Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Cat's Paw ❯ chapter seven: no sense of sarcasm ( Chapter 7 )

Thank you to Unicorn144, Miranda, the firefaery, and GW_Shenlong for their reviews of past chapters!

Cat's Paw 07

"Duo." Heero speaks out of the blue, saying my name with all the enthusiasm of a dyslexic at a spelling bee. He's not in a very happy mood, having spent all morning trying to climb out of bed only to have the nurses come running in like the Cripple Gestapo. He'd decided he'd had more than enough of being bedridden and took it upon himself to go for a walk. Four unsuccessful attempts later, the nurses told him if he didn't "plunk his behind in bed and keep it there," they were going to strap him in. He ceased and desisted.

"Yesh, Heewo," I respond, doing my best to imitate the actor in the classic movie we're watching. Heero declared remote control dominance nearly a week ago and has since dictated our viewing choices. Today's critical selection is Yet Another War Film, starring Yet Another Appalling Actor. Big surprise, since nothing else seems to capture my roomie's interest. At least it's sufficiently bad enough that it's distracting me from the fact that my ass hurts like a bitch from laying in bed all day.

A pain in the ass. That sums me up pretty well.

"Your nose is bleeding again," he informs me before turning back to the TV, concern for my well-being evident in every line of his body.

"No, it isn't-" I begin, but then, when I wipe my hand across my upper lip, sure enough. It comes away smeared red. Swell. Just swell.

Why am I always the last to know these things?

Grumbling under my breath, I grab the box of tissues off the nightstand, nearly knocking the phone off in the process. Stupid phone. Why do we even have it in the first place? No one ever calls us and we don't exactly have pressing social agendas that need tending. They should just take it out so we didn't have to think about how pathetically alone we are every time we see the damn thing.

Or maybe I should just get over it.

I hold a wad of Kleenex to my nose and tilt my head back against the pillows. I can still see the TV out of the corners of my eyes. I watch over the tissues as the lisping actor blasts the hell out of some Nazis with his machine gun. Their bodies gyrate wildly before they fall twitching to the ground. Miraculously, not a drop of blood is shed. Apparently they don't have low white blood cell counts.

I hope this thing stops soon on its own. If it doesn't, I'll have to call the nurse so she can come and do something useless like pinch the bridge of my nose or hold ice on my face -both of which I'm perfectly capable of doing by myself, but she'll insist on doing it for me, being the adamant do-gooder that she no doubt is- and naturally neither will work, so she'll have to page Dr. Merino and then he'll come and frown and cluck and order me another blood transfusion because it's not good when your white blood cell count is too low because then your blood can't clot properly and you can bleed to death, slowly and miserably, a drawn-out process that is surely unpleasant and would ruin the bed sheets to boot, not to mention scar your roommate for life...

"Can you change the channel, Heero?" I ask, my voice coming out all funny, the way people usually sound when their nose is being held. I'm breathing through my mouth and my lips are starting to dry out. I fumble blindly for the Chap Stick -cherry flavored- that usually sits on my nightstand next to the telephone. However, it too is apparently depressed by the neglected and underused phone, for it has taken a suicidal plunge to the floor. Damned traitor. It is dead to me -phht!

"Why?" Heero demands, tearing his eyes from the heroic charge taking place on screen. "I thought you liked it."

"I do like it," I protest. "But I seem to be leaking sympathy blood."

"Sympathy blood?" He frowns, more so than usual, and lowers his scraggly eyebrows. I swear, one night I'm going to procure a razor and shaving cream from somewhere and shave the damned things off. Preferably before they eat us both alive. Feed me, Seymore!

"You know, like sympathy pain when somebody talks about their sprained ankle? Sympathy blood. The soldiers on TV aren't bleeding, so I am for them."

"Do you honestly believe that?" he asks seriously, looking at me as if I'm about as intelligent as a box of half-melted crayons. Well, he's not the brightest crayon in the box by a long shot if he can't even tell that was a joke.

"Of course not," I defend myself. I glare at him as well as I can, but I don't think he can see much of my face at the moment, thanks to the tissue-eclipse. "I just don't much feel like watching this right now."

"I thought you said you liked it." He sounds as though I've betrayed him badly. Like I've slept with his girlfriend, eaten all his Girl Scout cookies, jumped on his new sofa, ripped up his porn magazines, guzzled his beer horde, and then kidnapped his pet dog, Poochie. Completely overreacting. No sense of perspective.

