NOTES: This fic was formally titled 'Mommy Dearest', but it's been revised. It's part of a larger series of stand-alone fics about (my version of) the second generation of the GW cast. I'm planning a multi-parter action based fic to go along with all those stand-alones but...My track record for those kinds of projects really isn't good. ^_^; Many thanks to my beta-reader, Talia Solarys! *blows kisses to her*

Anyway, in case anyone is wondering, Alex was born in the year 208 A.C., and Quatre and Relena were married in 204 A.C.

Mother

A.C. 216

 Quatre Winner, global terrorist turned businessman turned political meddler turned family man, turned to the next page of his son's favorite picture story book and prepared to read once more, only to find eight-year old Alex already quietly slumbering. Quatre smiled affectionately and gently pushed some stray dark blonde locks away from the Alex's face.

 "The 'Seven Blind Men' are deprived of their 'Elephant' once again, I see," an amused and feminine voice said from over Quatre's shoulder.

 "Oh no," said Quatre as he closed the oversized book, "they've already  reached the elephant twice tonight. I think they're getting sick of the prince telling them that it's an elephant and not a wall or a fan or a snake, rope, tree, hill or—or—mmm" Quatre was cut off as Relena moved in closer and kissed him softly, and then kissed him not-so-softly.

 Several minutes later found the picture book resting on the bed-side drawers, with Relena resting on her husband's lap, and the two totally engrossed in each other. It was Quatre who first broke the kiss. "We can't do this in Alex's room," he protested, ableit half-heartedly.

 Relena pulled back and fingered his loosened tie playfully. "Our room then?" she asked demurely.

 Quatre groaned as he noted the time from a puppy-shaped clock on the wall. "Sorry, 'Lena. I have to go meet someone in an hour, and it'll take over half an hour to get to the place."

 Relena sighed. "Quatre, I don't think you should go," she murmured into his ear.

 "Relena..."

 "I'm serious," Relena ran her fingers through her husband's short blonde-white hair. "This meeting is a risk. Why can't these people meet with you during official hours? It's not like these are times of war. You don’t really know who they are, or what they want. Don't go."

 "Come on, 'Lena. You know how important this is. We've *both* been working on this proposal for a long time, and if there's any chance of someone trying to topple it, I want to know ahead of time. I know you do too," Quatre argued, knowing that it would make no difference anyway. They'd been through the same argument several times in the past week.

 Relena cupped his face in her hands and looked directly into his aqua-green eyes. At thirty-six, Quatre still had a boy-ish look to him, a cloak of youth that manifested itself in Quatre's rounded, oval face and his large, dark-framed eyes. He had few wrinkles, and didn't look like he was old enough to be married, much less married twelve years and with a family. Relena was suddenly reminded of the tragic day when she was fifteen, the day she last saw her adopted father—No, he was and always will be her real father, biology be damned. "Quatre," she pleaded, "Minfadlik, don't go." //Please, don't go// She knew that the use of her husband's native language had power over him, and even though she had butchered the pronunciation something awful, she could see that Quatre faltered in his resolve.

 But then he took her hands in his and smiled. Quatre's smile was a strange thing, pure and beatific; it made you trust him. It had power over Relena, and she knew that she would let him go to the meeting because of that smile. She was such a sentimentalist.

 “Maybe I'm just getting jumpy.” She sighed. “So much has been happening lately, all those conferences and talks and those upstart terrorists in the colonies—Anyway. I think I'll go to bed now. Wake me up when you get back, ok?" She winked at him.

 Quatre nodded. "I love you."

 They kissed. "I love you too," replied Relena.

 She watched him drive away, escorted by Abdul, and berated herself for worrying so much. //He used to be a gundam pilot, after all. He can take care of himself, even on the off chance that there is any danger. Relena, you're getting too stressed out. You'll wake up in the middle of the night, see Quatre's face, and feel embarrassed for worrying so much.// With that thought, Relena headed off to bed. She slept fit-fully, plagued by nightmares she hadn’t know she still feared. She woke up with cold sweat on her face and the sunlight in her eyes. Quatre was gone.

