Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Cat's Paw ❯ Chapter Eleven: Wait what? ( Chapter 11 )

Cat's Paw 11

"Yeah, sure, why not," I say to Barton, straightening my posture and generally just doing my best to look less like a rickety coat stand. Would not do to look like a cranky brat in front of the nice Mr. Police Man. No, it would not. I dredge up a crooked grin and try to meet his eyes... or rather, eye. "Thanks for offering," I smoothly continue. Unfortunately, my voice sounds like Bert from "Sesame Street," only with throat cancer. Oh, yeah. Way to not sound decrepit, Enrico Suave!

Tracy chirps up from her post behind the nurses' station, generously tossing her unsolicited two cents into the pot. "Yes, it's very kind of you to take such an unprecedented interest in a patient! You're a very compassionate man!" she croons, looking like she either wants to jump his bones or hug him within an inch of his life.

I have never felt my IQ drop before, but every time a woman squeals over a guy I can feel myself creeping ever closer to Cro-Magnon man. I get this uncontrollable urge to whip out a wooden spear and start impaling things, while screaming in guttural monosyllables.

Just point me to the nearest woolly mammoth.

Despite my devolution back into the Stone Age, I have not regressed so greatly that I fail to notice when something flickers briefly in Barton's eye as Tracy speaks. Embarrassment? Surprise? Denial? Guilt? Before I can identify the emotion, it's gone, more fleeting than Michael Jackson's normality. Barton's cool exterior is once more firmly shellacked into place. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and looks down at his feet momentarily, then seems to sense I'm looking at him. Slowly he turns his gaze to my face. He studies me intently, pinning me in place with his stare. He does not blink.

I find my eyes caught in his. Time grinds to a halt. For one fragile instant, one speck of ephemeral infinity, his eyes are all I know. The universe stops. A thousand questions bubble to the surface of my mind. What brought me here today? Am I lonely? Why does peanut butter taste better warm? What have I done with my life? Who... am... I? Then abruptly I am very self-conscious and have to resist the urge to implode. I can tell without looking precisely where all my limbs are. How my left knee is slightly bent and I'm hunched slightly to one side. How the coarse fabric of my black bag feels against my clutching fingers. How my pajama bottoms are slipping dangerously low on one hip. The cold of the tile floor seeps surreptitiously through my slipper socks, chilling my feet, as I stand trapped in his muddy green eyes. Then he blinks and the crystalline eternity is shattered.

Beam me up, Scotty. There is far too much intelligent life on this planet.

"Sometimes," Barton says softly, turning his head to face Tracy, "a person has questions they need answered. How can you find your answers if you don't have a chance to ask your questions?"

I stare at him for a few seconds more, waiting for him to continue, before I realize he's done speaking. For some reason I'm reminded of that guy in the Pink Floyd song "Another Brick in the Wall" who kept saying "If you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding...how can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?" I wonder if Barton is old enough to have voiced that part?

I'm beginning to get paranoid about standing so close to my door. I'm a scant ten feet away from it. What if Heero suddenly springs forth from the bowels of the room, wielding a makeshift weapon composed of a sharpened curtain rod and warped bedpan, intent upon achieving my termination? I'd be screwed. My list of personal skills most certainly does not include the ability to elude homicidal blitzes. Even Cro-Magnon man had problems dodging spear attacks!

I suddenly have a savory mental image of my bloody corpse lying sprawled on the pristine floor of the hallway, mutilated limbs all akimbo, Drippy lying prone by my side, leaking pitifully. I would look artfully deceased, like Kevin Spacey in "American Beauty," a life cut tragically short just as I was finally beginning to live. And much like Kevin Spacey's death, its irony would be twofold. A leukemia patient survives a dangerous bone marrow transplant only to be viciously bludgeoned to death within the very walls of the hospital that saved his life! Oh, what a sardonic twist of fate! The newspapers would rejoice in glee! There would be a sudden rush at Barnes and Noble for thesauruses as journalists realize they need synonyms for "tragic."

