Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Cat's Paw ❯ Chapter Fourteen: Dat Wascally Heewo ( Chapter 14 )

Thank you Mama-sama, ashuri chan, tokyo rose, sami, shinigami, white destiny (get your mind out of the gutter. You're blocking my view), tina, bloodlust, dyna (you're welcome for the smile. Thanks for giving one back! ^_^), cally, and emily hato (who gets a big hug just for being her).

Cat's Paw 14

I decide to try my hand at some more yoga. If it's good enough for Madonna, it's good enough for me. Plus this time I can rest assured that I won't reawaken in the year 2042. At least not without being chronologically frozen first. Since I'm not exactly the type of person likely to be preserved for posterity's sake, I can safely assume I will regain consciousness in the correct time frame. Preferably the one that precedes med time.

What's that phrase you're supposed to say when you're trying to clear your mind of thought? Ohm? Aren't those units of electricity or something? How is thinking about physics going to make me feel less stressed?

Oh, screw it. I'll just do it my way. Caribbean. Sunshine. Ice cream. Hot chocolate. Massage. Hot tub.

I've managed to get my breathing and heart rate slowed pretty significantly when the door slams open and pretty much counteracts the entire exercise. What the hell? Did someone roll out the welcome mat and not tell me? Is there a blinking neon sign outside the door that reads "FREE BEER" and points to my room? Has a bikini model taken up residence in the hall, offering kisses to all brave enough to enter the Duo-Lair? Have I at long last become a tourist attraction that can be viewed for three tickets a pop?

Free admission with every blood donation.

But, no. It is not a troupe of festive carnival goers, trailing balloons and gobbling cotton candy. It's the wonderful Dr S and he has not arrived filled with good will towards men. He enters the room, a solemn procession of one. I am reminded of the conversation Quatre and I once had about him looking like Yanni. I change my mind. He looks like a dwarf who's just been dipped in a bucket of pubic hair. He bears a startling resemblance to a half-melted troll doll, complete with gravity-defying do.

For better or for worse, it's not me but Quatre he's stalking. As he passes my bed, he shoots me a dirty glance and motions for me to remain silent. Planning on scaring my buddy, now are we? Duo don't play that game. I smile sweetly up at him, letting him think I'm going along with his diabolical scheme. Then, maintaining eye contact the entire time, I reach out and turn the volume all the way up on the bedside alarm clock. Dr S stops moving towards Quatre and instead begins to shake his head at me violently. I continue smiling as I turn the clock's radio on. Christina Aguilera's voice fills the room and Quatre shifts and mumbles.

"Turn that shit off, Rashid," he mutters. "'M up, already."

"Rashid?" I laugh. "What were you dreaming about, Arabian Nights?"

"Duo?" Quatre lifts his face clear of the pillow and blinks fuzzily at me. "Why're you in my bedroom?"

"I believe the question is," Dr S smoothly interjects, "why you were sleeping while on duty?"

"Actually," I toss out, "I believe the question is, why would Rashid be in your bedroom?"

Quatre leaps out of bed at the sound of Dr S' voice, tucking his shirt back in and trying to restore order to his hair. The poor guy is so blonde his hair is color-coordinated with his teeth. "My apologies," he offers, bending to fix his pant cuffs. "I've had to cover several shifts these past two days and I'm a bit worn down. I was told I could take a half-hour break."

"I'll be sure to tell that to your patients when they're in the middle of cardiac arrest," the fugly doctor glowers, hitting way below the belt. Quatre's face runs the emotional gauntlet, flitting between outrage, embarrassment, horror, shame, and indignity. "You don't get to choose when to be a doctor," S continues. "This is your job and if you're incapable of performing to hospital standards, it shouldn't matter who your father is. You need to reevaluate your priorities, young man. For the safety of the patients if nothing else."

Wow. That was... beyond harsh. Quatre appears speechless. I, however, am not thus handicapped. "I'll bet you're real happy you crawled out from under your rock to say that," I spit, dragging myself out of bed and staggering to stand in front of my new arch foe, glad I have Drippy for back-up support. "Quatre's the best doctor I've ever seen and that includes you, you pretentious ass! You've got the worst bedside manner I've ever seen! Your patients wouldn't warm up to you if you were cremated together!"

S lowers his head, raises his eyebrows, and rolls his eyes, just like a bull before it charges. Unfortunately, I don't have a little red cape to wave in front of his face and he lunges headlong for Quatre's throat. Verbally, of course. "I see you've done an admirable job of training your little attack dog. Lot of good he'll do you against the Catalonia family, however. Were you aware that, while you were indulging in your little nap, young Dorothy down the hall nearly died?"

Quatre goes pale and sits abruptly on the edge of Heero's bed. My own legs feel about as steady as wonky table as S continues.

"She is one of your patients, I believe, and unless her chart was mistaken, you had just checked her vitals and IV fifteen minutes earlier. Yet, strangely, you failed to notice the bubble in her IV tube. The poor girl had a heart attack when the air entered her veins. They had to crack her chest to save her and they're still operating as we speak."

