Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ And You Hear Me Call ❯ And You Hear Me Call, Chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )

And You Hear Me Call

Chapter 1

Rated R for violence, language and upcoming sex

Post Endless Waltz

Pairing: developing 1+2

Warning: possible grossness of the violent kind

Gundam Wing and its characters copyright Bandai, Sunrise and Sotsu Agency.

 

Thanks to Diamroyal for beta-reading, and Natea for providing info on hospital procedures.

 

“Silence, I know, is finer by far than words.

Its sister, dumbness, at times is rather painful.” -Murasaki Shikibu

 

Duo had never felt so wretched in his life, physically and mentally. His ribs hurt sharply when he coughed, and the dull ache the rest of the time was the only respite. The fact he could breathe, let alone get to the hospital, through all the mucus he was currently producing was a goddamned miracle. As soon as he'd gotten in, Wufei'd taken him by the arm and sat him down. He'd only said, “Hi.”

 

According to Quatre, he looked like death warmed over and eaten before promptly vomited up again. That was a very good approximation of what he felt like, Duo thought, especially since he couldn't remember when he'd last had the energy to drag himself to the shower.

 

There hadn't been time to do that, though. There'd only been time to throw on jeans, sweater, coat and boots before running out of his apartment. He wiggled a foot experimentally; he hadn't even tied them before going out the door. The laces were dirty after years of tracking them in dirt, mud, and the like, but they'd still remained intact after all this time.

 

Duo wasn't the reason they were all in the hospital waiting room right now, though. He'd been the last to arrive; they were already here when he'd gotten the call from Trowa.

 

Unfortunately, if he hadn't gotten sick, they wouldn't have been here. If it hadn't been for this particularly stubborn cold, none of this would have happened. It would have been another mission, another night of being security for Relena during one of her speeches, but he'd been too ill to stand, much less move. Commander Une had taken him off the duty roster and ordered him to go home and rest. “I want you breathing clearly through your nose before you even consider returning,” were her final words on the matter.

 

He'd gladly obeyed, especially since Heero had volunteered to replace him. If he could go back and do it over again, Duo would have made damn sure he'd stayed on that duty roster and shown up to protect Relena, no matter how bad he felt.

 

That way, at the very worst, he'd be the one in surgery right now instead of Heero. At this point, they didn't even know whether he was going to make it or not.

 

Someone had fired a gun just as Relena was winding down her speech, and the bullet had hit Heero in the throat. They hadn't known much more than that. But from what she'd seen, Relena had said, it looked like either the massive bleeding or the inability to breathe could do him in.

 

She wasn't here now; she had been, but there was a conference on L3 the next day that she had to attend. Quatre had insisted that she go home and get a good night's sleep before catching the morning shuttle, promising to keep her updated before gently pushing her towards the exit.

 

Quatre, who'd kept a cool head throughout all of this, was currently pacing the length of the room. There was a method to how he was doing it, Duo noticed; it wasn't frantic rushing from one side to the other, but a controlled walk, a smooth turn on his heel, heading back, another pivot, and the process began all over again. If Duo hadn't known any better, he'd think Quatre was deep in contemplation over the company and its upkeeping.

 

Despite the outward calm, Quatre had to be freaking out; he'd once said something about how it was hard to intuit anything from someone if that someone wasn't awake and aware of his or her surroundings. Out of all of them, Quatre would be the first to know whether or not Heero would make it. Not picking anything up after this long probably wasn't helping to calm him down.

 

At least he could pick /something/ up, Duo thought. It wasn't much more comforting being in the dark about something like this. The stupid cold was the only thing keeping him from pacing along with Quatre.

 

“Sit down, Winner,” Wufei said, not unkindly. “You'll know for sure if Yuy pulls through, so there's no need to worry yourself sick over it.”

 

“If I'm not worried sick now, I doubt I'll ever be,” Quatre replied, but he sat down anyway.

 

Wufei glanced at his watch. “He's been in surgery for six hours. They should be coming out of the operating room soon.”

 

“What time is it?” Trowa asked.

 

“A little after four,” Wufei said. He looked at Duo, concerned. “Maxwell, you should go home and rest. Barton can let you know if anything happens—you're not looking at all well.”