Ill-starred. Hapless. Harrowing. Lamentable. Cataclysmic. Dire. Woeful. Wretched. A real bummer. So shocking it could become a made for TV movie. "Duo Maxwell and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad death." It could costar Heero Yuy as the vicious, vengeful, insane, very mad killer. Ratings would be through the roof. I would become a household name.

My knees feel weak at the very idea. Or maybe that's due more to the prospect of my demise.

I must have made some kind of noise or moved or something because suddenly both Barton and Tracy glance at me, in curiosity and concern, respectively. "Do you need to sit down, Duo?" Tracy asks, all mother-like. She would do Mrs. Brady proud.

"Yes, ma'am. That's probably a good idea," I answer somewhat feebly.

"Ma'am?" Tracy raises an eyebrow. "No Vaudeville homage? [1] You must be feeling out of it. Do you need help getting back to bed?"

Bed. Bed in room. Heero in room. Can't sleep. Heero'll eat me.

I must have paled at the suggestion, for Tracy has risen and is moving towards me with a frown. "That's it, mister. Back to bed with you. Come on."

Going back to bed makes about as much sense as a dissertation about world peace written by a chipmunk on speed. I cringe inwardly as she takes hold of my arm and begins to propel me back towards my room.

"Naw, that's okay," I refuse hastily, dragging my feet and trying to resist. "I kind of would rather take a breather. Getting kind of stuffy in there, you know?" Tracy ignores me. I shoot a desperate look at the detective. Surely he'll be on my side!

That look in Barton's eyes is most definitely amusement. "Actually, nurse," he smoothly interjects, "I'd rather speak to Duo in private if you wouldn't mind."

"Do you feel up to it, Duo?" Tracy asks, retaining her grasp on my arm, but thankfully no longer moving.

"No problem," I reassure her, pulling free and taking a few steps towards Barton. "We'll be just fine."

"Is there some place where we can speak without interruption?" Barton pointedly asks Tracy. She looks back and forth between the two of us several times, appearing to be undecided, then finally nods.

"If you would follow me, please," she directs, taking hold of my arm once more. I try to protest, but she quells my objections with a frown. I meekly allow her to help me down the hall.

Tracy sees us safely to one of the floor's lounges, a small room that the doctors use when they need to speak with parents in private. Though they're quite cozily furnished to resemble miniature living rooms, complete with the all-American TV set, they've gotten kind of a bad stigma because of their purpose. I mean, how often do you think you get good news in a private conference with your kid's doctor? Anyway, the lounges are seldom occupied, so if you don't mind hanging around in a Cerberus [2] Chamber, you're pretty much guaranteed some time alone. And looking at Detective Barton most definitely left one with the impression that he enjoyed being alone.

"So," I say, sinking into an arm chair, "to what do we owe the honor of your presence on this swell morning?" I leave Drippy standing next to me, lay my black bag across my lap, and smile. Now that I've got some distance between Heero and I, not to mention some armed backup, I'm feeling a little more chipper. I just try not to think about the fact that I have to go back to the room, eventually.

Barton slouches down onto the coffee table, bent forward with his elbows resting on his knees. With his long, gangly arms and legs, the posture makes him look like some kind of mutated praying mantis, sans the antennas. "I don't think you're supposed to sit there, man," I tell him amusedly.

He tips his head slightly forward and to one side. Yep. Definitely a praying mantis. Well, so long as he doesn't plan on mating with me and then eating me, I guess I'm cool with that. It's sure better than being in the same room with a psychotic murderer. As creepy as Barton is, I'm pretty confident he won't be adding murder to his rap sheet any time soon. Anyone who thinks he would seriously needs to empty their drool cup.

We sit for a while, him on his table and I in my chair. We settle right down for an afternoon stare. We sit and we wait and we neither do blink. No one wants to break the silence, I think.

Yeah, I liked my green eggs and ham as a kid. And my cat wore hats, too. Pop didn't much like it when I hopped on him, though. Said it gave him heartburn.

"So," I try again. "why are you here?"

"I don't know," he responds quietly. "Why are we here?"

"No, no," I frown. "Why are you here?" As in, single person. One. Not two. Not us. Not we. Just you.

