Cat's Paw - Part 6 by Zooie
Standard disclaimers apply
Duo POV
Quatre was right. A few days have passed and the initial tension
between Heero and I is already much reduced. We’ve been talking
during the times we’re both awake and are actually starting
to form something of a friendship. At least I think we are. We certainly
have a lot in common. After copious amounts of prying and a lot of
talking about myself, I’ve finally managed to get him to open
up a little. Though he usually won’t say much of anything, when
he does decide he wants to talk... he won’t shut up.
He seems to have had an interesting life. He won’t really tell
me a lot about it, except to say that his parents died when he was
a baby and his Uncle Odin got custody. He refers to his uncle as “Father”
and it’s pretty obvious he’s the same dude who bit it
in the car wreck. He also talked a little about a man called Dr. J
and it’s pretty obvious how much he admires the guy. Mostly,
though, he just talks about wanting to leave.
He’s in pretty much the same situation as I am. If he had a
family to call his own, he’d be out of this place by now. However,
since there is a marked shortage of foster families willing to care
for ill teenagers, he has become a semi-permanent hospital resident,
too. I’m not sure what’s going to happen to him once he’s
recovered, but for now I’m going to enjoy his company. It’s
infinitely better than being alone, even if he doesn’t say much
and shouts weird stuff in his sleep.
To be honest, I’m not sure the hospital knows what to do with
him, either. He’s seventeen years old and to place him with
a foster family for less than a year seems kind of useless. There’s
debate going on about whether he should be declared a legal adult
now. They seem to be leaning towards that option, especially since
Heero has an substantial inheritance coming his way. His dad apparently
saved up some big bucks or had an impressive life insurance policy,
maybe both. I’m betting they let him stay here until his casts
come off, then send him off into the world.
The cops have still been hanging around. Occasionally I’ll
see one lurking in the hallway, pumping the nurses for updates. I
don’t know how successful their attempts are; it’s easier
to put a porcupine in pantyhose than it is to get information from
the nurses. There are times when I’ll awaken in the middle of
the night to find them in our room, too. They’re usually doing
something exciting and titillating, such as checking the bathroom
for boogeymen. I don’t know if they ever found one, but they
did locate the little surprise I left for them under the bathroom
sink in the form of a very realistic-looking fake tarantula.
Gotta love those Kiwanis gift baskets.
Every time I see them, I get the distinct impression that Heero should
be in a room by himself. It doesn’t seem safe to be sharing
a room with him. When I suggested as much to Dr. Merino, however,
he chuckled and told me not to worry.
“This is probably the safest place you could possibly be, with
all the cops they’ve got running around,” he assured me.
He completely misunderstood. I’m not worried about Heero being
a danger to me. I’m worried about me being a danger to him.
I mean, if the guy is so important or in so much trouble that he needs
a personal police escort, he probably should not have a roommate.
What if something happens? I’ll just be in the way. Unless they
think they can use me as a first alert system, or something. I can
be awfully loud at times.
You have violated my perimeter. Please back off.
Still, the perpetual police presence doesn’t seem to bother
Heero at all. He seems very laid-back about the whole thing. He’s
just as cool as can be, even when the coppers shine their flashlights
under his bed at lights out. He doesn’t even seem to notice
them.
Heero’s taking the death of his uncle remarkably well. He hardly
seems to think about it at all. Personally, I think I’d be a
depressed, weepy mess. Heero, however... he just seems to ignore it
completely. Although I admire his determination, I’m slightly
disturbed. It just seems so cold-hearted. It was his surrogate father,
for crying out loud! But then, I’m an unclaimed orphan. I have
no perspective. Maybe he’s reacting precisely the way he should.
We spend a lot of time talking. At least I do. He has yet to tell
me to shut up, so I just prattle on endlessly, jabbering about anything
and everything. It’s not that he’s bad company or anything.
He just doesn’t talk much. He simply has nothing to say, unlike
me. I never seem to run out of words.
Honestly, that’s just the way I am. It’s not that I mean
to talk a lot. I just think out loud. Most of what I say is simply
stream of consciousness. Under normal circumstances, I can usually
control the urge to yap uncontrollably when the situation requires
it. However, I’ve been deprived of decent companionship for
way too long and the side-effects of one of my pills includes short-lived
hyperactivity. This combination is probably why very few of my recent
conversations are coherent or well-structured. This is also probably
why Heero finds it very irritating to speak with me.
“Would you repeat that?”
“I said, do you want to watch real people dying or fake people
dying? The war documentary or the action movie, Heero. Which do you
want to watch?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with Sister Mary Anna’s
adoration of chimney pots.”