 

“Naw, I'm fine,” Duo croaked, though he and Wufei damn well knew that wasn't the case.

 

“Maxwell.” Wufei's tone of voice was stern; it sounded like a parent warning a kid one last time not to touch something.

 

“I can take him home and drive back up here,” Trowa offered. He and Duo lived in the same apartment building, three doors down from each other.

 

“Sounds good,” Wufei said, then to Duo: “I don't trust you getting home by yourself in that condition. I'm amazed you were even able to get to the hospital in the first place. Especially with all that snow on the roads.”

 

“Maybe we can get him something while we're here,” Trowa said, looking at Duo critically with his visible eye. “I wonder if what he's got hasn't evolved to bronchitis or pneumonia.”

 

“Maybe it has,” Duo muttered, then dissolving into a coughing fit. When he was done, he said, “But I bet the doctor would just tell me to go home and rest.”

 

“That's what you should be doing anyway.” Wufei sounded disgruntled. “Much as you are concerned about Yuy, as we all are, I have the feeling he'd also rather have you /home/ than over here.”

 

Duo snorted. It sounded like someone blowing bubbles underwater. “Sometimes we don't get the things we want, Wufei.”

 

Quatre rose from his seat, handing Duo the tissue box that had been on the table near him. “Not the time to be arguing, you two,” he hissed. The tiredness was beginning to show, Duo saw; all of them could use a good night's sleep. Duo himself needed at least a week's worth; whatever the hell this was had lodged itself firmly in his body and refused to come out.

 

He took a tissue and blew into it, wadding it up and covering it with yet another one before repeating it again. The area between his nose and mouth stung like a bitch; he'd need to put some more of that cream on before he went to sleep again, whenever that would be. Right now that wasn't important.

 

As if on cue, Duo heard a few footsteps and looked up to see one of the surgeons entering the waiting room, looking just as haggard as they all were right now. He couldn't tell from her expression whether or not to expect good news.

 

Duo opened his mouth and leaned forward to get up, but Quatre beat him to the punch. “How is he doing?” Quatre asked, smoothly rising from his seat and moving towards the surgeon, Wufei and Trowa following.

 

She waited until Duo had gotten up and joined them. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” she asked, peering at them with beady eyes. Her shoulder-length hair had gray streaked in amongst the mousy brown, Duo saw, though she couldn't have been older than her forties.

 

“Start from the beginning,” Wufei said. He'd been looking plenty tired a few seconds ago, but now he was alert, standing at attention and ready to listen to whatever this lady had to say. Duo felt the same way, maybe, if a little dizzy.

 

The surgeon—Anna D. Maitland was the name on her ID badge—took a deep breath.

 

“The emergency crew aboard the helicopter couldn't find a bullet anywhere in his neck. Once he got to the OR, we found no exit wound, so he's most likely been grazed. It stopped short a few centimeters away from the jugular vein, causing massive bleeding. That alone took two to three hours to stop; we were lucky to get to him in time, or he could have drowned in his own blood.”

 

The image of Heero dying like that made Duo wince. “Is he gonna make it?” he asked, pulling his coat tighter around him. He felt chilly again.

 

Dr. Maitland raised both eyebrows. “Well,” she said, “we managed to stabilize him after stopping the bleeding. Granted, we'll have to see over the next week or two, but I would think he should get through without much of a problem.”

 

Good, good, Duo thought. Everything would be back to normal and Heero would only have a scar to show that he'd ever been shot in the line of duty. That, and Duo swore to never get colds for the rest of his goddamn life. He should have known Heero would have pulled through okay. After seeing what the guy did during the war, this shouldn't have been /too/ bad.

 

“You said there was bad news.” Trowa's soft baritone cut through Duo's relief like a spoon in a gelatin mold. “What's wrong?”

 

The surgeon massaged one of her temples. “Ah, yes. As expected, there was quite a bit of damage on the neck and the throat itself. A lot of it seems to be from the air disturbance caused by the bullet. He'll have to wear a neck brace for a month. That's not the bad news.”

 

“Then what is?” Duo asked, impatient.