Barton arches his visible eyebrow upwards, his eye widening slightly. "I am here because you appeared upset. Did something happen that you wished to speak of?"

Can I just beat my head against the wall now? "Fine," I gripe. "I get the point. You ask the questions. Not me. Am I right?"

"That was generally the idea," Barton says with a shadow of a smile. "I've heard you have a tendency to be rather... obstreperous."

Oh ho ho. Pulling out the fifty-dollar words, now are we? Apparently he's taken Intro to Insults 101: if you insult them with words they don't understand, they can't become offended. Well, two can play that game. I didn't attend Junior High School for nothing. "Yeah, I supposed I can be rather fatuous," I allow with a shrug. "Better puerile than unctuous, though."

If Barton really were a praying mantis, his head would be upside-down by now. As it is, it's tilted to a near impossible angle, as though he's Gumby or Stretch Armstrong or that weird bendy dude in the Fantastic Four. Completely without bones. "That's a matter of opinion," he says, leaving doubt in my mind as to whether he actually understood what I said. "But moving on, you seemed rather agitated in the hallway before. Was there something you needed Quatre specifically for or is this a matter I can help to resolve?"

Talk about being handed your answers on a platter.

"Well, first off," I answer, "you can cut out the Saints-r-Us act. I know you're not here out of the goodness of your shining little heart." Though Barton tenses, probably due to my marked lack of respect (the nuns would be so disappointed), he does not deny my accusation. Emboldened, I continue. "Secondly, you can call off the goon patrol. I'm not in any shape to threaten anyone."

"Goon patrol?" He sounds puzzled.

"You know, the uniformed ape who followed us down the hall? The guy who's lurking right outside the door? I can see his shadow on the wall..."

Barton spins around on the table just in time to see a sheepish officer step into the room. The guy is enormously tall, with hair worthy of a Ken doll and some weird-ass V-shaped eyebrows. Chief Sitting Bull would take one look at him and say, "speaks with forked tongue." He stops just inside the door, looking vaguely awkward in his own skin, as if he's not quite certain how to control his own limbs. No kinesthetic sense. Coupled with a pair of Rollerblades, this guy would be a natural disaster unto himself. He could probably take out an entire city block in a matter of minutes.

"S-sorry, sir," he stutters out. "But, uh, there was a call and... I, uh... Well, you see, sir..."

"Just spit it out, Treize," Barton interrupts, clearly exasperated. I can easily understand why. Listening to this guy is like listening to a sedated Andre the Giant.

"Uh, I d-doubt... I'm not sure... Umm... I don't think I can tell you in front of the boy, sir," he manages to convey. It is plainly clear that Treize lacks the ability to communicate with the rest of the world. He is a prime example of why this city has such a high rate of crime. He would be cool to get drunk and tie behind your car or something, but not to have in an authority position.

"Fine," Barton spits out. He stands and crosses to Treize's side. "Stay right there," he orders me before leaving the room, Treize nearly tripping over his own feet in his eagerness to follow. He shuts the door behind them.

Wowee. The fun never ends here at the Winner Medical Center. I feel kind of bad for Barton, having to put up with morons like that all day. I can almost forgive him his eerie aura. It's probably a simple mental defense against the rejects he's surrounded with.

While Barton is gone, I take a moment to organize my thoughts. There are so many things I want to ask him, so much information I want to wring from his scrawny body. First and foremost on my mind is Heero's mental stability. If I'm likely to be slaughtered in the near future, I'd like at least a few days to make arrangements. Write a will, and so forth.

I leave my gift baskets and all their contents to the patients in the WMC children's ward, to be distributed as the hospital staff sees fit. I leave... well, that's pretty much it. Nice to know my entire existence can be summed up in a few pounds of wicker.

Once my first question is answered, I'd then like to know... well, actually, the rest of my questions really depend on the answer to the first. If he's stable, I want to know why the cops are here. If he's not, I want to know why he's here.

I'd also like to know the answer to life, the universe, and everything. I'm just not buying that whole, "it's forty-two" thing.

