Hoops and Scoops
"Stones or Beatles?"
The ball bounced twice before he held it between his palms. "Stones." He aimed for the netless hoop anchored to the speaker post, a push-off shot from his chest. "Ian Fleming or John le Carré?" The ball went through the hoop, and he trotted over to get it.
"Le Carré," Trowa answered easily enough.
Quatre tossed the ball to him, and wiped away sweat with the back of his hand. He stood near the speaker pole, half listening to music buzz with static, waiting for the next question or for the ball. It'd been three days he'd been with his new company, and as yet, they hadn't had a mission. Keeping busy wasn't an issue - there was always something needing to be done, and finding out about the guy he'd be spending the most time with was one of them.
"Ford or Chevy?" Trowa took three running steps, ball bouncing with each one, and executed a perfect lay-up. The ball rolled the ring, and slipped inside. Trowa caught it midair and smirked at Quatre.
"Neither." It was his turn to smirk. "I've a GTO that'll run circles 'round both." Trowa's laugh trailed him as he broke away, dribbling a half dozen yards out. He turned and faced the hoop. "Susie-Q," he made a jump shot; the ball sailed, "or Peggy-Sue?" the ball cleared all sides, landing almost perfectly in the middle.
Trowa caught the ball on the return bounce. "That's a hard one. Holly was cool - best guitar heard. CCR, though," Trowa bounced the ball, held it and squinted at Quatre, "they are the soul of rock."
Nodding, Quatre moved in closer. "So they're both cool." He grinned. "I prefer Holly, but CCR is still new. They have a chance to grow on me." Pulling the ball from Trowa's hand, Quatre tossed it upward in a reverse basket. "Your question."
"RC Cola or Coke," Trowa wiggled a brow. "or Pepsi?" He leaned back against the post, crossing his ankles.
"I should say Dr Pepper," Quatre said with a short laugh and straight-armed the ball to him. "But it's Coke."
Trowa caught the ball, and unbent his frame. "Squirt for me." He dribbled the ball a couple of times. "Your turn." His chin jerked in Quatre's direction.
Quatre swiped at his brow again, squinted across the compound toward the mess tent. It would be lunch soon, but food - any food - was the last thing he wanted. The heat and humidity was too much to work up an appetite.
"Miss December or Miss September?"
He'd questioned Trowa mid-stride, and the man faltered, the ball hit the toe of his boot and rolled off. Trowa stared at him for a long moment before replying. "Neither." He loped the short way to the ball. "I prefer blonds."
It was Quatre's turn to stare. He wetted his lip and rubbed his palms on his fatigues. "Sh-should," He cleared his throat and tried again. "Should I be worried?"
Trowa smiled and long armed a shot toward the basket. It bounced off the post. "Only if you want to be." Trowa's eyes told him nothing; his expression even less.
Knowing Duo and his preferences, Quatre only nodded and went after the ball. He was having a hard time coming up with the next question that wouldn't be too personal or too dumb. "Rifleman or Gunsmoke?"
"Rifleman without question," Trowa answered almost before the question was finished. He made the walking, cocking and firing motion from the show's opening. "What about you?"
Quatre blushed slightly. "Maverick, actually."
"Figures." Trowa was grinning. "Okay, Superman or Batman? And you'd better not say Spiderman, or I'll push you out of the Huey."
Giving a grin of his own, Quatre asked, "While it's still on the ground or in the air?"
"At least thirty feet."
He threw the ball at Trowa, hitting him high on the shoulder when the man turned away laughing. "Superman's cool, but Batman's a real person." Quatre scratched the skin flaking off his nose from a burn. "Chopin or Mozart?"
Trowa's expression seemed to fade, his eyes became distant, unfocused. With a slight smile, he answered simply, "Tchaikovsky."
Quatre drew in a sharp breath. "Good." He shrugged slightly and ducked his head. "I didn't think you'd know anyone unless they were more well known."
"Flute for seven years, percussions for three, piano for twelve and violin for six." Trowa turned away, dribbling the ball half-heartedly. "I'd better know the shit."
"Violin? That's great!" Quatre stepped closer. "I've been playing violin for fourteen years. The piano for only eight, though." His eyes gleamed. "And the electric bass for five."
Trowa laughed, shaking his head. "Rebel, huh?" And Quatre nodded. "Well James Dean, let's go grab some chow and find someplace cool to eat."
He spun around quickly, and heaved the ball toward the hoop. The speaker gave a loud shriek of protest as it was jerked from its anchor. Wires snapped, and a power cord whipped through the air, roiled upon the ground and sent sparks flying. After a moment of watching, Quatre backpedaled, arms covering his head protectively. He bumped into Trowa and they both went down; both still watching the dancing wire. The noise drew a crowd.
Trowa's chuckle was low, and Quatre doubted anyone but he could hear it. "Wonders of electricity."
Keeping with the low tones, knowing they were two steps from trouble as it was, he muttered from the side of his mouth, "And Superman long shots."