 

Dr. Maitland looked uncomfortable; to Duo, the expression she wore told him she didn't like it what she had to say. “When your friend was in surgery, we found that his larynx had been crushed. This is also due to the air disturbance; the bullet didn't actually go in deep enough.”

 

“Are you saying that Heero...?” The question hung in the air only for a few seconds, but for Duo, it felt like months, even years.

 

“Yes,” Dr. Maitland said, “he won't be able to talk for the rest of his life. There was nothing we could do but remove the voice box. I'm sorry. Once he wakes up, we'll start discussing the possibility of a prosthesis, if he would like one. Frankly, he should be happy he even survived.”

 

“Holy shit.” The dizzy sensation intensified; Duo couldn't believe this was happening. It /had/ to be some sort of fever dream brought on by the meds; those were unusually vivid. There was still the faint possibility he'd wake up in the morning and find that not only could Heero still speak, he hadn't been shot at all.

 

“How is he doing now? When can we visit?” Quatre asked.

 

“He's currently in the ICU. We'll have to monitor his condition for a few days to make sure there are no infections or complications post-surgery, but after the first day, once he's reasonably lucid...”

 

The conversation faded as Duo sank down into a chair, head in his hands. His braid felt heavier than usual, like it would pull his head down if his hands didn't support it, but it was nothing compared to the paralyzing sensation in his entire body right now.

 

“I'm so, so sorry,” he mumbled, “so, so, sorry...”

 

******

 

The first thing that came into Heero's mind when he finally woke was that he had no idea where he was. It wasn't his apartment, for one thing; the window in this room was off to his right and the one in his place faced him.

 

It was the soft beeping and whirring of machinery, along with the IV needle in his forearm, that told him, after a few seconds, he was in the hospital. But how did he get here? All he remembered was a gunshot before everything went crazy. There was a vague memory of being lifted onto a stretcher...after that, he must have gone unconscious, because he couldn't remember anything else until waking up now.

 

Whatever had happened to him was serious. Heero felt a little off; taking a deep breath, he realized they'd given him a breathing tube. It didn't feel all that bad, but he didn't know whether or not the painkillers had anything to do with it. He also couldn't really move his neck too much; further investigation told him he was also wearing a neck brace.

 

So there was the intubation, the neck brace, the IV needle, the heart monitor, a blood pressure cuff that checked him every thirty seconds, and a clip on his index finger to measure something else. The funny feeling in his crotch was probably a catheter.

 

From the way the shadows and sunlight slanted in his room, it was probably morning, Heero thought, a little after nine, maybe. That was good; it meant a doctor would be coming to his room to give him an explanation of what happened. He wanted to know if he was the only one hurt, or if Relena was somewhere in this hospital also; he'd heard her screaming in the confusion, but he didn't know if it was because she'd been hurt or she'd been frightened.

 

What Heero did know was everyone else—Duo, Trowa, Quatre and Wufei—were probably gathered somewhere worrying themselves sick about him. Well, maybe Quatre was a bit better off; hopefully by now he knew while all wasn't exactly well, it wasn't exactly /too/ dire.

 

He heard three soft knocks before the door opened, revealing a doctor who looked like she was fresh out of medical school, the way her hair was still pulled back in a messy ponytail and the entire “new girl” look she had on her face.

 

“Good morning...” a glance at the clipboard in her small hands, “Heero, is that right?” She had a soft accent underneath that bright voice; L3, maybe. When he nodded, she continued. “I'm Dr. Tseng, and I'm going to explain what happened to you, and then go over the machines and what they do. Oh, before I forget,” she drew out a pad and pencil from her lab coat, placing them on the bed, “you're not going to be able to talk, so if you have anything you'd like to say to me, write it down here.”

 

She exhaled, pulling up a chair and sitting herself down next to Heero. “First, how are you feeling today?” she asked.

 

It took a while to hold the pencil properly, thanks to the clip on his finger, but he managed to scrawl out, “all right, if drugged” before handing the pad to Dr. Tseng to read. She chuckled darkly.

 

“That's the morphine; now that you're fully awake,” she said, turning to point to something as the sunlight revealed wine-colored highlights in her dark hair, “you can control the dosage you want with the patient controlled analgesia machine, or PCA for short. When the light turns green, just press the button over there—that big blue one—if you'd like another shot of morphine, and it'll come through your IV.”

