05-Jun-2004
The Worst Thing
Author: Sol 1056
Rating: NC-17
Rarnings: language, violence
Pairings: no change from last chapter
Archived: gwaddiction & sweetlysour
Many thanks to those reviewing! much MUCH appreciated ;D
I learned three things very quickly as the semester began. One, working until three or four in the morning and then being awake for classes is damned hard sometimes. Two, I sucked at art but not so much I was completely hopeless, or so the professors assured me. Three, Trowa is not truly scary. I am not even remotely scary.
Nurses are scary.
Thursday afternoon, second week of classes, the professor for Introduction to the Abstract was coming down the hallway as I was about to head into the classroom. I had had to stop as another coughing fit hit me, and when I opened my eyes, it was to see Professor Zimms practically right under my nose. She was a petite, dark-haired woman, but I still wasn't expecting to find her peering up at me through her little round glasses. I started backwards and nearly started coughing again.
"Winner," she said very slowly and carefully, like she thought I was either deaf or stupid. "You have a very... bad... cough."
"It's a cold," I told her.
She snorted. "And I'm an alligator. You are not going in my classroom with those lungs."
I gaped. "Professor—"
"No!" Professor Zimm put her hands on her hips and sniffed at me. The move reminded me of a miniature Wufei, and I had to bite the inside of my mouth to keep from smiling. Professor Zimm definitely looked like she meant business. "You, kid, have something far worse than a cold. Get your butt to the clinic and don't come back until they've signed a little piece of paper that says you have good drugs and won't make me or anyone else sick."
"Professor—" I can't miss class, I can't miss work, and…I blinked. She'd moved to block the doorway, but she didn't look mad. She looked like she understood, actually, and I sighed, giving in. "Yes, ma'am. Uh…where is the clinic?"
"If you were my kid, I'd smack you upside the head," she informed me. "Collins Building, basement. Past Center One."
"Oh. Thanks." I coughed again, feeling my face flush when she pointed down the hallway and mouthed the words, 'move your ass.' I'm not sure she realized I could read her lips, but figured it wasn't the time to admit that skill. Nodding meekly, I shouldered my bag and trudged off.
Fifteen minutes later – with two stops for more coughing – I found Collins and headed to the basement. At the end of the hall, the waiting room was empty except for one girl behind the counter. It was a cheerfully lit area, that is, if you were a college student who had never been exposed to a certain limousine. As it was, it didn't make me feel cheerful. Instead, I felt suddenly like I was on the shores of the Atlantic again, waiting for impending doom.
The school had, in its infinite something, painted every wall in the clinic waiting room a muted shade of pink. Perhaps they thought it was calming. It made me want to run shrieking in terror. Been there, done that; and of the strongly held opinion as a result that so much pink in one place should be illegal. Hell, even Relena never would've gone so far as to paint the walls that Pepto-Bismol color. The only thing worse would've been if they'd painted every vertical surface warning-sign yellow.
The thought of Dorothy's decorating preferences made me gag involuntarily, which naturally made me cough. The girl behind the counter raised her head at the sound.
"Do you have an appointment?" When I shook my head, she waved me over. "Can I see your student ID?"
I was about to tell her she could, but she might not, and decided she probably wouldn't get it. I dug out my wallet and handed her my student ID. She stared at it, then at me, then flipped it over and back again, setting it down by the computer to type something in.
"Do you have your medical card?"
"My what?" I shook my head, which prompted more coughing. "I don't think so. Was that something the school was supposed to send me?"
"You have to sign up for medical services," she explained, hands paused over the keyboard. Her blonde ponytail bobbed as she looked back and forth between the computer screen, my ID card, and me. "Major medical is part of tuition, but clinic visits aren't."
"Oh, okay," I said, confused. "So what do I need to do?"
She pulled out a clipboard and slapped a pen on top of that. "Fill out this form, and then we need this—" She handed me a half-sheet of green paper, with a bunch of check boxes on it "—and your immunization card—" The girl paused, expectantly. "You do have an immunization card, right?"
"A... what?" I gave her a blank stare.
"Then fill this out, too," she said, handing me a third sheet of paper. "You can sit over there."
"Wait," I said, coughed a few times, and cleared my throat. "I thought I sent all that stuff to the school when I registered for classes."
"You did," she said, rolling her eyes in a bored fashion. "Or else you wouldn't have been allowed into classes."
"Well... " It seemed rather obvious to me, but maybe I was missing something. "Why don't you have that information already?"
"Because that's in the Registrar's system, and we're the clinic," she said, as though this explained everything.
"Why not get it from their system, then?"
She gave me a look like I was beyond belief, and sighed heavily. "That's the Registrar's system. This is the clinic."
"Yes, but—" One look at her annoyed expression, and I decided to back down. I needed to sit, anyway, so I collected the pen and the clipboard and the various sheets of obscure information requirements and retreated to a corner of the clinic.
First name. Oh, fuck, get the hardest ones first. After pondering for a second, I put down Cat. That's what my student ID said, after all. The rest of the information was pretty straightforward. Student ID. 879-0098-4323-80. Date of birth. April 24 AC 180. Sex. Male. Marital status. Single. Age. 19. Height. Six feet. Weight. 175. Current address... permanent address. Would that be my father's home on L4? Or the home I'd used in Sanq when I was dirtside, for most of the past three years? I got up and headed back to the desk, clipboard in hand.