 She would never see him again.

 It hurt. It hurt more than anything to have a man she loved torn from her. The old wound was pryed open and bleeding her life once again, only this time there was no shining knight sent from the skies to be her piller of strength. She had to be the strong one, by herself, all alone. She had to be strong for Alex.

 She knew she didn't have that strength in her. Little by little, she let ler own pain overwhelm her, She didn't even notice until it was too late. One day she woke up and saw that Alex had grown so much, and that she'd been so busy with her work that she never got to share in his childhood. She saw that her son had grown so distant from her, that when she reached out for him he responded by pushing her away, like she was a stranger, like she was a threat. One day she decided that she'd arrange some time away from work and spend that time with her remaining family.

 It was one day too late.
 

A.C. 221

 For as long as he could remember of his thirteen years, Alexander Dorlian-Winner had hated hospitals. He disliked the cleansed smell of them, and the way nobody would look each other in the eye. Most of all he hated the look of hospitals. Alex had seen pictures of the interior of hospitals in the Before Colony time, and he despaired to note that those hospitals looked almost exactly the same as the ones he hated to step into. They were angular, bland, inoffensive, and sterile. All the other buildings had become rounded and chic; hospitals remained the same. Impersonal, that's what they were. It seemed to Alex that of all buildings, hospitals shouldn't be impersonal.
 
 Alex sat still in the back seat of one of his mother's pastel rose limousines, feeling dread fester in his gut as the limo rolled up to the front of Winner Memorial Hospital. His hands were starting to cramp; he'd been squeezing them into tighter and tighter fists. The limo slowed to a crawl. Though Alex kept his eyes focused on the back of the seat in front of him, he knew the they were slowed by the multitude of reporters and other civilians who crowded around the hospital like spectators around a nasty car wreck. A multi-car pile-up, maybe. In a way, that was exactly what they were.

 The crowd had gotten so large, the Preventers had to be called in. Alex didn't have to look out the mirrored window to see the two hundred-odd group of people; he'd seen it all day and night on the news stations. A lot of them were probably yelling at the sound-proofed limo. Many were reporters, but the majority were fans of his mother, Relena Dorlian. Relena Dorlian, lost princess of the Sank Kingdom. Relena Dorlian, queen of the World Nation. Relena Dorlian, the latest celebrity tragedy.

 They'd even started piling flowers at the foot of the flimsy plastic fence the Preventers had put up. One news station had made a point of doing several dramatic close-ups of the red roses. Alex had wanted to throw a tantrum and shout to those people //"She's not dead! She's not dead—so why are those flowers there? She's not dead yet!"// He had an image of himself stomping over to those heartfelt laid bouquets. He’d scramble the careful flower arrangements. He’d rip the flower from the stem and smear those red petals against the ground with his feet until the pavement was stickey with red paste. It was such a tempting fantasy.

He'd been tempted to do a lot of things since seventeen hours ago when he'd first been told of the assassination attempt on his mother. He'd wanted to beat his fists into the first thing he came to and to see it break, but he couldn't bear to harm anything in his mother's house, fearing irrationally that harm to his mother's possessions would result in further harm to his mother. He'd wanted to cry, but when he closed himself off in his room and buried his face in his hands no tears would come. He'd wanted to immerse himself in his music like he used to do when he was younger, but Alex hadn't touched any of his instruments since his father's death five years previous, and was hideously out of practice. Finally, he'd allowed a family servant to herd him onto the next shuttle to L4, where a bomb had gone off in his mother's room while she was sleeping.

 The limo stopped gently. "We're there," said the driver when Alex failed to respond, tactful insistence evident in his voice. Alex nodded, but was strangely reluctant to get out.
 
 "Your mother's probably waiting for you," said the driver.
 
 Again, Alex just nodded. //Yeah. Probably.// he thought.