"I do. I'd just rather watch something else right now. Something that doesn't have plastic body parts being chucked around by the stage crew," I exclaim around the tissues.

"That rules out everything but Telecare and the TV Guide channel."

Sometimes I forget Heero has a sense of humor, too.

"I guess you'd better leave this on, then," I sigh, doing my best martyr emulation. "I'd rather watch this than some baggy old nun talking about naked people in paintings." Especially since said nun looks remarkably like Sister Mary Willis.

"I thought you'd feel that way," he smirks and returns his gaze to the TV.

When the movie ends half an hour later, immediately followed by the classic comedy, "Desk Set," my nosebleed stops. I swear it's too convenient to be a coincidence. However, I don't think Heero will be impressed by my newly-discovered psychic connection to the television, so I keep quiet.

Now that his blood-and-guts-fest is over, Heero begins flipping methodically through the channels. Unlike me, an experienced flicker, he needs to pause for more than half a second on each station. He presses the "channel up" button, watches for about five seconds, then hits it again, then watches for five more seconds, and so on. Watching him plod through the networks is enough to make me antsy. It's so inefficient. Five seconds per channel; that's only twelve channels per minute! For goodness sake, there are 108 channels! It'll take nine minutes just to see what's on, let alone decide on anything!

"Yo, Heero. How about I get the remote for a while, huh?" I ask casually, trying not to let on how much his TV viewing habits irritate me. That would be petty, trivial, and downright lame.

Click.

"No."

"Aww, come on. I promise I won't make you watch 'Hamtaro' again..." Especially since the one time we'd watched it had certainly scarred me for life.

Click.

"No."

"Hey, it's the news! We should watch. Something important might have happened."

Click.

"No!"

"What about this? Everybody loves hand puppets. Look! It's the letter 'I!'"

Click.

"NO!"

"How about we just watch whatever's on the next channel? No matter what it is, that's what we'll watch."

Click.

"NO!!"

"Okay, how about whatever's three channels from this one?" And since we're on channel 33 now, that'll bring us to 36, which at this time of day is playing "America's Most Wanted," an all-time favorite...

Click.

"Will you be quiet then?"

Click.

"Yep!"

"Fine."

Click.

"Next, on 'America's Most Wanted,' we go undercover into the infamous terrorist organization known as..."

Click. A very familiar, overly perky theme song begins playing...

"Hey! You were supposed to stop!"

"I hate cop shows."

"Oh, and 'Columbo' isn't a cop show?"

"No. 'Columbo' is a detective show. It's about a Los Angeles police lieutenant working in Homicide. He solves his cases through extremely dogged and careful pursuit of all clues. Painfully obsequious sometimes, his blade-sharp analysis is always carefully hidden by an apparent shambling, disorganized nature that always makes the criminal underestimate him and make mistakes."

"Like I said, a cop show."

"I'm not arguing with you."

"That's because you know you're wrong."

"Your nose is bleeding again."

"Goddamn it!"

~+~+~

"I don't understand. Why is he trying to kill them if the boat is sinking? They're all going to die anyway."

"It's a matter of honor. He must avenge his pride."

"If he's so concerned about his pride, why isn't the fiance the one chasing after them? Why is the butler doing it?"

"Don't ask me, Heero! Just watch the goddamn movie!"

"But it's stupid."

"I know it's stupid, but everyone and their mom likes it!"

"So why do we have to watch it?"

"I don't know! We're just obligated to! It's a cultural icon!"

"For what? Ill-conceived plots?"

"For brilliant cinematography."

"It would have to be brilliant to cover up the gaping plot holes and inferior performances. I mean, did you see how miscast the actors are? There's no way that woman could pass for sixteen-"

"Do you want me to turn it off? Because I'll turn it off if that's what you want."

"No, you don't have to-"

"It really sounds like that's what you want me to do. I'll turn it off and we'll watch something else. Quatre left a whole bunch of DVDs. How about 'Terminator?'"

"Which one?"

"We have them all. Which do you want to watch?"

"Which has the most explosions?"

"Uhhh.... I think the third. As the plot decreases, the action increases in proportion. It's an inverse slope, like the current stock market."