"Excuse me... permanent address?" I chewed my lower lip and gave her my most innocent smile. "Can I just use the one I'm living at?"
"Use the one that gets the bills. Your parents' address," she said, and turned back to the computer.
"Oh." I nodded, like this made sense, and slowly made my way back to my seat. After some consideration, I put down my own address. The next few questions were easy. Year. Sophomore. Expected graduation date. AC 201.
The next section made me squint and rub my eyes, it was printed so tiny. I had to lift the clipboard almost to my nose, trying to read the imprint. As far as I could tell, it was a promise to pay should the patient not pay for the treatment. The signature was for a parent or legal guardian. I skipped that section, started to read the second, got caught in another coughing fit that made me clutch the chair handle and see stars, and gave up. When I got my breath back, I just signed on every line that said 'student' or 'patient'.
There was a second page, and I rubbed my eyes a few more times before starting at the top with a deep sigh. Date of injury. I twiddled my pen over that for a second, before picking the first day of the semester. I'd had it before then, but another cough made me decide to move along. Was condition related to employment? No. I wasn't sure what kind of employment the form meant – working for the school, or just in general. One glance at the girl behind the counter, reading some fashion magazine, and I decided it wasn't important. Does patient have other health insurance? No. Again, I wasn't sure, actually; I'd never thought to ask. The few times I'd had any injuries since the war – and all very minor – a doctor had come to see me. I'd never been in a doctor's office before in my life.
Quatre, I told myself, you really are naďve, aren't you. Everyone else has this shit figured out but you...
Insurance company name and address. Not applicable. Referring physician. I pondered putting down 'Professor Zimm' but doubted the girl behind the counter had a sense of humor. Instead, I put down 'not applicable.' Current medications. None.
There were a number of questions about my employment, and I skipped those, not really sure what that had to do with the fact that I had a damn cough. I set down the green sheet on the clipboard, raised my pen, and froze.
Have you ever used intravenous drugs? I checked the 'no' box.
Have you ever received clotting factor concentrates? There wasn't an option for 'I don't know.' I pondered for a moment, and checked no.
Have you ever been diagnosed with babesiosis or Chagas disease? I didn't think so. I checked no.
Do you have risk factors for vCJD? I had no clue what that was. I checked no.
Have you had two or more sexual partners in the past year? My pen hovered over yes, until I figured Jamie didn't count. I checked no.
Have you had unprotected sex? Again, I hesitated, then checked no. I really couldn't see what this had to do with my cough. Aggravated at the next few questions – all asking whether I, as a man, had been with another man before, during or after using various chemical substances – I folded up the paper and tucked it in my back pocket. I didn’t see that any of it was any of their business, but I didn't want to leave it laying around, either.
The final sheet stopped me cold: immunizations, allergies, exposures to illnesses and certain antibodies. I had no idea, and I knew Doctor O had been thorough, but it wasn't like he gave me a list when he gave me shots or pills. I trusted him. That had been good enough. Sighing, I chewed on the end of the pen, then checked every single box. Satisfied, I collected it all, gave it to the girl at the counter who took it without a word, and returned to my seat to wait to be called.
"Excuse me," the girl said, after a brief silence. "I need to see your student ID again."
I got up, digging it out, and she studied it carefully, even holding it up next to the computer screen. She handed it back to me with a tight smile.
"You're not in the system," she told me, as though this were my fault. "You must not have filled out the correct paperwork. Cat R. Winner isn't listed. Are you sure this is the name you used to register?"
"It's... " I got a sinking feeling suddenly, and had to breathe through my nose to stop another coughing fit. "No, it's not."
"And your real name?" Her fingers were poised over the keyboard, her eyebrows raised.
"Quatre."
"Qua... Q-U-A-T-R-E?" She typed quickly, hitting enter, then her fingers halted in mid-type. "Quatre... Quatre Raberba Winner?" Her eyes went a little wide.
"Yes," I said, keeping the slight smile on my face by sheer willpower. Please, don't say anything.
"As in... " Her fingers landed on the keyboard with a clatter, and she jumped, laughing nervously. "That's a joke, right?"
Fuck. She had to say something.
"No, it's not a joke," I admitted.
The girl gave me a stunned look, then stared down at the computer screen. Her eyes went completely wide and her jaw dropped. "Oh, my god," she breathed.
"No, not really," I quipped, feeling utterly miserable. "Look, do you mind if we just keep this between ourselves? I rather like being at school and not... " I waved a hand, vaguely. "Y'know... "
"Right," she said, recovering quickly. She gave me a sly smile. "We protect patient anonymity, here, of course." The girl picked up the phone, spoke to someone quickly on the other end, and I caught my last name. She set down the phone and gave me a brilliant smile. "Someone will be with you shortly... Mister Winner."