"Is she going to be okay?" Quatre whispers, his eyes closed. I shove past S and sit next to him on the bed, putting a hand on his shoulder. I can feel him shaking.

"It's too early to tell. I think your biggest concern right now," S smugly states, "is whether or not they press charges. The Catalonias are ruthless. If they choose to sue, not even Daddy will be able to save your license, Winner. Of course, then your job will go to someone who-"

I lose the rest of S's monologue due to an unprecedented amount of brain static. He called Quatre, "Winner." Quatre's a Winner?! But they own this place! They're frigging multi-billionaires! I'm touching a multi-billionaire! Oh, shit!

I rip my hand off Quatre's shoulder in shock, but he looks at me with such an expression of sadness in his eyes that I put it back almost without thought.

Quatre's a Winner. And that would mean... just-call-me-Jack is Jack Winner. And all his sisters.... they would be the infamous Winner Women and there would be twenty-nine of them, not nine or ten. Crap. No wonder I couldn't keep track of them all. They probably only visited me once a piece. This would certainly explain the sheer number of post cards that come pouring in... but, focus! Focus! Quatre's a Winner.

This changes everything. I rerun all the conversations and contacts we've had over the years through my mind. Have I ever said anything I shouldn't have? A derogatory remark about the hospital or rich people? Wait, aren't they Moslem? Did I ever say anything bad about Moslems? Shit, this puts everything in a new light.

But this is still Quatre we're talking about! Quatre, who sneaks soda in for me. Who lends me his comic books and DVDs. Who took me to my first major league baseball game and even caught a fly ball for me. Who came to the orphanage and threatened to beat up Bobby Flatterhy if he didn't stop picking on me. Who makes sure I don't get the crappy lemon Jell-O at lunch time. Who always stops by to visit even when he's so tired he looks like one of the undead from a B movie.

Quatre's a Winner. That means his family is the one who's been paying for my healthcare. He's the one I owe my life to. This does change everything. Now I know who I have to thank for being alive.

"-go home early. It'd be best if you made yourself scarce until we see how the Catalonias react. Great job, Winner. I'm sure Daddy must be very proud." S shakes his head condescendingly and leaves the room. The second he's gone, Quatre rolls up into this hapless little ball of angst. I shift my hand so it's resting on his back and pat him awkwardly. I'm not really good at this physical contact thing.

"So now you know," he says miserably.

"Know what? What a great guy you are?" I chuckle, refusing to indulge in his self-pity. I'll be damned if I'm going to crucify him for what happened to Dorothy. Shit happens and until someone proves to me beyond a shadow of a doubt that that was Quatre's fault, there will be no finger-pointing from me, if I have anything to say about it. And believe me when I say I can say an awful lot, I say!

"You're not mad at me for lying to you?" he asks, still not looking at me. I'm startled, although I try not to show it. That's what he's worried about? What I'd think of him now that his true identity has been revealed? Jeez, what planet did this guy come from? He's no more human than the plastic flowers on the window sill, although I have to admit he smells a heck of a lot better.

Wondering how a guy like Quatre managed to get through Junior High intact, I punch him in the shoulder with all the strength I can muster. Which isn't much. "Nah. I figure you're a pretty handy guy to keep around. Besides, who else am I going to play pancake frisbee with?"

"I was going to tell you," he admits sheepishly. "I just wasn't sure when. I was so afraid that it would change things between us."

"It does," I tell him bluntly. He looks horrified, and then I snicker. "Jeez, Quat! Do you know how long I've wanted to tell the Winners thank you? I thought I'd never be able to repay them! Now I don't have to worry anymore. Assholes like you don't deserve thanks."

He laughs a little jaggedly. "Like we'd even touch a thank you card from a jerk like you! You might've licked the stamp."

"Oh, stamps are self-stick now. But I supposed a rich boy like you wouldn't know about anything so mundane as postage stamps, now would he?"

I earn what sounds like a borderline hysterical giggle. "No, we're too busy dealing with lawsuits and court summons." He groans and flops backwards onto the bed, nearly pinning my hand beneath him. "Oh, shit. Dad's gonna kill me!"

"Well, they haven't even pressed charges yet," I remind him. "They might not."

"Oh, I don't care about that," he informs me. "We've got lawyers that you wouldn't believe. It's just that Dad's gonna hit the roof when he finds out about Dorothy. God, how could I have been so careless?!" He sounds like he's going to start crying. I shift uncomfortably. I hate when guys cry. It's just so... not guyish.

"How many shifts have you worked in the past week, Quatre?" I sharply ask, poking him in the ribs. He grunts a little and bats my hand away.

"I dunno. I lost track," he admits.

"Well, how many hours of sleep have you had, not counting naps?" I continue interrogating. I should be a detective when I grow up. Maybe Barton can hook me up with a job opening.

Ugh. But then I'd have to work with the likes of Treize. Maybe I'll just stick to being an invalid.

"Ummm... about three hours a day."