 

Up close, she didn't seem so fresh and unexperienced; Heero could see dark circles under her bloodshot eyes, and the nails on her hands were ragged, with a long hangnail on her pointing finger. He nodded in understanding, and she took a deep breath to start her explanation. The expression on her face he didn't like; it was one that told him she didn't like what she was going to say, and he probably wasn't going to enjoy it too much either.

 

“You were grazed with a bullet to your throat,” she began. “Luckily, EMS was able to get to you in time; otherwise you would have bled to death. It took about two to three hours just to stop the bleeding, and you've had a few transfusions. Even though the bullet only grazed you, you suffered a great deal of hydrostatic shock, or, the bullet's air disturbance, which is why you're wearing that neck brace.”

 

He frowned; she was taking a while to get to the bad news, and he didn't like it. The woman caught his expression and sighed resignedly.

 

“The air disturbance also crushed your larynx, which ended up blocking the trachea,” she said, finally. “There was no other choice but to remove it.”

 

She was silent afterwards, dark brown eyes watching Heero for any sort of reaction, as if that was her cue on how to act next.

 

Well, Heero thought, eyes widening. That was it; just “well,” which was as good as an “oh.” He'd assumed he couldn't talk because of the breathing tube, and now he knew he wouldn't be talking ever again. He couldn't really bring himself to feel anything else right now, except for shock; after all, he didn't think he'd come out losing anything.

 

“We can arrange for you to be fitted for an artificial voice box; granted, it's not like having your vocal cords back, but at least you'd be able to communicate somewhat normally...” Dr. Tseng said tentatively, trying to offer comfort before the expected reaction came about.

 

Heero shook his head. That was out of the question.

 

“They're not that difficult to use; you'll be in speech therapy for a few months to master it,” she continued.

 

He shook his head more emphatically, his neck protesting under its brace. To be mute forever was one thing; to have to speak through a metallic box with a tinny, robotic voice for the rest of his life was another. That is, if he /was/ mute. Maybe they made a mistake.

 

All right, that was it. A mistake. There'd probably been a mix-up or something, and once they'd taken the breathing tube out, he'd be able to talk again. After all, Dr. Tseng was new; and people that were new on the job made mistakes constantly.

 

He wasn't worrying, really. Or that's what he was trying to tell himself now as he tried to get the point across about not wanting, much less /needing/, something to replace his voice.

 

Finally, the doctor relented, saying, “Okay. I understand if you're not open to it now; we can discuss it later, if you want. Let's go over the machines. The clip on your finger is for measuring the oxygen saturation in your blood, and so far—“ she glanced at one of the nearby monitors, “that seems to be fine.”

 

Heero fought the urge to roll his eyes. Of /course/ his oxygen sats were in working order. If they hadn't been, he'd have known, wouldn't he? Showed how competent she was; if she had to look at the monitor to figure out he was doing fine, what did that say about the rest of her medical skills?

 

There wasn't anything wrong. He'd be out in a week or two and then back on duty in another two when the brace came off. That wasn't too long in the scheme of things; at least afterwards, he wouldn't have to suffer this idiot's presence anymore.

 

******

 

Unfortunately, the idea that this had all been a mistake had been quashed; one of the doctors who'd actually operated on him, Dr. Maitland—someone who looked a hell of a lot more experienced—told him that afternoon in precise detail how the hydrostatic shock had crushed the vocal cords, not only blocking his windpipe, but rendering them completely useless.

 

And that was that; unless it was through the robotic voice box they'd pushed on him, Heero was never speaking again. Dr. Maitland had made sure to emphasize this, eliminating any and all possible denial.

 

Ironically, after that, Heero didn't have any desire to acknowledge anyone's presence, much less try and communicate with them. That hadn't been a problem; the nurses only came in to check his temperature, scurrying in and out, and if any of them attempted small talk, actual eye contact and a glare shut them up quickly.

 

Still no word on Relena. Even though it'd only been two days, Heero hadn't gotten anything about her; for all he knew, she could be alive, or she could be in a different hospital fighting for her life, or worse, dead. Maybe something had happened to her; otherwise, she'd be here now, wouldn't she?