"Oh. Thanks." I kept the smile on my face, wondering if she could tell my teeth were gritted. Great. One stinking bimbo at the clinic and now... but maybe not... maybe she really wouldn't say anything, and would consider it her little secret. I tried to console myself with that thought, and wondered if this meant she'd go out of her way to say hello to me on campus. I figured if she were going to, the least I could do was catch the worst now. "Hey, and call me Cat." I brightened up the smile a few notches, and I think she practically melted.
"Okay... Cat," she said. I didn't know someone could smile that wide.
And I didn't realize how miserable I could feel, either, just to have someone know my real name.
"Mister Winner," Nurse Jackson said, in a stern tone. She flipped through several papers, and made a frustrated sound under her breath. The cords on her reading glasses swayed as she moved. "There's no blood risk assessment sheet with your paperwork."
"Which one was that?" Not the green one, not the green one...
"The green one. We'll need that if you're going to donate blood."
"I'm not here to donate blood," I said, and shifted on the examination bed. It was bad enough to have to strip down for a damn cold, but humiliating to follow that up with this interrogation by a woman forty years my senior. She was my height only by virtue of what I guessed to be about six inches of teased and frosted hair, which appeared to be tinted a light blue. Or perhaps that was just the lights in the basement... I shifted again, and the paper gown rustled against the paper on the bed. A draft hit my backside. "I'm here about a cold."
"I see." Jackson pursed her lips, regarding the paperwork carefully. "Next time, you fill that out," she barked, setting the paperwork aside. "Now, you say you have a cold."
"Yes, ma'am," I told her, and smiled innocently. Just then a cough pushed its way up through my chest and I bent over, shaking as the cough tore through my lungs. A long minute later, I managed caught my breath to see her eyes watching me, narrowed to thin beacons.
"That would be the cold," she said, flatly. Without warning, she stepped around behind me and slapped a freezing metal plate against my back. "Deep breath."
"Yes, ma'am." I tried, and immediately started coughing. The stethoscope was moved several more times, and each time, I did more coughing than deep breathing.
"And you've had this cold... " She stepped away from me, and flipped the papers again. "Three weeks."
"Yes, ma'am." I was starting to think the infamous neon sign had changed to say, 'Please. Treat me like I'm four.'
"And it's been getting worse?"
I shrugged. I really wasn't sure.
"And it's been getting worse?" She put a hand on her hip, and her orange-red lips were pressed into a tight line.
"Yes, ma'am," I said, shrinking back just a little.
"Have you seen anyone else about this?"
"No, ma'am," I answered automatically. If she threatened to make me stand in the corner or to send me to bed without supper, I probably would have gratefully accepted the punishment just to get out from under her glare. Heero, I thought ruefully, come visit me at school and I'll introduce you to the head nurse. You'll have met your match... I realized she was saying something, and gave her a confused look.
" ...Ingested or drunk in the past twenty-four hours?"
"Pardon?" It came back to me, and I stuttered a bit, embarrassed, though I wasn't sure why. "I had three beers last night. And... some noodles for dinner. I had a coffee and Danish for breakfast, and half-a-sandwich for lunch."
"Mm." She took my arm, patting the inside of my elbow, and slapped a rubber strip around my upper arm. A ball was slapped in my hand. "I'm taking blood for tests. Squeeze."
"What... " I winced. She wasn't gentle with the needle, nor had she picked the smallest size. "Kind of tests... ma'am?"
"Bronchitis, pneumonia, mononucleosis, FG-2 and FG-3." She unsnapped the blood vial, put a label on it, then attached a second to the needle and began withdrawing more blood. "Keep squeezing, regular intervals. Now, stop."
I knew the first three were illnesses. "What's FG-2 and FG-3?" I recognized the terms, but couldn't place them.
"Sexually transmitted diseases," Jackson answered, and undid the rubber cord. It snapped against my arm, and I flinched. "Predominantly found in the poorer colonies, but cases have been reported in urban areas on Earth, and we've begun testing all students." She took a pair of scissors and before I realized it, she'd grabbed one of my longer strands of hair and snipped a quarter-inch of hair. It fell into a waiting vial, and she capped it as well.
"What was that for?" I found my indignation long enough to sit up straight.
"Standard procedures, Mister Winner."
I shrank back down under that glare. "Oh." I held the gauze against my elbow, and tried to look innocent.
"Stay there," she said, and pinned me to the table with a look. "Don't move. I'll be back with the results in ten minutes."
The door shut behind her, and I resisted the urge to freeze and do just as she said: not moving a muscle. Damn, if Oz had had interrogators with half her intimidation skills, we Gundam pilots wouldn't have stood a chance.
When Nurse Jackson returned nearly twenty minutes later, she ushered in two more men. One was a police officer; he gave me an annoyed once-over and took up position by the door. The second was an older man in a suit. He didn't look like he was quite dressed for working a clinic. His thinning brown hair was brushed sideways over his head, and his skin gleamed under the artificial lights. I wondered if this was what Duo meant when he had confessed nightmares about dealing with interrogators in brightly lit rooms where he always felt so small and insignificant compared to their uniforms. I tried not to think about it.
"Mister Winner," the man intoned. He stood between me and the door, his hands clasped behind his back, and he rocked on his heels. "I'm Dr. Bilar, Dean of Student Affairs. We have some questions to ask you."