"Do you associate everything with something you saw on TV?"

"Do you complain about everything you don't understand?"

Promise me you'll never let go, Rose!

"Oh, for God's sake, shut it off!"

"I'm trying! The clicker's dead!"

"Well, get up and do it!"

"I'm tired. You get up!"

I promise, Jack.

"Duo! Make it stop!"

"NURSE!!!"

~+~+~

"Here. Educate yourself." My oh-so-congenial tutor chucks a textbook at my head, his frustration with my academic aptitude causing him to seek my decapitation. By using my super-human reflexes, I manage to intercept the Book of Doom before it does any serious harm. Go-go Gadget Arms! I lower the heavy volume to my lap and examine its cover.

Ohhh. Look. Holographic letters. This will keep me entertained for hours.

If there is an upside to being chronically ill, it is that you are no longer expected to haul your sorry ass to school. Whatever school district you are enrolled in is instead required to provide you with a tutor, your very own fountain of knowledge. Said tutor shows up for an hour or two each weekday, leaves you with a bunch of bullshit busy work, helps you with any questions you have about your reading, and everyone is happy. The school district is fulfilling its obligation, you're getting some semblance of an education, and your tutor is chalking up goody-two-shoes points with the administrators. Yeah for public education.

I've been working with Wufei for about a week now. He's a pretty cool dude, for a suck up, and I've actually been looking forward to his visits. He stops by the hospital on his way to martial arts class from school, hauling along his book bag and his big-ass equipment duffle. I know he's cutting it close time-wise because he usually changes from his street clothes to his training uniform in my bathroom. He'll go in wearing his dorky turtlenecks and creased khakis and emerge looking ready to kick some serious ninja ass. Gone are the glasses! Gone are the penny loafers! Gone is the floppy, too-long hair that keeps falling in his face! (Not that the ponytail is much better.) He is radiating danger. He is a menace to more than just small animals and brittle old people. He is lean, mean, Ninjitsu machine with plenty of pent up aggression!

And he refuses to beat Heero up for me. Wuss.

Not that I really want him to. It's just... it would be funny. I mean, the mental image of Wufei cracking Heero's leg cast in half with his forehead is pretty damned amusing.

It's not like he could hurt Heero anyway. Whenever Wufei shows up, the Amazing Coma Boy departs. He is magically spirited away by the nurses right before my tutor arrives. Either he has a dual-identity that I was unaware of, or someone thinks he will distract me from my lessons.

Me? Easily distracted? Never!

Ohhh. Look, TV.

But anyway, things with Wufei are working out fine, except that I'm exasperating him. Immensely. To levels never before seen this side of Uranus.

Hey, if I was mature, I wouldn't be fifteen.

"The Cambridge History of China. Volume One," Wufei reads the book's title aloud, as if I'm as literate as a toenail clipper. He taps on its cover with his finger, looking quite satisfied with himself. "There are fifteen volumes and all of them are as long as this one. In fact, volumes five and nine are two books a piece."

"The history of China?" I muse. "Pray tell how this falls under the curriculum the school provided. Not that I don't want to read it, but this certainly doesn't look like it pertains to US History and Government."

Wufei looks flustered. "We already finished that syllabus. Actually, you'd completed it before we even began."

"Dude," I apologize. "I sit in a bed all day. I have nothing to do but read and watch educational television. After a while it just kind of sticks, you know?"

"You can recall the names of all the current state representatives and when their terms expire, but you can't remember not to call me 'dude?'" he glares. With his long hair and glasses, he looks about as intimidating as an ill-groomed Drew Carey.

I shrug. "It's a figure of speech."

He doesn't look happy, but he also doesn't argue. Score one for team Duo! Break out the pompoms! Bette

"Fine," he sighs. "But getting back to the book... I thought it would be an excellent opportunity for us to converse about topics of culture. Since most Americans seem to regard Asian heritage as a novelty, I felt this would provide an adequate basis for future discussions of an intellectual nature. Perhaps once we have followed the journey the Chinese have taken over the past millennia, I can help you to garner a deeper understanding of the value of Asia's past."