 The driver sighed. "Look, you're wasting everyone's time. I suggest you get out," he said firmly. Alex got out, and the car rolled away. He stood outside the hospital for a moment, repeating to himself what the driver had said.

 //Your mother's probably waiting for you...// Maybe she was. Or maybe the perpetual string of meetings and conferences and paper work had pushed Alex completely out of his mother's mind. Maybe she got a concussion from the explosion, got amnesia, and forgot all about him.

 //No. I shouldn't be angry with her. She's my mother, and she's just been through something very traumatic. What am I doing being angry with her?//

 Alex pushed open the doors and stepped into the hospital. He'd been expected, and got the directions to his mother's room quickly. She'd been in surgery for the first few hours after the explosion, and had slept for the next seventeen. Miss Relena was awake now, a nurse had told Alex. She was awake, and had asked about him. The last was good to hear. Somehow, it made the hospital less imposing.

 Take six floors up. Turn left twice, then right once. Room 617. The door was open. Alex stepped in timidly.

 "Mom?" he said. The room was brightly lit, white, and sparse, with a single bed jutting out of the back wall.

 The figure on the bed stirred. "Alexander?" inquired a familiar voice. //She sounds tired,// thought Alex. //Soul-weary. She always sounded strong. Assertive.//
 
 "Yeah?"

 "Come here, Alexander," requested Relena. //Mom never requested. Even when she sounded like she was asking, she was really demanding. This isn't right, this isn't Mom.// Reluctantly, Alex did so. He closed the door, and sat on the empty chair beside Relena's bed. He forced himself to look her in the face, though it was hard. Relena's wheat-coloured hair had been shaved off, and there was a large scar running from her temple to the top of her head. Her face was criss-crossed with stitches. There were burn marks on her neck, and her left hand was bandaged. Alex heard that several fingers had been either burned off or severed.

 "How was school?" inquired Relena, as she did most days when she was home. Sometimes it would be all she said to him for the day. Alex relaxed at the familiar routine. If he knew his mother, she wouldn't want to talk about the bomb having come out in such a marred condition.

 "It's fine," said Alex almost automatically. "Um...actually, it's March  Break."

 "Oh," said Relena. "But you've been doing well, right?"

 "Yeah."

 Relena took a deep breath, and looked straight into Alex's eyes. Alex noticed that she had adopted her politicians face. "Listen, Alexander, I want," she faltered, and turned away to gaze at the ceiling. "I haven't been a very good mother to you, have I?"

 Alex said nothing.

 "Did you know that when I was young, I used to swear to myself that when I had kids, I'd never neglect them like my father did me."

 Alex kept his silence, but thought guiltily about how he and some of his friends who had work-a-holic parents sometimes joked about their parents' frequent absence. Neglected Children United, they called themselves.
 
 "Now here I am, worse then my father." She sighed. "I'm sorry, Alexander."

 "It's Ok," replied Alex.

 "No, no it isn't." Relena turned her gaze back to Alex. She reached out with her good right hand and placed it on Alex's knee. "Listen...When I get out of this bed, we'll spend some time together. How about that? I'll take some time off of work, and it'll be just you and me." Relena's face shone with hope, but Alex didn't fail to realize that her demanding voice had returned.
 
 Alex smiled. "It sounds good," he said.

 "I knew you'd like it," proclaimed Relena. Her face stilled for a moment, just like when she was engaged in a debate and was thinking something over. "There's a mirror on top of the drawers over there. Pick it up," she said, gesturing in the general direction of the plastic chest of drawers. "Please."

 Alex walked over to the drawers and picked up the mirror. It was surprisingly large; about a foot tall and twice that wide.

 "Look into it."

 "Why?" Alex asked.

"You'll see. Trust me," was the only reply he got.

Alex propped the mirror up on the top of the drawer and gazed into it, looking himself square in the eye. "Now what?"

"What do you see?" asked Relena. //I get it now. I know what you're getting to. Mom, I know already...can't you just leave it unsaid?// thought Alex.

"Um. Blue eyes. Blonde hair. Pale skin."