"About my cough?" Just then I was hit with another coughing fit, and my eyes watered from the force of it. I gave him a weak smile, and he had the decency to smile back.
"No," he admitted. "But the nurse will have your prescription ready... after we're done talking."
I nodded, bracing myself. "What's the question?"
"The spectrophotometer test on your hair found... " He dug a sheet out of his pocket, and read it off in a slow, foreboding voice. " ...Torocaine, Zopital, Roruval, MSD3-A and MSD3-B, Kopavaine, Lurometaphin, SDE-75, Gavleroin, Argenal, and Asptametamine, among traces of others the system could not fully identify."
I knew some of those names, from news reports. They were among the most addictive and expensive black market drugs available dirtside. Torocaine was a stimulant, I was pretty sure; I'd had a variant of it when undergoing training. Lurometaphin was a barbiturate, and Zopital was most hospitals' last-resort painkiller as well as a black market favorite. I'd used those during the war, as had all the other pilots. It was often the only thing we could get.
Dean Bilar hand the paper to Nurse Jackson, and frowned at me. "You've been quite busy, haven't you?"
I couldn't find my voice. My mind reeled, and I tried to consider the situation carefully, see it from his angle and mine, and dredge up any defense I could manage. "What were the levels?"
"Levels?" He narrowed his eyes at me. "That's irrelevant. The fact is, these are controlled substances that should not—"
"Give me the levels," I demanded, adding as an afterthought, "sir."
He paused, then glanced at Nurse Jackson. "Below a half-percent," she said.
"Is that a substantial amount?" I was more than irritated, but mostly at Doctor O. I had no warning, and now I was going to have 'drug user' stamped on my forehead.
"Not significantly so, as I understand," he allowed, "but it indicates that at some point in the past five years you've ingested considerable amounts, or smaller amounts in the past six months." He snorted. "Either way, this raises questions about the prudence of allowing you to continue as a student here."
"Sir," I said, and took a deep breath, stifling another cough. For a moment, I pushed away the fact that I was wearing a paper gown that opened in the back, and put on my battle face. "The medications are related to situations that occurred during the war. I'm afraid you don't have high enough clearance for me to divulge any information to you."
The nurse twitched, and I steadfastly ignored her. I didn't need to slouch now, and I suspected I might if I let her zoom in on me again with that high-powered glare. The policeman had come upright, his eyes on me again, assessing me as carefully as one would measure up any suspect. The Dean, however, had frozen, his eyes wide.
"Mister Winner," he said, quietly. "I don't think that's going to be good enough."
"We have two choices," I replied, keeping my voice low and even. I didn't want to be too confrontational, but now wasn't the time for sweet smiles, either. The last thing they'd believe at this point was that I was innocent. It was just a matter of which crime they'd find me guilty. "Either you can allow me to a phone so I can contact the Executive Director of the Preventers, or we can find a compromise that will satisfy us both... and keep the university from falling under scrutiny for testing students without their permission."
"The Executive Director?" Dean Bilar snorted. "Don't joke. First, it's three in the morning in Europe, and second—"
"That's fine," I answered. "I have her home phone number."
"You... "
"And if that's not enough to convince you that this is an issue for which you don't have clearance – and an issue which I recommend you forget the moment you leave this room – then I have no problem following through." I kept my hands relaxed, my voice just a little bored, as though I made threats like this everyday. Fact was, the only home number I could suddenly remember was Wufei's, my brain was spinning so fast. But I had to keep up appearances. "Bring me a phone."
Dean Bilar pursed his lips, much like Nurse Jackson had, but remained silent, pondering.
"Special Ops," the policeman muttered, breaking the standoff. He looked me up and down again. "I heard the Alliance used high school students from its Academies, training them young. Rich brats. Lots of them went over to Oz," and he said the branch's title like it was something obscene.
I didn't grace him with an answer. Let them find their own means of categorizing and explaining the drugs in my past. Anything was preferable to letting them figure out I was a Gundam pilot. The police officer could have accused me of personally fertilizing Khushrenada's rose garden during the war, and it'd still be better than being labeled one of history's five worst terrorists – or five top heroes. I wasn't interested in either label.
"Rumors," Bilar murmured to the police officer, but then seemed to come to a decision. "Fine. I'm going to consider you on probation, young man. Your blood tests revealed no drugs present other than traces of alcohol, but most drugs will be out of the blood stream within thirty days. For the next six months, you will come to the clinic on the first Monday of the month, and have a blood test. As long as none of these drugs show up again, then and only then will you be allowed to remain. If, however, your tests are positive... " He left it hanging.
"Agreed," I told him, hoping I conveyed reasonably well with the right tone and attitude that this was acceptable without letting on how relieved I was. We'd reached a compromise. Not one that thrilled me, but anything beat having to call Une and ask her for the equivalent of a note from my mother, along with sufficient pressure to keep things quiet.
Besides, I'd sooner serenade Nurse Jackson under her bathroom window than call Une at three in the morning. I had some sense of self-preservation. I hadn't survived two wars just to die at Une's hands at nineteen.
