Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Cat's Paw ❯ Chapter Thirteen: Time Warp ( Chapter 13 )

Zooie: *pulls hair out* Why does this thing have to have so many freakin' layers?!

Muse: Well, it is a cold, harsh world out there... maybe it needs to bundle up?

Thank you to Mama sama, tina, amalthea (thanks again for catching the thing thing!), hakumei, EJ, LB, Ninakei, firedraygon97, atomicblue, serafina, makya, shingami, carocarla, the blind seraphim, tiger shinigami, the demonic duo, cally, white destiny, neko-chan, si-poo, celena_albatou, and emily hato. And I just want to say good luck to all of you who have finals!

Cat's Paw 13

Heero and I are sitting side-by-side on the edge of a bridge. Fog is swirling around us, obscuring any land from sight. The sun is glowing frostily behind a thick cover of clouds. The world is gray and still and the water below us makes no sound as it flows by. I'm freezing cold and yet am aware that Heero is sweating. He's holding a green and orange rabbit in his lap and is gently rubbing its fur. I laugh at the strange animal and rip another button off of Heero's shirt, throwing it into the water below. It doesn't sink, but instead floats on the surface, drifting away into the fog.

"Duo, have you ever realized any of your childhood dreams?" the rabbit asks in a quiet voice. It lifts its furry head and watches me with red eyes. I rip the last button off Heero's shirt and toss it forcefully away.

"Uh, sure." What a asinine question. What is this? Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul? "When the nuns would brush my hair, I'd dream I didn't have any. I've got that one under control." I watch as the last button disappears and, on sudden inspiration, look to see if I have any buttons of my own that I can send down the river. However, I am wearing a black suit and I find myself reluctant to maim it.

"Forget I asked." The rabbit cringes from Heero's touch and jumps out of his lap, hopping off into the fog. Watching it go, I am filled with a sense of loss. Leaving Heero sitting complacently, I run after the rabbit. It hears me coming and leaps off the edge of the bridge. I follow it and find myself sitting in a hammock with the rabbit atop my head. It chews on my nose and strangely, I feel no pain.

"I'm sorry, bunny," I sigh. "I didn't mean to be an ass. It's just... I dunno. I guess my biggest dream was that I'd be alive. Guess I'm doing alright so far."

Silence. The rabbit ceases its gnawing and crawls down over my chest to my waist, shrinking until it can fit into my jacket pocket. It huddles there, peering up over my body until it meets my eyes, a brightly colored splash against the dull wool of the suit.

"Well, are you going to tell me what you used to dream about?" I ask, watching as it wiggles its nose and twitches its ears.

"No," it says, and then it climbs out of my pocket, the motion causing the hammock to tip over. I fall down and into the mouth of a huge zipper, twisting my body so that I don't crush the rabbit when I land. I needn't have worried, though, for the rabbit sprouts wings and flies away.

I land with a thud on the bridge. Heero is still sitting at the edge, staring blankly off into the water. I hand him a broken plate and he turns to look at me. He takes the plate and throws it into the river, then shoves me after it. The last thing I hear before the water swallows me whole is the sound of the seconds ticking by on his wrist watch.

~+~+~

.....tickety tickety tickety tickety....

If Heero keeps this up, he will wind up atrophying all his limbs but his button-pushing finger. The sound of the clicking Game Boy is the first sound I become aware of as I claw my way out of a heavy doze, burrowing my way through layers of exhaustion and muzziness like a gopher on a mission. I don't know how long I've been asleep, but it's apparently been long enough for my wandering sanity to meander its way home. The prodigal son has at long last returned.

I peel my eyes open torpidly and roll my head around to look at my roommate. Heero continues clicking away at the damned game. He's all buttoned up in his snug little coat of obliviousness and does not notice I am staring at him. I decide he's going to have carpal tunnel syndrome if he doesn't get out of here soon. He does nothing but play with that dang thing or the clicker all day long. His thumb must have one hell of a callous.

I turn my gaze towards the bedside table, trying to read the clock, but my eyes won't focus that clearly and I can't read the glowing red numbers. I'm pretty sure I make out one little blob and one large one, so it must be sometime between noon and ten at night. Or between midnight and 10AM. Same difference. Not like I have plans, or something.