"You look so much like your father," said Relena, in the wispy voice she used whenever she talked about Alex's father.

"No I don't," protested Alex. //No, I don't, and you know it.//

"Really? You look like him to me."

//Are you trying to goad me?// "No. My father had different eyes. Mine are too dark. He had lighter hair too, much lighter, and a different hairline. He didn't have these eyebrows, or this nose. Practically the only thing we have in common is the pale skin." Alex put down the mirror and turned to his mother. //I'll play along if that's what you want.// "What's the point of this?"

Relena gazed sadly at Alex. "I've been thinking about this since—for five years now, and I think it's time to tell you."
 //That my father isn't my real father? I know that already...It's kind of obvious, isn't it? I don't really look like either of you two.// "Yeah?" asked Alex cautiously.

"Come here first," insisted Relena gently. Alex walked over to his mother's bedside and sat down in the chair again.

"Quatre always wanted you to know, but I didn't; that's why we—I didn't tell you sooner," started Relena. "It isn't easy for me to confess this, so I am just going to say it." She took a deep breath, and looked Alex straight in the eye in a way that Alex had seen her use on the public at public announcements. "Quatre isn't your father, Alexander."

//I know...I've known for a long time.// Alex bit on his bottom lip, remembering nights when he'd sleep with his head under the pillow to block out the sounds of Relena and Quatre fighting about some trivial matter. They were usually such a perfect couple, but there were the times when they would snap. Every few months would come the angry words and the biting accusations. Alex never understood why they did that if they loved each other so much, and then Quatre died and Alex didn't want to think about it.

He grew accustomed to the midnight fights over the years. Eventually, instead of huddling in his bead, Alex curled up against his door to eavesdrop. He was always scared then, and he didn't want to hear some of the things being said but he listened anyway. When Quatre died, Alex found that he couldn't sleep without the accusing noise, and started putting on harsh music at a low volume throughout the nights.

"Alexander?" Relena's voice cut through Alex's thoughts, bringing him back to present reality. He brought his hand to his face, and realized with some shock that it was wet. //When did that happen?// "Alexander?" Relena repeated. "I know it's a shock." //I've known for a long time. I have.//

Alex just nodded, and a tear dropped off of the edge of his jaw.

"This doesn't mean Quatre loved you less," said Relena.

"Yeah. I know."

"And this doesn't change a thing."

Another tear fell.

"But I was thinking that maybe...during that time off from work I was talking about earlier, we could find your biological father and..." Relena's voice faltered at the end. "I thought that you would like to meet him," she concluded in her demand tone.

"Maybe."

"I would have loved to know my biological father," said Relena wishfully. //She's the only person I know how can sound wishful and expectant at the same time.//

Alex was aware of the dullness that had settled in his head, like a thick fog that muted feeling and slowed thought. //I can’t take much more of this conversation.//

"How'd your hand feeling?" Alex asked, and watched with a mixture of guilt and triumph as Relena paled and stuttered a soft 'It's-feeling-better-now.'
 

 The funeral was held on a mockingly beautiful day in Sank.

 His eyes tickled with moisture, and Alex rubbed them hard. It was just the flowers that were making his eyes water, he told himself. Just the multitude of flowers, and nothing more. He gripped his bundle of long-stemmed flowers tightly and tried to block out the drone of the minister's voice. //My, I didn't even know my mother was Christian until a priest showed up at the funeral.//

 His hand came up to rub at his eyes again. //I guess I didn't know a lot of things...My eyes are probably swollen and red by now,// Alex thought. //Makes it look like I've been crying—which I haven't.// He stared defiantly at the wooden coffin. //Do you hear that mother!// he thought what he dared not say out loud, not now, not with all these people and the whole fucking world watching. //I'm not crying for you! I don't care! I'm not standing here for you, I'm here for the sake of public image. Hey! Do you hear me?!//

 Suddenly everyone was applauding, and Alex had the familiar sense of many eyes focused on him. Without a word he stepped forward and threw his bundle of flowers onto the lid of the coffin with a casual flick of his wrist. They were roses, he noted for the first time as the flowers hit the lid of the coffin; red roses. He kept his face impassive and his mouth shut; he didn't trust himself not to start shouting and raving, venting his anger in words until he ran out of anger. Alex didn't know what he would do if he ran out of anger. Collapse and cry, that's what he'd probably do.