Bed rest for two weeks; bronchitis developing into preliminary pneumonia. Nurse Jackson lectured me on all the myriad medications. I dutifully nodded at appropriate points, promising to return in three days for another test to make sure the medications were working. Straight to bed, no dilly-dallying, she told me, and with that laser-beam glare on my now-dressed backside, I managed to leave the clinic at the fastest possible casual stroll ever seen in that part of the hemisphere. The girl at the desk cheerfully waved to me, and I threw her a quick smile as though it was all perfectly cool.
Outside I downed the first round of pills, dry, and grumbled to myself all the way home. The clinic automatically notified all professors of my banishment from classes for at least three days. For a system that couldn't get my immunization records from the Registrar, they sure could work fast when it came to kicking me out of classes.
I spent that evening eating macaroni and cheese and reading through my economics notes. My Philosophy 101 course was going to be hard to catch up, if I didn't get back to classes within a week. That professor seemed insistent on cramming four thousand years of philosophy into sixteen weeks. And then there were the projects and studio time I'd be missing.
I called into work, explained the situation, and went to bed early.
When I woke up, it was nearly ten in the morning. For a minute I was about to jump up and run to class, but then I remembered. I got up long enough to take the next set of pills, grimaced at the taste of water from the tap, and went back to bed.
At dusk, someone rapped on the door. Before I could grab my gun, I heard Lola's voice.
"Hey, Cat," she called. "No need to pounce, just open up. I brought you dinner."
"What?" I opened the door, and ran a hand through my hair, feeling abashed, and a little sticky after a day of coughing, drinking disgusting tap water, and laying about doing essentially nothing. "You didn't have to," I said, but she pushed past me, a plastic-covered bowl in her hands.
"I just have to heat it," she replied. She set it on the counter, rolled up her sleeves, tucked her hair behind her ears, and began washing my lone pot. Lola looked at me, still by the door. "Get back in bed."
"Getting, getting," I told her, but I was feeling shaky from standing up for several minutes. Thankfully I crawled back into bed, and she pulled the blanket over me. I scowled, and swatted at her hand. "I'm not a child."
"You do a good job acting like it sometimes," she admonished. "I stopped by your work yesterday. Bronchitis and pneumonia, Cat! That's serious."
"Apparently so." Another coughing fit hit me, and she knelt by the bed, worried lines on her face. "It's not as bad as it was," and I knew I sounded defensive. "I'm taking medicine."
"What do you have to drink? You should be drinking grapefruit juice," she said. I groaned and rolled over on my stomach, pulling the pillow over my head. Not my favorite drink. "There's nothing in your fridge but beer and... more beer," I heard her saying. "I'm going to set the timer. When it goes off, serve yourself. Where's your wallet?"
"My... " I registered her words and was up in a heartbeat, across the room, my hand on my backpack. "What do you need my wallet for?"
Lola blinked at the backpack that had been in her hand only a second before, then slowly frowned at me, baffled. "I'm going shopping for you. You need chamomile tea, and some honey, grapefruit juice, and soup... "
"No grapefruit juice," I said. I pulled out my wallet, and handed her all the credits I had. Then I shut the wallet and put it away before she saw my full ID, and the emergency credit card. The girl in the clinic knowing the truth was one person enough for me. Recalling the clinic made me annoyed again, and I sighed, sensing distantly that Lola's bewilderment was turning to hurt. "I don't like grapefruit juice." I sulked a little, knowing it'd distract her.
"You're cute when you pout," Lola said, and kissed me on the cheek. She pulled on her coat, and picked up my keys. "Orange juice, then?"
"Fine," I grumbled, and returned to bed.
"Don't forget to turn off the stove when you hear the timer," she instructed, letting herself out. I mumbled something into the pillow and fell back asleep as soon as I heard the door locking behind her.
Between the pills, Lola's soup – better by far than anything Catherine had ever served – and sheer boredom, I managed to test with low enough levels three days later to be allowed back to classes. Nurse Jackson gave me the mother of all glares, as though she suspected I'd somehow switched my blood with someone else's between the needle and the testing machine. I smiled, and she raised an eyebrow. That was our understanding. I was going to play the innocent, and she was going to remain convinced I was guilty.
Monday night I was back on schedule at work, and taking more than a bit of ribbing about coughing up a lung or three for the previous two weeks. Fred put me on rotation and back-door duty, both of which kept me out of the majority of the smoky crowd areas. I lugged buckets of ice back and forth between the two bars, and even the smallest cough got a look from the other doormen. No one suggested I go home, but a few looks seemed to convey that I was insane for being back at work already.
Well, it beat staying home and having to deal with Lola or Felicia showing up. I liked them both, and the company was good, but having them in my space had been nerve-wracking at times. It wasn't just the art on the walls, although I'd taken down the pictures of my friends from the war. It was the fact that my legal name was on every bottle of pills.
"Cat," Del hollered, breaking me out of my thoughts. I'd been pondering ways to thank Lola and Felicia for visiting me so regularly, but at the same time be able to make it clear they could stop. Hopefully the sooner, the better.
"Coming," I yelled back, leaving John by the backstage entrance and heading down to the loading docks. "Whaddaya need?"
"Extra hand on the Marshall stacks," Del said. "Get that end?"