Now it is my turn to sigh. A certain someone seems to feel that because I do not obsessively devour Asian history like he does, I feel nothing but malice towards Asian culture in general. This is most certainly not true, but explaining that fact to Mr. Chang while he's in the middle of his Heritage Pride Parade borders on impossible. Every time he comes here, it devolves into a speech about his being Chinese. It really irritates me because other than that he's such an awesome guy. Either he goes to school with some really racist pricks and he needs to justify his self-worth or he uses his time with me as a mental prep session for his Ninjitsu class.

Usually I merely smile and nod while he bellows and frowns. This probably doesn't help matters any, but what am I supposed to do? Wrap Drippy around his neck and pin him to the floor, yelping some idiotic crud about how I watched "the Mysteries of the Great Wall of China" just the other day and not everyone is a slimy, skeevy, jerk-face with his head up his ample behind?

I begin to consider it, though, when I regard the book I'm holding. Fifteen volumes... and they're all this long? Jesus. No wonder the rainforest is in danger.

"Uh, Wufei," I venture. "Is there any chance that there's a Reader's Digest condensed version of this?"

He smiles. "Intimidated?"

"No... It's just, I don't think we're going to have time to finish them all..." If I get stuck reading this, it is definitely going to endanger my TV viewing time. This is so not good.

"We don't have to finish them all. We just have to read enough for you to comprehend the intricacies of China's past." He nods assertively, his hair flopping limply and, as usual, managing to find its way into his mouth. He swipes at it irritably.

Maybe he'd be in a better mood if I got him a gift certificate to Super Cuts.

Why do I get stuck with the stubborn tutor? Why couldn't I have gotten some nice, wishy-washy, oh-I'm-so-darn-cute-and-sweet-and-look-at-me-simper, push-over of a girl who is too busy giggling to actually tutor anyone? Why did I get stuck with poor, tormented Wufei who probably has no friends because he comes here and vents to me of all people?

If I can't talk my way out of this, I may have to infringe upon my slavish television addiction so I can read this overly-tedious book. Unless....

"Hey, Wufei! I have a great idea!" I announce. Say bye-bye to the chain and shackle, for I am gosh darn brilliant. "My roommate is Japanese. Maybe he would like to read this instead. I'm sure he must be interested in his continent's history."

Wufei looks skeptical. "Roommate? I don't believe you have a roommate. I have never once seen this phantom roommate." He glances pointedly at the empty, neat bed across the room.

Damn the nurses for being so efficient in their bed-making. Every time they take Heero out of the room, they use the opportunity to change his sheets, a task that they accomplish with the speed of a hyperactive Energizer Bunny. Why aren't they that quick when I want pudding?

"No, no, really I do," I protest. "He just went to get some more X-Rays done." Or something. "The nurses just changed his sheets again. See? His chart is there..."

Wufei looks thoughtful. "I would enjoy speaking with someone who understands... I wonder if I could possibly tutor both of you?"

"Sure!" I gush. "Heero would like that. He loves to learn, especially about wars and stuff. This would be right up his alley."

He nods. "That sounds like a valid idea. We could hold discussions and you could listen in, possibly participating. It would be an open forum for the expression of ideas and interpretations of our world."

Actually, that did sound kind of cool. "Great!" I grin. "Now that we've got that sorted out, do you want to go over my essay on 'the Pearl?' I discussed whether Steinbeck intended it to be a commentary on American greed and selfishness." And what a riveting discussion it was. The audience was at the edge of their seats...

Actually, Drippy did have some comments to add. Wanted to know when I was going to stop hogging him and set him free. I was unaware that he was that anxious to be introduced to the trash compactor.

Wufei looks at his watch. "No, I have to leave if I want to reach class on time. Just give it to me and I'll have the teacher grade it." Wufei doesn't actually get to grade my work (probably much to his dismay). He instead acts as a messenger boy and delivers my essays and tests to the appropriate faculty member for review. I'm certain if he were grading me, I would get all D's.

Dimwitted. Dull. Dense. "D" most certainly stands for "Duo."

"Alright, buddy!" I eagerly thrust his book into his hands. "Don't bust too many skulls at practice!" He frowns at me, looking more intense than Homer Simpson when he's confronted with a choice of beers.

"I would never be so careless," he chides, stowing the dreaded book away in his book bag.

Did I ever mention that some people have no sense of sarcasm?

-end chapter seven-

Zooie-Notes

Well, this explained why Duo hates blood. Blink and you miss it.