“Nothing. I just wanted to know what you’d prefer. ‘Jeopardy’
is over, so it’s time to change the channel. ‘Wheel of
Fortune’ is on next and I hate that show. And Sister Mary Anna
didn‘t adore chimney pots. She just thought copper flashing
was cool. Say, did you ever see a picture of the Vanderbilt mansion
in Old Westbury, NY? It gives new meaning to the phrase, ‘copper
flashing!’ That thing‘s blinding!”
“Why don’t we just turn the TV off for a while? Nothing’s
on.”
“Background noise, my man! Filters out the hospital noises.
Trust me. You don’t want to hear them.”
“No, but I would like to hear myself think.”
“Then you should talk more!”
“Don’t you ever get tired of talking?”
“I don’t, but my mouth sure does. Speaking of which...”
I take a sip of water from the glass on my nightstand. My throat’s
a bit sore. “Ahh, much better!”
“Duo. I’m tired. I want to sleep.” Heero stares
at me with his serious blue eyes. They kind of scare me, those eyes.
They’re shadowed and still and somehow lacking in all emotion,
much like his voice. I tell myself it’s the painkillers they
have him on, but I know in the back of my mind that’s not it
at all.
Quick, Lassie! Fetch help! Timmy’s personality fell down the
well!
“Oh. Okay,” I look down at my covers. “I didn’t
know I was keeping you awake.”
He continues to gaze steadily at me. “You should sleep, too.
You’ve been up all afternoon.”
I grin at him. “That’s ‘cause you’re such
riveting company!” He completely misses my sarcasm. It goes
flying straight over his head, whoosh and all. “Hey, did you
know that Rosie the Riveter wasn’t really a riveter? She was
actually a welder.”
“Dinner will be arriving in an hour. Now would be the perfect
time to nap.”
“Nah,” I flap a hand at him. “Then I’ll just
be pissy when they interrupt my beauty sleep. It’s easier to
just stay awake. There was this man, once, who stayed awake for years
at a time. Can you imagine?!”
“Do what you want. I’m going to sleep.” And he
did, just like that. Out like a light in the blink of an eye. I’ve
seen it a dozen times now and I still don’t know whether to
be impressed, jealous, or extremely creeped out.
I sigh and direct my attention back towards the television. The History
Channel is showing a documentary about WWII aircraft carriers. They’re
showing original footage from the war. Planes exploding in midair,
flaming wreckage crashing into the ocean. It’s morbid, but yet
oddly fascinating. I wish Heero were awake to watch this. He loves
war shows, especially if there’s heavy artillery involved.
“...mmm... No! Won’t let you!!” He’s doing
that sleep-talking thing again. Damn. That was quick. Usually it’s
quiet for at least an hour before that starts up. I sigh and turn
the volume up on the TV. He goes temporarily deaf when he sleeps and
I know it won’t disturb him.
“... never did anything to anyone! Leave ‘im alone...”
“...No! Lies! It’s lies!...”
“...hate you!!!”
“Oh, Jesus. Wake up, Heero!” I call. His cries are getting
increasingly stronger and, if they get any louder, the nurses will
come running. Then they’ll want to put Heero on sleeping medication
and he’ll argue with them and they’ll try to slip it into
his food or IV, but he’ll know and fight with them and everyone
will get mad and start yelling and....
“...NO!”
“Heero! Quiet!” I shout. I’m pretty sure he won’t
hear me, but it still makes me feel better if I try. Hey, I like him
well enough, and if I can save him a little grief, I will. They psychologists
are already all over him like a pack of rabid chipmunks. If they find
out about the weird stuff he says when he’s asleep, who knows
what they’ll do. Probably slobber all over themselves in their
effort to “help” him.
I don’t like psychologists much. Self-serving bastards. Never
did me any damned good.
“... over my dead body!”
An awake Heero talking is a near-miracle. An asleep Heero talking
is an everyday joy.
“HEERO! SHOVE IT!” I bellow. And, wonder of all wonders,
this time he actually does. He mutters under his breath one final
time, then settles down into a deep sleep. I shake my head and glare.
The things I do for him...
A police officer I don’t recognize sticks his head through
the door. “Everything okay in here?”
I grin at him. “Just fine and dandy!”
He looks dubious. “Are you sure? I heard shouting.”
“Oh, that was just the TV,” I assure him. “War
documentary. Very exciting. Care to watch?”
I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but since nothing is wrong
he has no choice but to leave.
*******
TBC
*******
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