"I apologize for the disruption," Barton says, reentering the room. "Treize is not the most qualified of officers. His parents bought his place on the squad." He sits on the table once more, looking exasperated. "That guy couldn't teach a horny dog to jump," he complains, then looks slightly startled. I'm guessing he wasn't planning on saying that last part.

"About as qualified as a squirrel with a magic flute, huh?" I snicker.

Barton looks confused. "Come again?"

Oh, right. That was one of those thoughts that I should keep to myself. "Never mind." I shake my head. Just keeping things even at the Random Exclamation Picnic.

"So, where were we?"

"You were just about to tell me if my roommate was a psychopath or not."

"Was I?"

"Yep. And then you were going to explain why you've suddenly taken up residence in our humble abode."

"Why would you think Heero Yuy is a psychopath?"

"Oh, come on! Have you seen this boy?! Normal people just don't go around acting like he does! But you already knew that he's abnormal... why else would you be here?"

"What makes you think I'm here because of something Heero has done?"

"Well, I doubt you're here because Tracy's been eating all the cherry Jolly Ranchers in the candy dish -although she has."

"Is that why only the watermelon ones were left?"

"Yeah... You noticed, too?"

"Yeah... but we're straying a bit from the topic."

"Okay, sure. What were we... Oh, right. Well, you've got to be here because of Heero because one, you showed up at the same time. Two, you're stalking his room. Three, you follow him around. Four, he's a psychopathic killer."

"I repeat, why do you think he's a psychopathic killer?"

"He's just weird. He's obsessed with war and dying, he keeps making these vaguely threatening comments, and I think I've caught a couple of veiled death threats."

"Death threats?"

"He told me I should read obituaries to educate myself."

"That's hardly a death threat."

"Sure it is! Think about it. What else would you learn from an obituary besides about death?"

"You'd learn about death. And honor. And sacrifice."

"Not you, too..."

"Pardon?"

"That's exactly what Heero said."

"Isn't that odd."

"It's creepy, that's what it is..... Okay, well, what about just before? I was leaving the room and he tried to come after me."

"Perhaps he was concerned for your well-being."

"Concerned, my ass! He was trying to kill me! You should have seen the malicious glean in his eyes. I can still hear it now: Step, draaag. Step, draaag. Step, draaag."

"This is hardly incriminating evidence."

"You guys don't think anything is incriminating evidence. For Christ's sake, he would have to kill me before you'd do anything!"

"We act appropriately in a given situation. Did you have anything else you wished to report?"

"Yeah, actually. A little incident that happened last night comes to mind."

"The one involving Miss Schbeiker and Miss Peacecraft?"

"What? How do you..."

"The head nurse informed me of the, ah, disturbance last night. One of my officers heard the commotion and was alarmed. I was assured, as was he, that there was nothing to be concerned with. The nurse explained that your anxiety was caused by nothing but a dream."

"Excuse me? A dream? Oh, no. I so did not dream that up. I may be twisted, but I'm not that sick. Hilde was there and she did tell me that Heero--"

"I repeat. I was told it was a dream. It is completely forgivable that you are so confused. I understand that certain drugs you're taking can make reality seem a bit skewed. This is probably what happened last night."

"No! Stop patronizing me, dammit! I'm not making it up! Stop lying to me!"

"Please calm down. I'm not trying to agitate you. In fact, I'm concerned that no one has spoken with you about this earlier. Does this often happen--"

"I don't make a habit of hallucinating, if that's what you're asking. And I don't need to talk to anyone. What I need is someone to tell me the fucking truth once in a while!"

"What can I do to convince you what I'm saying is true?"

"Nothing. There isn't a damn thing you can do."

"What if I contacted Miss Schbeiker and allowed you to speak with her? Would you believe it was a dream if it came from her?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I would."

"Fine." Barton reaches into his pocket and draws out his cell phone.

"You're not supposed to use those in the hospital, asshole."

He ignores me. "Hello? Information? ... The office of Peacecraft and Schbeiker, please... Thank you... Could I speak with Miss Schbeiker, please? ... Detective Trowa Barton... Yes, I'll hold... Miss Schbeiker? This is Trowa Barton speaking... I'm fine. How are you? ... Ah, actually, there is something you can help me with. Would you mind speaking with Duo for a minute? He's a bit... confused... about last night... Yes, here he is."