I let my attention shift back to Heero. He's further away than the clock and it's easier to focus on him. I frown, looking at him. Something is different. He doesn't look like he did before. Something is missing. I briefly entertain the notion that those caterpillars lounging on his forehead finally gave up posing as eyebrows and crawled away, but closer inspection reveals them to be very much still there. Apparently they've no intentions of weaving little silk cocoons and morphing into butterflies. I'm sure the hospital staff is grateful for their consideration. I don't think they have a butterfly net in residence, although I guess a pair of pantyhose could be sacrificed to the cause of catching them. A vacuum would work pretty damn well, too.

What can it be... what can it be... Why, Heero! Have you lost weight?

But this isn't a Slim Fast commercial. Heero is not flitting along the waterline on a sandy beach somewhere in the Caribbean, playfully trailing his sarong behind him as he prances about in a floral one-piece. He is not playing on a grassy lawn in a pair of khaki capris, wrestling with several small children over a plastic frisbee. Nor is he holding up a pair of blue jeans large enough to fit the state of Alaska inside them. He is merely sitting in a hospital bed, his broken leg propped up on several pillows, his hair as tangled as his sheets. He's just staring contentedly at that infernal game, tapping away at it with both his thumbs.

Both... his thumbs. Both? THAT'S what's missing. The arm cast is gone! His wrist is just encased in one of those stretchy spandex wraps, now. He looks strangely smaller with it missing. Less threatening. Less bulky. Less like an albino Incredible Hulk with a bad wig.

And what's that? That black thing lying next to him? A book? Heero reads some pretty thick books. It's about the right size. It could be a book. But what's that stuff lying on top of the book? I blink a few times and try to focus, attempting to lift my head off the pillow. It doesn't quite work, though, as my neck muscles snicker cruelly at my efforts.

Uh, no. I don't fucking think so, shithead, they snigger.

Please? I beseech. I wanna see.

Yeah, and we want to go to goddamn Disney World. Fuckin' shit ain't happening, so lay your damn fool head down, they snarl.

But I wanna know what it is! I wail.

Want, whine, whimper. Is that all the fuck you do, you pansy? We don't always get what we want in life, you beastly foulbegotten brazenthroated ass! Shut the fuck up and deal!

Please? Just for a second? I wheedle.

Fuck, no! Look, loser, your choices are this: either go the hell back to sleep or ask the bastard for yourself.

But he's not paying attention to me, I sadly admit.

Then what are you trying to do? You can't see it and he can't see you. Stop wasting our bloody time and just give the fuck up. Fuckin' donkey-raping cockmaster. Never thinking of anyone else...

The voice tapers off, spewing curses all the way down. Neck muscles speak two languages: English and profanity. However, they do manage to construct some wonderful arguments. I applaud their talent as I drift back off to sleep. Maybe they should run for Congress. Their arguments were as thin as soup that was made by boiling the shadow of a pigeon that had been starved to death. They'd fit right in.

~+~+~

"...teriously disappeared shortly after the accident that claimed the investigator's life. Police are still investigating his whereabouts. Citizens are advised to be cautious..."

I awaken to the television's pleasant rumble. Heero is watching the news. I lay listening to it for a moment, allowing my brain to come back into contact with my body. My head feels a lot clearer and, when I pry my eyes open, I can actually see the room around me. However, the light seems awfully bright and I shut them again almost immediately.

"...if the suspect is sighted. He is thought to be armed and dangerous. Please notify local authorities and do not attempt contact with the suspect..."

I experimentally twitch my hands under the covers and find they are once more mine to command.

"His identifying features are his..."

I peek through my eyelashes and wait for my eyes to adjust. Heero's crouched at the foot of his bed, leg sticking awkwardly out, remote control clutched in his hand, peering intently upward at the TV. His back is mostly towards me and I cannot see his face. I wonder what he finds so captivating. He's so entranced he hardly looks to be breathing.

"...hand and eye, which were..."

I cautiously open my eyes all the way and blink as they start to water. I lose sight of the room for a moment.

"...last seen in the company of this young man, whose name is being withheld at present due to his underage status..."

Shoot. My eyes are doing their best impression of Niagra Falls. I can't see a thing. Just how long have I been asleep? I lift my hands to wipe the tears away-

-and find myself face-to-face with Heero Yuy in a suddenly quiet room.

