which I will eventually begin posting as regularly as I can write it on Aishiteru's site. I'm suggesting it because I worked my ass off to create and write it and I want as many people to read it as possible.

That's about it. See you next fanfic.

E-mail: Silverbayn@yahoo.com.