Barton hands me the phone. I take it suspiciously. "Hilde?"

"Hi, Duo! Long time no talk! I don't think we've ever spoke on the phone before."

"Yeah, that's nice, Hilde. Uh, listen. You know last night? Your visit? You, ah, you didn't leave right away, did you?"

"No, we stayed for quite some time. You fell asleep before we left. Looked pretty wiped out, too. Don't you remember?"

"No, wait. I mean, did you come back? After you left? Did you forget your purse and come back to get it? And then tell me that Heero's dad was murdered?"

There's a long pause. "No, Duo. I did forget my purse, but you were sound asleep when I went to fetch it."

"You didn't... you didn't talk to me?"

"No, hon. I just got my purse and left. You both looked so tired, I didn't want to disturb you."

"So you didn't warn me to stay away from Heero? He's... he's not a murderer?"

Another long pause, accompanied by a little laugh. "What kind of drugs do they have you on, kiddo? I've got clients who would pay big bucks for shit like that."

"O-okay. I, uhh... Thanks, Hilde. I'll... I'll see you in a couple weeks?"

"If you haven't burnt the hospital down yet, you will!"

"Alright. Bye, Hilde. Say hi to Relena for me, okay?"

"Can do! Bye!"

I hand the phone back to Barton. I have never felt this idiotic in my life. My Stupid card has been more than validated. It's been stamped so many times it's frigging tattered.

Honesty is the best policy, but idiocy is a better defense. I am good at being inarticulately abstracted for the same reason that midgets are good at being short.

"Feeling better?" Barton asks with a little smile.

"Feeling moronic," I admit. "I feel like a complete idiot. Where the hell did I get off thinking all that stuff?"

"You merely overreacted. It's a common problem when police are involved."

"Say... why are you guys here? You never did answer that."

Barton appears pained and doesn't answer for a moment. He's thinking so hard, it looks like it hurts. He seems to reach some kind of internal decision and leans forward, lowering his voice. "Although I shouldn't say anything... perhaps it would be for the best. We didn't expect the situation to become so convoluted. At this point, keeping it a secret would probably be more detrimental than airing the truth. This cannot leave this room, however. I need your word on that."

"Sure, sure! No problem."

"Alright... Do you know the name Sano Yuy?"

"He's that mega-billionaire software giant. One of the richest men in the world. Practically every computer in existence uses his products."

"Correct. Were you aware he had a son?"

"I knew he had a kid, but..."

"A son named Heero Yuy?"

"No, shit?"

"A son named Heero Yuy who has a history of running away from home?"

"Really?"

"Who's known to be a pathological liar?"

"You're kidding."

"You didn't hear it from me. I just asked if you knew. I never actually said anything."

"So what happened? He ran away from home and got in a car accident? Why hasn't his dad shown up to reclaim him? Why is everyone going along with this?"

He sighs. "Technically, we don't know it's him. He had a fake ID on him -same name, different information. The man in the car with him, Odin Lowe, didn't die on impact. Lowe's actually still alive, but at a different hospital. He told us this bullshit story about being Heero's adoptive father. When Heero woke up, he told us the same song and dance story about being an orphan and we just decided to go along with it for the time being. Easier than arguing with him, you know?"

"So everything I've been told up until now is a lie. Sheesh. Were you ever going to tell his father where he is? How did you know it was him?"

"Oh, his father knows. Turns out that he's good friends with Mr. Winner and trusts him to do what's best. Winner is the one who IDed Heero. They're both hoping that they can scare Heero back onto the right path."

"But wait a minute. When Heero first woke up--"

"We confronted him with his story hoping to force a confession. We did not expect him to have such presence of mind so soon after regaining consciousness. The boy is something of an enigma."

"This explanation is even crazier than my story. You realize that, right?"

He shrugs. "The truth is often stranger than fiction."

"I don't know if I should feel relieved that Heero's not a murderer or freaked out that I'm rooming with a billionaire."