"What are you staring at?" he demands through gritted teeth. His eyes are narrowed and filled with an emotion I have never before seen on a fellow man. All possible animal similes fly from my mind. This is not a time for gophers and prairie dogs. This look in his eyes is utterly and distinctly human. No animal could ever muster that intense aura of intimidation, power, and force. He's practically frothing at the mouth. Perhaps he's doing his John Sununu impression.

Drawing on my superb command of language, I say nothing.

"What are you staring at?" he repeats, leaning over me and shoving his face right up to mine. I haven't been this intimidated since my last trip to the dentist. Heero has aggression down to an art form. This isn't just creepy, this is stylistically creepy. This is creepy with nuts in it. This is $9.99 an ounce, wrapped up in a striped box with a pink bow, French Pastry Shoppe kind of creepy.

Well, Duo Maxwell doesn't do fancy baked goods.

"Back off, Heero," I grit out. He could have at least gargled or something before he came this close.

"Were you staring at me or the television?"

"I wasn't staring at anything! Back the hell away!"

"The television or me?" he growls.

"I told you. I wasn't looking at anything! My eyes were-"

He leans way over, his forehead practically pressing up against mine. I can feel his breath on my face. This hostility in his eyes is as thinly cloaked as a exotic dancer. "Me or the TV?"

I am getting my ass whipped by a bunch of creme puffs.

He has a scar on his forehead, I note with detachment. My brain is running in stupid circles as I attempt to stutter an answer. What does he want to hear?! "T-TV?" I guess desperately.

Abruptly, he stands, seeming to lose interest in me all at once. I lie there, licking my lips nervously, too wary to move. My heart is doing its best rendition of Riverdance, thumping manically against the medication. It dances a furious jig inside my chest and, if it could, would probably toss in a couple of back flips and somersaults for good measure. Take a shot at making the Summer Olympics for gymnastics. Go, Team USA!

"You must have been spacing out again," Heero says disinterestedly. "The TV wasn't on." He hobbles to the front of the room and points upwards. "See? Not. On."

"But, Heero," I protest against my better judgement, my voice seeming to emerge from my throat on its own accord. Just call it Mr. Independent. "It still has that just-turned-off glow..."

"It's a reflection from the overhead lights. I haven't watched any television since yesterday. The doctor said you needed to sleep uninterrupted."

"But I just saw you," I insist. "You were sitting right there-" I point with a hand that I am ashamed to see is shaking rather unmanfully. I should take out a part-time job making martinis. Shaken, not stirred, just the way 007 likes them. "-and you had the news on."

"So you were staring at me?" he asks in a dangerous tone of voice. He watches at me sullenly, intimidation dripping from every pore in his body. I hope I don't drown.

"Not really," I mumble, thinking back to my conversation with Barton. Hadn't he said Heero was a pathological liar? But why wouldn't he want me to know he'd been watching TV? He'd only had the news on. Well, they always say you shouldn't trust short men. Their brains are too near their asses.

"I'm... I'm just confused," I tell him weakly. That certainly was the truth. I have no idea what is going on and haven't for some time. Why does he care what I've been looking at? Unless he thought I was checking him out or something.

"You are confused," he repeats. He's been doing that a lot today. Maybe he's stuck on instant replay. Let's see that again! "You were feverish and raving. You've been asleep for a day and a half. You are not lucid."

"Really?" I ask, mind grinding to a sudden halt. This is news to me. "I was sick?"

"Yes," he nods, sensing my distraction and willingness to indulge this tangent. I don't let him know I'm pursuing this train of thought on purpose. I may be eccentric, but I've never been suicidal. He's obviously pissed about something and the farther away from it we can wander, the better. "Yesterday you were acting very erratically. The doctors came and they took you away for several hours for testing. You don't remember?"

I most certainly do not remember, although this does explain the disjointed memory of a conversation with my neck muscles earlier. And here I thought I'd dreamed that up! It seems my understanding of reality is becoming more and more fuzzy. I can no longer tell my hallucinations from real life. Hours have acquired the habit of falling into holes in my memory. The last thing I clearly remember is Detective Barton's visit and I'm not even sure when that was. Yesterday? The day before? Even earlier?