The damn things were nearly as tall as me, and the band had four, to be stacked in sets of two. Headliners and their egos, I thought grimly, yelling warnings to Del as he walked backwards into the club. Two of the bands' roadies were standing nearby, almost done unloading the band's personal soundboard, which had been stored in the truck while the opening bands were onstage.
We set the speaker down near the back of the stage, where the roadies and stagehands would set it up during the break between bands. Del clapped me on the shoulder as we headed to the truck to check on the unloading.
"Thanks, Cat," he said. "John's back is still funky."
"I heard that," John called. He grinned lazily, and pretended to stoop.
"Cat," one of the roadies said, and I turned towards the voice. The guy was my height, stockier than me, with a bright shock of hair that alternated stripes of green and red. He looked like someone had glued a holiday ornament on top of a Leo. The guy grinned, showing too many teeth. "That a nickname, or your parents just have a weird sense of humor?"
"Nickname," I said, on my guard, but not sure why.
"What's it short for?" The second roadie lit a cigarette, shaking the match a few times, even though it'd gone out on the first shake. The bar's noise was muted out on the loading dock, but his face was squeezed up like he was having trouble hearing and was forced to read lips. "What the hell kinda name would be shortened to Cat?"
"It's not short for anything." I glanced at Del, who was standing by the last Marshall stack.
"Gotta be some reason you got it," Squint-face said.
"Maybe he needs to cut his nails," Holiday Ball suggested.
"Maybe you two should shut up and get out of our way," Del told them. We lifted the stack on the silent count of three, and carried it past the two roadies. They just grinned and made no move to help.
"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," Squint-face called from behind me. Del rolled his eyes, and I shrugged.
We left the speaker by the stage, and I made another few rounds to clean up tables, carry kegs, and refresh the soda dispensers. The headlining band went onstage, and the two roadies were soon ensconced by the back bar. After three trips past them to the tune of 'kitty, kitty, kitty,' I traded with John and took up residence by the backstage. I was cranky, tired, exhausted after an afternoon in studio being lectured about drawing with my whole arm and not just my wrist, and I was fast losing my temper.
The band wasn't bad, except that their instruments were a half note off pitch and the lead singer was too atonal. I winced at every screech, and gritted my teeth through their three-chord progressions. I made a note to buy earplugs, and wear three sets at the same time. It would be injury to damage my hearing; it was adding insult that the damage would come from a bunch of wannabe musicians doing their best to ruin Aeolian scales.
At the end of the night, Del handed me a broom and we began sweeping up the cigarette butts and various matters of trash. The best part was finding dropped money; whomever found it got to keep it. I had twenty credits by the time Del found his first. He was joking again that I had a gift for finding money – a joke I'd learned to let roll – when the roadies finished loading up their truck and returned for a last drink with the band.
"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," Squint-face called, walking past me.
I glanced at Del, who nodded once and grinned. Returning the wolfish look, I dropped the broom and spun, catching Squint-face by the throat. I shoved him three steps backwards and slammed him up against the wall. He made a squeaking sound, his hands around my wrist, and I tightened my grasp.
"You really want to know why I'm called Cat?" I growled, pulled him forward, and slammed him against the wall again. His eyes were open wide, for once, and he made an incoherent sound. One of his fists came out. I blocked it easily.
Del's broom hit the bar, and he took a step towards us. I tensed. Fuck, Del, what do you think you're gonna do? I shook my head minutely, aggravated by Del's movement behind me. You can't cover me. Better you stay back and let me deal with this. I slammed Squint-eyes against the wall a third time, and Del's footsteps stopped.
"Because," I continued blandly, inspiration coming to me in a gleeful flash, "I like to play before I kill."
I dropped my hand and stepped back, arms relaxed, hands open at my side. Squint-face rubbed his neck, glaring at me as though he were the injured party.
"Well?" I arched an eyebrow, and brought up one fist, cracking my knuckles like I'd seen Duo do many times. "Wanna play?"
"Fuckin hell, man, I was just joking," Squint-face spat.
"What, you think I'm not?" I chuckled low in my throat and threw a punch. I pulled it at the last second, and kept it there, right at the end of his nose. "Like I said, I play first. Gives you an even chance of getting away."
"Man... " Squint-face was pressed up against the wall. His eyes were crossing, trying to keep my fist in his line of sight. "I don't think I wanna fight you, man."
"You surrendering?" When he nodded, I dropped my fist and stepped back. "Good boy. Run along."
Squint-face blinked at the cheerful tone. He looked past me to Del, then at Melissa, who was wiping down the bar. With a last look in my direction, Squint-face scurried towards the back door and down the steps to the loading dock.
"Fuck, man," Del breathed, and picked up his broom, pushing idly at a pile of trash. His voice was quiet, and a bit reverent, or possibly worried. "So... is that really where the name comes from?"
"Hell if I know," I told him. "Ask the person who gave it to me."
"Blows my theory," Melissa called from behind the bar. "I had my money riding on an obsession with bringing his lovers dead things as gifts."
I flashed suddenly on the light-hearted post-battle competitions I'd had with Trowa on our kill rates, and felt ill. I wondered what he was doing right then, if he was with Duo, and if they... I pushed it out of my head, and shrugged, picking up my broom.