"Well, no wonder you screwed up. Damn, Quat! I wouldn't let someone change my oil on that little sleep, never mind give competent medical care! What the heck are the administrators thinking?"

"That we're shorthanded and understaffed," he mutters, sounding half-asleep. "And despite what S thinks, it's precisely because I'm a Winner that I'm the one who got stuck with all the extra hours. Dad felt bad asking the others. They've all got families and kids..."

"That's not fair to you, Quat. Did you tell him how tired you are?"

"Nah. I don't want to whine. I can handle it. Or I was handling it."

"No, you weren't. You were dealing. You weren't handling. Crap. I thought you doctors were supposed to be intelligent?"

He chuckles. "Stereotype. We're actually rather dim."

"That doesn't exactly give me great faith in the medical care I'm receiving, mister."

"Oh, shove it. Not like you're paying for it..." He mumbles, already more asleep than awake. If he knew what he was saying, he never would have let that jibe slip. Not that it hurt my feelings -it's only the truth- but because he would be afraid that it would.

"Okay, buddy. Get some sleep, already," I tell him, but he's already drifted off. I guess there comes a time when exhaustion simply cannot be ignored any longer. I'd worry about Dorothy for him, but I'm sure she'll pull through. She's here, after all.

"You loser," I say quietly, trying to prod Quatre into a more comfortable position. He looks like a contortionist. "Why didn't you just say how tired you were?" I manage to shift his feet onto the bed and set about to untangling the blankets. "Someone would have covered while you got some sleep. They like you." I pull the blanket out from under his legs and-

And why is my journal in Heero's bed?

I rip the blanket completely off the bed and toss it to the floor. Quatre mutters, but doesn't awaken.

Holy Transvestite Barbie. It's not just the journal, but everything, everything that was in my black bag. I sit in shock, debating whether to pass out, go ballistic, or calmly gather my things and plan an ambush.

Pass out: Been there, done that. Getting a little sick of the scenery. Or lack there of.

Go ballistic: Probably not the best thing to do when you've got to watch your blood pressure.

Plan an ambush: Not only is it creative, it's also fun for the entire family! Of course, I constitute my entire family, but that's beside the point. The point is that Heero's a treacherous, brain-damaged blockhead who deserves to be castrated on sight.

Plan C wins.

Step one is to gather my things. The bag itself is shoved down at the foot of the bed, crumpled and abandoned. I pick it up with shaking hands and set about to reclaiming my possessions.

The journal I kept the last time I was in the hospital. Shit, I really hope Heero hadn't read it. Even I can't read it without getting chills. Those were not happy times.

A piece of the very long hair I once had. I used to wear it in a braid just to keep it out of the way. Everyone hated it, a big part of why I loved it, and when the chemo had started making it fall out, I'd told them to just shave my head and get it over with. I'd saved one of the longer locks and tied it into a knot so the strands wouldn't get lost.

A mass card from Father Maxwell's funeral. The closest thing to a paternal figure I ever had. He'd passed on before I got sick the first time. I know if he had been alive, he wouldn't have left me alone in the hospital. He would have visited every day.

A few photos of Quatre and I. My favorite, the Mr. Clean one, and a couple from a trip we took to the zoo. Him riding on a camel, looking scared to death, and me running in fear of a clown that was handing out balloons. I freakin' hate clowns.

A piece of a baby blanket. The nuns told me I was wrapped up in it when they found me on the orphanage steps. It's the only reminder I have of my parents. It's faded and pink. Looking at it makes me wonder if they even took the time to realize they had a son, not a daughter. Makes me wonder if I was abandoned because I wasn't female.

A newspaper article about me being left on the orphanage steps. Stuff like that is pretty unusual, especially in a city like this one. It talks about an investigation to find my parents. The case was never solved.

The only Valentine I ever got. The kids at school never liked me much and were always picking on me. I guess I just didn't fit in. I'd never get birthday cards or Halloween candy or anything like that from the kids in class. Then this one year, this really popular girl named Maria came to school with only one Valentine and it was for me. She marched right up to my desk, slapped it down, glared around the room, and flounced over to her chair, daring anyone to make an issue of it. No one did. It's just a red construction paper heart with a doily glued to the back. It doesn't even have any writing on it, but it made me feel pretty damn special. Maria moved the next day.

A patch of a F-15. An air show had once come to town and the nuns had taken us to see the planes. The patch was my souvenir. I had wanted to be a pilot in the worst way for years afterwards and made them sew it onto whatever coat I was wearing at the time. The thing is practically falling apart.

A Congratulations! certificate. The WMC gives them to all their cancer patients when they go into remission. I suppose mine doesn't really apply anymore, but I keep it anyway. Who knows? It might be useful again one day.

And that's it. My entire life, summed up in nine items. Pretty damned pathetic. Pretty damned sad.

Pretty damned personal.

Time for step two. I cannot fucking wait until Heero gets back. I have just been on a trip down memory lane and I'm pretty certain revenge is a form of nostalgia. He is going to pay. Oh, yes. He will pay, indeed.

-end chapter 14-