"I think the best thing you could do right now is just be Heero's friend. That's what he really needs right now."

And on that warm and fuzzy note, Quatre enters the room. He's wearing his oh-so-attractive smock with the kittens on it. I sure hope one of his sisters gave it to him as a joke.

"Playing nice, you two?" he asks, flopping down into one of the arm chairs. "Or do I have to get the tazer?"

"I was just finishing up," Barton proclaims, rising from the table. "Have I helped cleared things up for you, Duo?"

"Yeah, sure. You were a super big help."

"Then I'll be going."

"You sure you don't want to stick around for a while?" Quatre asks with a grin. "We may wear shower curtain shirts, but we hospital folk can be pretty fun."

"I have business I must attend to," is the chilly response. Barton pivots on his heel and walks out of the room.

Quatre stares after him. "A fire hydrant is more conversant than that man," he sighs.

"Yeah, he's bundles of joy. So where ya been, Q? I haven't seen you around lately."

Quate turns on me with his megawatt smile, the one that could light the entire world for all eternity. It's so neon I swear it needs batteries. Its presence indicates one of two things: either Quatre got lucky or I'm about to be treated to a dose of hearty sarcasm. "Oh! Well, you know Dr. S? I've been following him on his rounds lately. He's just great. I'm thinking of asking him to be my mentor. He has this amazing way with kids. Plus he looks like Jesus. Who wouldn't trust the Savior?"

"Dr S?" I wince. "He doesn't look like Jesus. He looks like Yanni, if Yanni were less attractive and had no musical talent!"

"Now, now. I thought he played the Kazoo very well at the Christmas party."

"If that man pulled his pants up any higher he'd disappear into them!"

"Well, since his mother passed on, he's had to dress himself."

"And it's hard to pay attention when he talks because of that huge growth on his arm. What's he trying to do? Clone himself?"

"It's a mole, Duo. And since when do breaks in a man's DNA code make him less of a person?"

"All I'm saying is he's not exactly the best person to be taking as a role model. The only area he should be mentoring in is Random Amounts of Arbitrary Vagueness."

"Did somebody get his jockstrap all in a knot? What's wrong, asshole? Why're you in such a pissy mood?"

"Well, you see, Q. I've discovered that I have multiple personality disorder. The problem is, one of my personalities is paranoid and the other is out to get him."

"Explain."

So I do. I have never seen Quatre laugh so hard. Turns out he knew the entire time.

-end chapter eleven-

Footnotes

[1] This is a reference to an old Vaudeville routine, in which an unusually well endowed girl in a skimpy nurse's outfit would appear on stage at a "doctor's" call. The resident baggy-pants comic would break out with a call of "Hellll-ooooo, NURSE!!!" which would cause the audience to collapse in hysterics. I'm not quite sure why. (PS: if you're into old school cartoons, you probably remember this line from "Animaniacs.")

[2] In Greek mythology, the three-headed dog who guards the gates to the Hades. He permits new spirits to enter the realm of the dead, but prevents any from leaving. (interestingly enough, he can be pacified with honey cakes!)

Blooper

"You have shot me with sixty-five rubberbands." I guess my trigger finger is itchier than I thought. Who am I kidding? It's damn near epileptic. "That woman gave you 150 to start off with, so you have 85 left. I'm willing to begin with a ten rubberband handicap."

Okay. So we have 150 rubberbands. We subtract 65. That leaves 85 rubberbands. Now, the difference between 65 and 85 is... what? 20? That's right! And yet, I apparently thought it was 10. O_o Three semesters of advanced calculus? What three semesters of advanced calculus? *casually walks away, whistling*

Zooie-notes

Lots of dialogue = quickly paced plot!

I hate this section and will probably come back and revise it at some point. For now, however, it will suffice. I want to end this sucker before finals!

Since the question has been asked several times, it's finally going to be addressed. Is this written from personal experience? The answer is, no. This writer has thankfully never had cancer, nor has this writer witnessed a family member or friend's struggle with said illness --although she did spend all last summer nursing her mother after she had a melanoma spot removed. (Mom's okay now. ^_^ )