"I never bathe and tell," I told her with a wicked grin.
I left the club that night with an empty smile pasted on my face, waving to the others as I strolled off down the street. I didn't want a ride, even if the freezing night air wasn't the best for my lungs. I wanted to walk it off, and come home exhausted enough to sleep instead of staying awake for an hour, wired. Lola had hinted that if I came by, she'd be happy to see me, but my footsteps carried me past her place without stopping. I paid the street signs no mind, my hands shoved in my pocket as I walked and thought.
The small fight had my blood up, but I was equally edgy about the fact that Del had been about to join in. Fact was, I didn't trust his skills more than I did any of the staff's. They just weren't up to the standards I needed to be able to fight without worrying about them. There had only been three or four brawls since I'd started working – which was apparently average – and I'd found myself protective of the staff. But they didn't need to know that, and I didn't plan on letting them.
It was a lonely, isolating feeling.
I wondered if Duo and Trowa were together yet, and how they were doing. I hadn't heard from Heero, and I thought about the piece I'd been working on in studio, and whether Wufei might appreciate it. I thought of Relena, and wondered what she was up to. And I made a note to drop Iria a line and find out about her plans to be in town in a month or two. Rashid had kept the radio silence I'd implied I wanted, but I thought I might call him or write and let him know I was okay.
The sidewalk rolled away under my gait, and I didn't pay much attention to what was around me. I was restless, but I couldn't figure out why.
"College boy," someone hissed.
I looked up in time to see a fist flying towards me. I dodged, and the fist clipped me on the cheek. I came back up again, and returned the blow into the man's chest. He grunted and slumped. Something hard slammed against my lower back. I feinted away, stumbling as I pulled to the left and kicked low. I caught the second man by the knee, and kicked again. My forearm blocked another blow from the baseball bat and I fell backwards, clutching my arm. Something slammed into the back of my head, and I fell forward, moving instinctively and coming back around with the momentum. My punch connected, and the third man went down.
"Bastard," the first man muttered from where he'd been watching, a few feet away. He was dressed in black leather, his jacket open to reveal an advertisement for a local pachinko parlor.
"Are we done?" My hands were raised a little, ready to play at peace or defend, depending on his move. "If you want money, pick someone who's got some."
"Holy shit... " Pachinko's eyes went wide, and he cackled suddenly. "You're that guy!"
He glanced behind me, still grinning, and I knew what that meant. I immediately dropped to my knees. The baseball bat whistled over my head, and I came up under it, grabbing the second man's arm and slinging him over my shoulder. Halfway through the move, I was hit in the kidneys by the third man. I dropped the second guy and went down as well. My knee crunched on the sidewalk, and I grit my teeth past the pain. Another fist came at me. I ducked, tangling in the body of the second man. Hands on the freezing cement, I swept a leg, knocking the third man to the ground.
I stood, a little unsteadily, my hand on my side. The throbbing was intense, and I had to breathe through my nose to keep from passing out. Pachinko was watching, eyes wide, and backed away slowly.
"You are him... " He shook his head, and backed up another step as I approached him. The other two men were staying down, but groaning quietly. I stepped on one's hand, grinding it under my boot, and he cried out.
"Mikey said you took his gun," Pachinko said. "Figured he was being lazy, but—"
"He was," I snarled, covering the last two feet in time to catch Pachinko by the shirt. I shook him, ignoring the wish to fall to the ground and scream in pain. "But you were being stupid. Don't pick fights with me. You'll lose."
His eyes darted past me, and I tensed. I twisted my hand in his shirt, and pulled him upwards, onto his toes.
"Last chance," I said. "Leave now, and we'll call it even. Stick around, and this will be the last stretch of sidewalk you'll see in this lifetime."
There was scuffling behind me. I didn't move, staring him down. Finally he nodded, very slowly.
"Wiss, Block, it's cool." He laughed nervously. "We're cool... "
I waited until the movements behind me retreated before I stepped back, releasing the man's shirt. He eyed me warily, then nodded to his friends. The three didn't turn their backs on me, gathering up their bats and melting into the dark alleyway, a last wave and nod from the ringleader the only sign the truce had entered effect.
"Fuck," I said to the empty street. I'd been too messy. I'd left miles of openings; Wufei and Heero would probably laugh themselves silly at any replay of my pathetic attempts at self-defense. Hell, I hadn't even had a chance to get at my gun, kept at the back of my jeans, trapped under my long wool coat so neatly buttoned. Stupid. The fight's heat left me in a cold rush of wind; I swayed, prodding gently at my left hip and side through the coat.
I limped halfway to the corner before I had to lean against a shop window. My right cheek felt swollen, and even the chilly wind wasn't going to be enough to keep me from looking horrendous in the morning if I didn't get ice on it soon. I felt exposed on the open street, and I didn't like it one bit. I couldn't let down my guard, but damn if I didn't want to, and badly.
I was a block from Lola's, but she wouldn't understand. She'd probably just fuss and maybe even cry. The chances were pretty much nil that she'd be willing to stay awake with a gun in her hand while I slept. And at that point, I figured that might be the only thing that would let me really rest, really recover – not from the fight – but from the unease it inspired.
