Meyrin Hawke

[Location: Aboard the Arkangel, Medical Bay. C.E. 74.]

The antiseptic smell of the Archangel's med bay was something Meyrin thought she'd never get used to. It was too clean, too sterile, nothing like the recycled air of the Minerva or the humid, panicked atmosphere of the Gibraltar base hallway where her life had irrevocably changed forty-eight hours ago.

She stood in the doorway, her fingers curled tightly around the cool metal frame. Her ZAFT uniform had been replaced by a set of simple, borrowed clothes, a loose shirt and soft pants that hung a little too large on her petite frame. They'd given her a room, a blanket, and a quiet corner to cry in if she needed it. But she hadn't gone to her room. She'd come here. Her eyes found the bed in the corner, the one with the privacy curtain partially drawn. The one where you lay.

---

Taking a shallow breath, she stepped inside. Her footsteps were nearly silent on the deck plating. She'd been here a dozen times in the past two days, always slipping in when she thought no one was watching, always leaving before anyone could ask her questions she didn't know how to answer.

She pulled a small stool closer to the bedside, it scraped against the floor with a soft, high-pitched squeak that made her wince, and sat down. Her hands immediately went to her lap, twisting together nervously.

"You're still asleep," she whispered, her voice barely audible. It was a stupid thing to say. Of course you were. The doctors had said the combination of injuries and exhaustion would keep you under for a while. But speaking, even just stating the obvious, made her feel less alone in the quiet hum of the medical equipment.

She studied your face, pale against the white pillow. Bandages wrapped around your torso beneath the thin blanket, and a monitor beeped softly in rhythm with your heartbeat. She'd done her best on the escape pod, applying pressure, talking to you when you drifted in and out of consciousness, but she was a communications officer, not a medic. Seeing you here, alive, under proper care, was the first time she'd been able to breathe properly since that night.

Her eyes welled up, and she quickly wiped them with the back of her hand.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "This is... this is all my fault. If I hadn't, if I'd just stayed quiet, if I'd just let them take you, you'd be..." She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. You'd be in a cell. Or worse. But at least you'd be safe from her. She shook her head, a few tears escaping down her cheeks. "No. That's not true. I couldn't. I couldn't just let them..." She pressed her lips together, trying to steady herself.

The memory flashed behind her eyes: the shower running, the towel clutched to her chest, the guards' flustered faces. She'd never done anything so terrifying in her life. Her heart had hammered so hard she was sure they could hear it. And then later, in the dim light of the security room, her fingers flying across the console, bypassing protocols she'd only read about in technical manuals, praying to any god listening that she was fast enough, smart enough.

She looked down at her own hands. They'd stopped shaking now. That was progress, she supposed. "Do you remember what you said to me?" she asked quietly, her gaze returning to your face. "In the hangar. When Rey found us. You told me to go. To save myself." A sad, wobbly smile touched her lips. "You were so insistent. Even half-conscious, you were trying to protect me."

She reached out, her fingers hovering just above your hand. She didn't dare actually touch you, afraid she might hurt you or disturb the IV line. But she wanted to. She wanted to hold your hand and feel the warmth that meant you were still here, still with her. "I'm not going anywhere," she said, her voice firmer now, though still soft. "I know you didn't ask for this. I know you didn't ask for me. But I chose this. I chose you. And I'm not... I'm not going to regret it."

She glanced towards the door, making sure no one was listening. The Archangel crew had been kind, surprisingly kind, considering she was technically the enemy. Captain Cagalli had visited, looking at her with a complicated expression that Meyrin couldn't quite read. Lacus Clyne had come too, and Meyrin had nearly burst into tears right there, overwhelmed by meeting her idol in such terrible circumstances. They'd all promised she was safe, that they'd protect her.

But safety felt hollow without knowing if you would be okay. She finally let her fingers brush against yours, just the lightest touch. "I couldn't be that person. Not for you."

The monitor beeped steadily. The ship hummed around them. Somewhere above, Meyrin knew the Archangel was moving, taking them further and further from everything she'd known. Her old life was gone. Her sister probably thought her dead. ZAFT would call her a criminal.

But sitting here, in this sterile room, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, she found she couldn't bring herself to care. "I'll be here," she promised quietly. "When you wake up. I'll be right here. We'll figure this out together. Okay?"

---

**She pulled her hand back, tucking it into her lap, and settled more comfortably onto the stool. She wasn't going anywhere. Not now. Not ever. Her eyes grew heavy, exhaustion finally catching up with her, but she fought to stay awake, determined to be watching when you opened your eyes.

"You have to wake up soon," she murmured, her voice thick with unshed tears and the beginning of sleep. "I can't do this alone. I'm not that brave. Not without you."

Her head dipped, chin touching her chest, and finally, she let herself drift, her last conscious thought a simple, fervent hope that when morning came, you would still be there.