 He wouldn't allow himself to cry.

 His mother never thought to tell her own son that she was dying of cancer. He refused to cry for her.

 Alex watched as everyone else throw in their bright red roses and all he could see were red petals and thorns and a cherry-wood coffin. For a minute Alex imagined that he could see through the blanket of roses; through the thick, glossy wood; through the cushioning on the inside of the coffin. He could practically see the little worm-babies crawling under his mother's smooth, pale skin. He imagined them inching their way through her eyes and throat and brain, munching up all the soft tissues greedily. And then they'd start on the clothing and bones and such, until there was nothing left of Relena Dorlian but a collection of worms.

 It made him sick. It made his stomach turn and bile go up this throat, but he swallowed it down. Then the coffin was lowered and the dirt dumped on that disgusting wooden box. If anything, Alex grew sicker knowing that the process with the worms and the decay would have surely started.

 "My condolences," said a man Alex had never seen before in his life. Persumidily he was a politician or reporter or something. There were a lot of people Alex had never seen before in his life at this funeral. Ironically enough, Alex saw none of his so-called friends from school at the funeral.

 Alex nodded to the man, still not trusting himself to speak. If he opened his mouth he might say something stupid, like "why? You should be happy for me. Now I'm one of the richest, and therefore one of the most powerful persons in the world and space. Whoop-dee-do." The man said something about how tragic he thought it all was, how he'd met Alex's mother, how good a person he she was, and how sorry he was. Then the man moved away to be replaced by an elderly woman, who said and did exactly the same things.

 Sorry. They were all sorry for him. Scratch that; they all pitied him. Alex looked into their faces and he could feel the emotion rolling off of them in waves of sweet liquid made cloudy at the edges by fast-working agents of decay. Those who feed off of pity; not-so-distant cousins to those worms dancing in his mother's esophagus. Alex couldn't understand how anyone could stand being pitied.

 The next person in the endless line of pitying, unrecognizable, social busy-bodies stepped up to offer their condolences. And then the next. It was like a dream where all these faceless people stood in an endless line that stretched far over the horizon and into the blue-gray sky. When they finished saying things to Alex they'd take a step, maybe two, maybe three, but they wouldn't get far before they would dissipate. They would turn into less than dust, and then the next in line stepped up to take their place.

An infinite amount of dust-people later Alex looked up to find a blonde woman, around forty years of age. She was the last of the bunch; it had started to drizzle lightly, and the only people Alex was aware of were himself, this woman, and Miss. Mariemaya who had become his legal guardian. Alex shifted his feet a bit, suddenly wanting very much for the whole thing to be over with and to just go home and sleep. Yes, sleep sounded good. He didn't want to be awake any longer. Was this woman going to say how sorry she was that the legendary Relena Peacecraft was gone from the world? The rain covered his face in cool water, and Alex's eyes were burning again. He wouldn't cry for her.

The raven-haired woman looked at the grave-stone and fidgeted with her hands. Finally she said the least expected thing. "I was here for your father's funeral last time I was in Sank," she said. Alex started. "It was five years ago, wasn't it?" the woman asked.

Alex hesitated, having not been prepared to converse with anyone. He took another look at the woman. She was tall, taller than Alex anyway. She was wearing a simple dress and a wide-brimmed hat, which was nothing unusual. But she was dressed completely in white. Her eyes were blue and her lips were red and her skin had an unnatural pallor to it. "To a day," Alex replied. Good ol' April 7th.

END

X.x...oh man, do I suck at endings.

Loved it? Hated it? Thought that it was pretty mid-group? Tell me!