Without even really deciding, I took a left and walked two more blocks, not stopping until I was before a plain wooden door. There was a placard for a familiar band pasted on the door, covering a sprawl of graffiti. I took a deep breath, and pushed the door open, heading into the darkness.
At the top of the stairs a thin line of light crept into the hallway from under the door. There were explosions and yelling coming faintly from somewhere in the apartment. I felt like I was sleepwalking, or moving through water, and watched my hand come up and knock, two quiet but brisk raps. The sounds inside the apartment stopped, and I waited, my hand finding its way back to hold in my bruised side. Locks clicked, and the door opened.
"Who the... " Jamie's voice trailed off in a gasp, then came back with a fury. "Cat, what the fuck happened to you—"
"Is it a bad time," I heard myself saying, as though I'd shown up when he'd been sitting down for tea. I sounded distantly polite. "Sorry." I grimaced, and backed up, second-guessing my impulse. "I should—"
"Get in here," Jamie ordered, catching me by the elbow. "Holy fuck, you look like you just got the shit kicked out of you."
"You should see the other guys," I said.
"That's what everyone says," he retorted. Next thing I knew, I was shoved forward, and he jerked my coat off. I groaned something incoherent when he bumped my side, and next thing I knew I was being pushed into a chair. Jamie left and came back a minute later with an ice pack. "Put this on your face." I held it up, and he prodded the bruise on my other cheek where the first punch had clipped me. I jerked my head away from his fingers, and he caught me by the jaw, tilting my head towards the light by the sofa. "Fuck, Cat... no, hold still."
"I'll be fine," I told him, through gritted teeth. "Just need... "
"Your waist?" Jamie asked, pulling my arm away from my hip. "Hip?" He lifted my shirt and I recoiled, hissing through my teeth. "All right," he whispered, "I know, just hold on, let me look." He pushed and prodded, gently, and sat back with an exasperated look. "Cat... "
"Sorry," I muttered, dropping the ice pack. He pushed it back against my face, and I cringed. "That—"
"Of course it hurts, you moron," he snapped. "It's a damn bruise. That's what they do."
"I didn't mean—" I bit back the cold response, and sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm imposing. I just... I was going to... "
"Walk home looking like that, and scare all the neighborhood junkies?" Jamie stood up, shaking his head.
"Is it... " safe here, I wanted to ask. I held the ice to my face with shaking fingers. Jamie had been a soldier. I didn't know for whom or what or why, but it was obvious with every efficient spare move he made. I knew, somehow, that I could trust him, but that wasn't enough. I'd spent my whole life surrounded by people who were either paid to protect me, or chose to protect me, or would because they knew I'd do the same for them. I'd never needed to ask. I didn't know how, and I felt stupid for even admitting I wanted to.
"Cat," Jamie said, coming back to stand by me. He knelt down again, looking up at me. His eyes were almost silvery in the apartment's low light. I felt like an asshole, on top of being an idiot who couldn't handle a fight. Jamie pulled the bag of ice away, looked at my cheek, and moved the ice back into place. "No rush, okay? Just chill out a bit. When you're able to walk more than five steps without wanting to fall over, you can go home. Deal?"
"I want to stay," I blurted out.
Jamie blinked, then nodded slowly. He started to stand, and I could feel panic rising. I caught him by the arm. He sighed, but didn't move.
"Cat," he said, gently.
"I... " I dropped the ice pack and pressed my lips against his. When a heartbeat or two passed and he didn't do anything in return, I pulled away, lowering my eyes. "That wasn't... " I felt broken, and took a breath, gathering my strength to stand. "I should—"
"No, I don't think you're in any shape to be wandering the streets after all," he replied, surprising me. He stood, and pushed me back down in the chair. "Stay there for a bit. You keep the ice on that bruise, and I'll make up the sofa for you."
He smiled as though he found the whole thing very funny, and was gone for several minutes, moving around in the back part of his apartment. When he returned, he beckoned me to the sofa. I laid down, icepack still against my face, grunting at the pressure on my side from the movement. Jamie pulled off my boots and then unfolded a blanket over me. He leaned down, his face only inches from mine.
"Cat," he whispered. "You are one seriously fucked-up kid, you know that?"
"Yeah," I said, closing my eyes.
"Good," Jamie told me. Then his lips were on mine, his tongue pushing into my mouth, and I gasped, letting him in. The kiss was long, and deep, and I found my hand tugging on his shirt again, but for the first time all night I was pulling someone in, not pushing away. But too soon Jamie broke off the kiss, and I opened my eyes to see him grinning at me. "We'll figure it out, if you'll let me help."
I wanted to say yes... but when I opened my mouth, I couldn't. "No," I told him, reluctantly. "There're some things I have to do on my own."
"Yeah, but it doesn't have to be everything." Jamie sighed and stood up. He stopped in the doorway, his hand on the light switch. "If it helps you to sleep, I've got weapons, and I know how to use them. No one will get in here. You're safe, now." He didn't wait for a reply, but flipped off the light.
With those words in my ears, I fell asleep almost instantly.
End Part 7
(:./sol/worst7)