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[Location: PLANT Colony, Aprilius One. C.E. 75]

The announcement had come down from Kira Yamato himself, delivered with that gentle, almost apologetic smile of his. Compass personnel were being granted a mandatory forty-eight-hour shore leave. The words "rest and recuperation" had been uttered, followed by something about "operational efficiency" and "psychological well-being." Meyrin suspected Lacus had been the one to actually draft the memo.

She had planned to spend the weekend doing absolutely nothing. Perhaps reading. Perhaps finally organizing the pile of datapads that had accumulated on her desk. Perhaps staring at the ceiling of her quarters and contemplating the unique exhaustion that came from being Athrun Zala's primary mission support.

Than she had seen you.

---

You were wandering the corridors of the Apollo Base with the lost, slightly dazed expression of someone who had been given free time and possessed absolutely no idea what to do with it. You had changed out of your Compass uniform into civilian clothes, which was a start, but the clothes themselves were... functional. Serviceable. The kind of outfit someone wore when they viewed clothing as merely a biological requirement, like eating bland nutrient paste instead of a proper meal.

Meyrin felt something click into place in her mind. A decision, made with the same quiet certainty she had felt when she'd hacked the Gibraltar base security.

Absolutely not. She fell into step beside you, her presence calm but utterly immovable. "You're coming with me," she said. It was not a question.

You opened your mouth, probably to protest, probably to mumble something about having plans, about needing to catch up on reports, about any of the excuses she had heard a thousand times from a certain green-haired boyfriend who didn't know how to stop working.

She held up a hand. "You've been staring at tactical readouts for six weeks. Kira gave us a vacation. That means we are going to vacation." She pronounced the word carefully, as if teaching it to a small child. "And the first rule of vacation is that you cannot spend it wearing whatever... this is."

She gestured vaguely at your outfit. Her expression was not unkind, but it was resolute. This was the face she wore when she was about to do something for someone's own good, whether they realized it needed doing or not.

"The civilian quarter on Apollo has actual shops," she continued, steering you toward the transport bay with the ease of long practice. "With actual clothes. Clothes that are not uniforms. Clothes that do not have rank insignia sewn into the collar. I know this is a shocking concept, but I promise you, it is real."

She glanced at you sidelong, and something softer flickered across her features. For a moment, she was not the competent support pilot or Athrun's steady partner, she was just Meyrin, the girl who had once tried on her sister's skirt and felt small, the girl who understood what it felt like to be uncertain of your place in the world.

"You work hard," she said, more quietly. "I see the hours you keep. Everyone does. And when was the last time you did something for yourself? Something that wasn't mission-related?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She didn't need to. "Exactly. So today, you're doing something for yourself. Even if I have to drag you through every shop in the quarter to make it happen."

The transport slid open, and she gestured you inside with a small, surprisingly warm smile. "Don't worry. I'm very good at this. Lunamaria used to say I could find something flattering for a brick." She paused, considering. "I'm not sure that was a compliment, actually. But the point stands."

As the transport hummed to life and carried them toward the civilian quarter, Meyrin pulled out her personal datapad and began scrolling through a list she had apparently prepared in advance. Her brow furrowed in concentration. "Let's see... there's a lovely shop on Level 3 that does excellent casual wear. Very breathable fabrics, good for the climate control here. And there's a place on Level 7 that specializes in formal attire, in case we ever have to attend another one of Lacus's diplomatic receptions." She made a small face. "Athrun hates those. He stands in corners and looks uncomfortable. I've started bringing a book."

She glanced up at you, her expression brightening. "Oh, and there's a café attached to the formal wear shop. They do this amazing spiced coffee, it's from an old Orb recipe, I think. We can take a break halfway through, regroup, plan our next assault."

She said it like a military operation, because in a way, it was. Meyrin Hawke had spent the last several months learning how to support people, how to anticipate their needs before they voiced them, how to create space for them to rest when they forgot how. It was a skill she had developed partly through training, and partly through the simple necessity of loving someone as relentlessly self-sacrificing as her sister Lunamaria.

You were not Athrun. But you were part of her team, part of the strange family that had assembled around Compass, and that meant you were hers to look after. The transport came to a gentle stop. The doors slid open onto the bright, bustling corridor of the civilian quarter, with its shops and cafés and people laughing, people resting, people simply living.

---

Meyrin stepped out first, then turned back to offer you her hand. "Come on," she said. "Let's find you something that makes you look like a person, not a soldier."

Her eyes sparkled with something that might have been mischief, or might have been genuine delight at the prospect of an afternoon spent doing something so wonderfully, beautifully normal. "I promise I'll only make you try on, say... twelve outfits. Maximum. Probably."

She waited, hand extended, patient and immovable and utterly certain that this was exactly what you needed. And if you tried to protest, well. She had talked Athrun Zala into fleeing a military base and deserting his nation. She was fairly confident she could talk you into buying a decent shirt.