"I'm all mixed up," I admit. Maybe he hadn't been watching television. Maybe that was yesterday. Shit, what day is it? I close my eyes and press the heels of my hands up against them, hoping the pressure will relieve some of the aching within my skull. I've already spazzed out about Hilde. What else am I getting wrong?

I sigh and let my arms drop down onto the bed. I'd accidentally watched a yoga program on PBS once and the anorexic looking instructor had done some breathing exercises that were supposed to clear the mind. Now is most certainly the time for that. Trying to make myself go limp, I focus all my attention on my breathing. I stop trying to figure out what's been going on. I just concentrate on now.

Some people get sexy spouses or breakfast in bed when they wake up. I get rebellious runaways with paranoid TV viewing habits.

When I open my eyes again, Heero is lying in bed, rubbing at his eyes. He looks like he's just woken up. His eyelashes have that stuck-together, wet look that always accompanies a deep sleep and he's wearing a different pair of pajamas than he had just had on five minutes ago. Wow. He can change outfits quicker than Clark Kent!

"That was quite a power nap, Heero," I chuckle. "But, dude. Dozing off right in the middle of the day is not like you at all!"

"It's the morning," he grunts. "You slept all afternoon and night."

"What?!" I yelp, springing upright in bed. Drippy protests weakly, but I ignore him. "No, I fucking did not. I just closed my eyes for five freakin' minutes!"

"You slept for 16 hours straight," he mumbles, sitting up and stretching. He blearily peers at the bedside table. "It's almost time for breakfast."

"No, it's almost time for dinner," I insist. But when I look at the bedside clock, it most certainly does say 9AM. Well, shit. This is a pleasant development. "What is happening to me?" I moan, propping my head in my hands and my elbows on my knees.

The cast of the "Rocky Horror Picture Show" busts into my mind and starts performing "Time Warp." They're just into the second stanza when the door swings open.

"Well, look who's up!" Quatre waltzes into the room, balancing a tray on each hand. Sure enough, they both contain breakfast foods. He plunks the one with real food down on Heero's bedside tray and the one with cardboard masquerading as pancakes on mine. Not even a drop of syrup, I note with resignation, before turning to Quatre.

He's still wearing the cat shirt.

"Jeez, buddy! How long have you been on shift?" I ask wonderingly.

"Only about six hours," he says, raising his eyebrows. "Why?"

"You were wearing that shirt the last time I saw you. You have more than one or something?"

"Of course I was wearing it. That was only a few hours ago," he smiles bemusedly.

"Noooo," I shake my head. "It was like, three days ago."

"No, it was just this morning," he laughs. "That fever's kicking your ass, huh? Hey, your clock's way off!" He reaches over and, after consulting his watch, adjusts the time to 5:22PM.

I turn to glare at Heero, starting to get an inkling of an idea about what's going on. "Quatre, why are we having breakfast for dinner?" I ask suspiciously.

He shrugs. "Supposed to be a treat, I guess. Personally, I think not feeding you would be a better reward. Watch this." He snatches a pancake off my plate and throws it across the room. It does a very admirable job of imitating a frisbee. "Oh," he looks down at me. "You weren't going to eat that, were you?"

I look at the pancake where it's fallen, leaning at an angle against the wall. It's flat as a board. "I doubt I could eat that," I assure him.

"I'll find you something else in a minute," he apologizes, heading over to check my IV stand. He trips when he reaches the foot of my bed and pauses to shake something off his foot. "Shit, Heero," he complains, bending down to retrieve a pair of pajamas that look suspiciously like the ones Heero just had on. "I know clothes make the man and all, but remember. Naked people have little to no influence on society." He tosses the abandoned clothes onto the foot of Heero's bed. He watches them sullenly, his cheeks slightly pink.

Well, well, well. How the mighty have fallen. I continue glaring at Heero as Quatre checks the IV and takes my blood pressure and temperature, recording the results on my chart. The Amazing Coma Boy refuses to meet my eyes, apparently well aware that his little ruse is blown to hell and back and has even stopped to pick up a few novelty gifts on the way. I should have known better than to trust him. Serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard. [1]

Quatre finishes fussing with my chart and yawns, throwing himself down into the closest chair. He looks completely beat. "Ahhh, feels good to sit down. It's been a busy day." He dozes off in a matter of seconds.