 

Not that he was about to ask; attempts to communicate made him remember his new inability to talk, even after the stupid tube was out.

 

So what had he been doing since? The TV in his room was currently getting a lot of mileage out of it; he'd had to acknowledge one of the nurses civilly to get the prepaid card, but afterwards, all he had to do was stare blankly at the screen and whatever was moving on it and he had a small, if temporary, escape.

 

Even though Quatre and Trowa were visiting, the TV was still on, brought almost face to face to him thanks to it being attached to a pivoting arm extending from the wall. He didn't feel like having visitors, really. Even though both of them could lip read—hell, all of them could—Heero wasn't up to mouthing silently at them.

 

In fact, Trowa's talking was getting irritating. It wasn't that Trowa didn't talk at all—he could, and at great length under the right circumstances—but what he was talking about right now sounded like he wanted to fill up the empty space that hung between the two of them while Quatre had run out to get a vase for some flowers he'd brought.

 

“...again, good to see you're doing okay. We were all worried for a while, you know. I don't think I've ever seen Quatre run so fast when the surgeon came out of there.”

 

Heero idly contemplated taking the writing pad on the nightstand and throwing it at Trowa's head. It'd serve a better purpose to him anyway, and besides, he could probably get away with it. Either Quatre would figure out what was going on and keep his mouth shut, or Heero could find something else to throw at him. He didn't care.

 

“I heard Wufei called?” Trowa asked. “Or, at least he said he did. I don't know.”

 

Heero nodded. Wufei had called last night, wisely keeping things brief. The image on the screen displayed a woman in a bright pantsuit and equally bright makeup talking loudly about her favorite applesauce. She was equally annoying, but at least he felt a little more inclined to listen to what she was saying. After all, he didn't have to respond to her. And the monitor obscured a good three-fourths of Trowa.

 

“Oh. Well. That's good, I guess. There's a card going around Preventers, you know, that everyone's signing. You should get it in a few days. Maybe tomorrow. Who knows?”

 

Heero made a mental note to tell Trowa, later, that idle small talk was not his forte and never would be. That is, if he ever felt like communicating again. He could see him fidgeting out of the corner of his eye, adjusting his clothing inconspicuously. Small talk was not meant for Trowa, evidently. More for Duo.

 

Speaking of Duo, he hadn't even bothered to call. Obviously, being sick left dropping by the hospital out of the question, but one would think Duo could have taken a few minutes to dial the phone and croak or cough out a few words.

 

See, that was the thing; at least Duo /had/ a voice that he could fuck up and croak things out with. He didn't, not anymore. And it'd been a few days, afer all; Duo had to be getting better by now.

 

“...uh, Duo hasn't been doing too well. I think we might have to take him to the doctor if he doesn't show signs of letting up in a few days. I've been having to cook for him because he's barely strong enough to go to the bathroom, and I think he hasn't showered in the last week. He's beginning to smell pretty odd. And I think what he's got could be contagious, since I didn't feel so good the other day.”

 

Before Heero could grab the notepad to chuck at Trowa's head, Quatre came back in the room, the flowers in their vase. Without missing a beat, he placed it on the nightstand, and glanced at Heero.

 

A raised blond eyebrow was the only indication he'd understood.

 

“Trowa, I think we better be going,” he said, zipping up his red fleece pullover. Heero almost hadn't recognized him in that; Quatre, in the three to four years they'd known each other, always wore something that looked like it was part of a suit, so anything else was, to say the least, unexpected and abnormal. “Visiting hours are almost over and the nurses are going to announce it soon. Besides, you said you skipped lunch, so let's go out somewhere, all right?”

 

For the first time since he'd stepped in here, Trowa fell silent. Then, checking the time, “Oh. Sure. I guess this is it. I'll tell Duo we dropped by. Do you have anything to tell him?”

 

Heero didn't respond, instead glaring at Trowa. He knew it was a glare because Quatre moved to the door, saying, “Come on. I don't want to get in trouble with the nurses.”

 

He barely heard the two of them walk out the door. It was probably better that way, Heero thought, because hearing Trowa's voice made him feel a lot worse.

 

Not that he'd ever be able to say that, or anything else.