I continue to examine Heero. He's regarding his runny eggs with more intensity than a Harvard Law student taking his bar exam. "You got something you want to say to me?" I ask him threateningly.

He doesn't look up. I carefully pick the remaining pancake off my plate and chuck it at his head. He allows it to smack into his cheekbone and fall onto his lap, ignoring it compliantly. "Are you dead?" I inquire. " 'Cause you're going to be if you don't 'fess up!"

Don't think I couldn't do it, either! Unless Russell Baker is mistaken, by the time the average American child has turned six they've already learned how to pick a lock, commit a fairly elaborate bank holdup, prevent wetness all day long, get the laundry twice as white, and kill people with a variety of sophisticated armaments, all courtesy of television. Who knows what I've picked up by this point in my life!

Heero continues shoveling the Jello-like eggs into his mouth, chewing them determinedly, quite unaware of the montage of life-ending skills I have garnered from the boob tube. It doesn't appear that answering me is included on his personal agenda. "Can you at least tell me why?" I growl, frustrated. I don't really expect an answer, but surprisingly, he carefully places his fork on his tray and faces me.

"Now we're even," he says flatly. He returns to his lunch.

"Even?" I wonder. "Even for what?"

"You were staring at me. And you called me Perry Duck," he mumbles around a mouthful of burnt toast.

"I did what?" I gape. "Why the hell would I do something like that?"

He doesn't answer and I am about to press the issue when Bethany Brawn, physical therapist extraordinare, walks into the room, pushing a wheelchair in front of her. "Ready for a trip to the rehabilitation room, Heero?" she smiles cheerily, ignoring me completely. She's still not over the time I dropped the hand weight on her foot. Serves her right for wearing sneaker clogs.

He swallows the last of his lunch. "Yes, thank you." I possibly detect a note of eagerness in his voice.

"We were kind of in the middle of a conversation, here," I protest, forcing the bulky redhead to acknowledge my existence. "It's rude to interrupt!"

"It's also rude to break someone's foot," Bethany tells me sweetly.

"It was an accident! I said I was sorry!"

"You should have told me the weights were too heavy."

"And you should have known I wasn't ready to use them."

"And you both should know it's rude to wake up someone who's sleeping," Quatre interjects, sitting up and shoving his hair out of his face.

"I'm sorry, Quatre," I apologize sincerely. "I forgot you were there." Heero maneuvers into the wheelchair and Bethany scowls.

"He gets an apology and I don't?"

"You already got one. What are you? Starting a museum?"

"Fine. I'm not going to argue. I learned long ago that it's pointless to argue with a stubborn ass. You get dirty and besides, the ass likes it."

I resist the urge to comment on anal fetishes and merely wave as she wheels Heero away, his own personal charioteer. "I'd tell you to kiss my ass, but you'd probably enjoy it," I mutter under my breath. Quatre somehow overhears me and chuckles, blowing a kiss in my general direction.

"Only the hopelessly lazy blow kisses," I sniff.

"And the completely exhausted," he groans, dragging himself to his feet. "Think Heero would mind if I borrowed his bed for a moment?"

"Nah. They're gonna change the sheets soon, anyway."

"Perfect," he sighs, flopping face first down onto the bed. "Ahh. This is better than sex."

"How would you know?" I tease. He's already asleep, though and I am once more talking to myself. Yet another bad habit to add to the exhibit, right alongside the fingernail biting and short attention span.

The room hasn't been this quiet for a long time. Unlike someone, Quatre doesn't talk in his sleep.

Feeling kind of antsy, I pluck a deck of cards off the crowded bedside table. Maybe some solitaire would take my mind off of things for a while. Give me a chance to get my anger towards Heero under control. I'll channel all of my pain and hostility into the cards. The clubs hate the diamonds.

I find that I can't remember the rules to the game and wind up just placing the cards down at random atop my bedspread. When they are all sorted into neat little piles, I simply declare myself the winner. It's surprisingly satisfying.

-end chapter thirteen-

Footnotes

[1] But one of the delectable quotes from the ever-witty Dorothy Parker.