07-Nov-2004
revised: 09-Nov-2004
Title: Kingfisher
Author: Sol 1056
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: no, don't own 'em... duh.
Archived: sweetlysour and gwaddiction
Critiques: always welcome, natch!
Notes: This really is turning out to be totally unlike my usual style. If you don't think it works, let me know - obviously there's a plot in here, but not all experiments are successful. Hey, it's part of the fun, right?
"I looked at the man; I saw him plain;
Like a dead weed, gray and wan,
Or a breath of dust. I looked again--"
--- Madison Cawein
Duo stares at the picks in his hand, hefting the weight and solidity; the brass sharpness, the flecks of metal plating peeling from the silver. Blue, he decides, and slides the pick into the lock. The tumblers rattle, the wooden door creaks, and swings open under his fingertips. He remembers stories the nuns would read before bed.
"Open sesame," he whispers to the empty apartment.
Relena's directions had been tediously gained, but precise. Only Quatre had had the patience with her struggles, left-handed, to write down what she knew of Heero's life. Duo had not waited, had preferred to go to the ambassadorial residence and pack his few belongings.
Duo frowns, remembering, and steps into the small apartment. The leashes are gone from the door; this means the dog-walker or the upstairs neighbor is out with Heero's dogs. There are mud-caked boots in a small plastic crate by the door, under a table piled with mail. Duo ignores it; Trowa can see to that.
The front room is small; the gray loveseat faces a battered television. The windows are set high, at ground level in the basement apartment; he doubts the intricate bars would be a deterrent to any thief as skilled as he. Bookshelves line the walls between the windows. The books are a riot of colors, typefaces, loud paper and worn leather. He doesn't pause to study them. An empty glass sits on the low table, next to a stack of books. Duo picks up the top book, turning the spine towards the curtained windows. It's a book of French poetry, and he frowns, paging through it, pausing at illuminated images.
He sets it back down, and drifts into the second room, a ghost disturbing dust and dog hairs. The bed is a simple mattress, left on the floor, blanket tousled, pillows scattered. A small lamp rests on the floor; he notes the old laptop sitting nearby. He makes no move to disturb anything. He'll leave that for Trowa.
The third small room holds a table, two chairs, and he realizes the middle room is the only one with a closet. There's food in the fridge, but rotten. He should go shopping while Trowa is at work, he decides. He closes the door, his nose wrinkling at the dirty dishes in the sink. The bathroom is clean but for a dollop of dried shaving cream in the sink; the towels are deep blue. Duo runs his fingers along the towels crumpled into the towel rod.
It's growing dark, and Duo sets his bag down by the bed. The front door creaks open, and he starts, reaching for the gun at the base of his spine. The footstep is familiar, and Duo relaxes, smelling the hint of gun oil and jet fuel. Trowa steps into the bedroom; he's pulling off his jacket and dropping it on the bed. His head is down; he's haggard.
Trowa opens his mouth, as if to speak. His gaze is fixed on a small box on the bedroom's windowsill. Duo frowns, realizing it's one of those picture frames with a folding cover, but he makes no move to pick it up. Trowa closes his eyes, shaking his head with a defeated, tired smile.
Duo cannot bring himself to say anything, to break the moment. They stand, two strangers in Heero's bedroom, as though waiting for Heero's return. The front door clicks, hinges scraping, and both men look up, tensing.
"Just me," someone says, and suddenly there are four dogs surrounding Duo, sniffing him, investigating in a flurry of wagging tails and panting tongues. The young man, in blue jeans and red winter coat and hat, leans into the bedroom, smiling. A fifth dog is behind him, peering at the strangers from between the boy's legs. "I'm Joey. I walk Mr. Yuy's dogs. Mr. Spizzoli said Mr. Yuy isn't going to be back for a while." He gives Trowa a quizzical look. "Are you Mr. Barton?"
"Yes," Trowa says, his voice soft.
"I heard Mr. Yuy was hurt really badly." Joey takes off his cap, scrubbing at short brown hair. "Is he going to be okay?"
"We don't know," Trowa says, and won't say more.
Duo pets the biggest dog, and looks at Joey, waiting. The dog is shaggy and black, with ears cocked up, tongue lolling at the touch.
"That's Brewster," Joey said, with a slight frown, perhaps disappointed by the lack of information. "He was abandoned. The golden retriever is Molly. She was abused, but she seems to be okay now. She has back and hip problems, so don't let her up on the furniture. She won't be able to get down, but I usually find her sleeping on the red pillow on the bed. It's okay if she does that, Mr Yuy told me. The boxer is Buddy. He was thrown out of a car when he was four weeks old. He's six months now, and teething - you can give him ice cubes if he starts chewing on anything."
Duo nods, repeating the names in his head. The dogs swirl around them, black to gold to dark gold tipped with brown. One dog is a brilliant gold-red, and Trowa kneels down to greet him. Duo continues to study the dog-walker, one hand on Brewster's head.
"That crazy one is Rufus. He's an Australian cattle dog. He looks lazy, but he'll herd you in and out of any room when he's in the mood." Joey laughs, and bends down to whistle to Rufus, who's too busy nosing into Duo's bag. The dog's hair is short in patches along his legs and rump; his tail is more skin than fur. "Rufus was kept in a too-small kennel until he was two. He's got a heart murmur and Cushing's disease, but the mange is all cleared up and his sores have healed, so that's good. There's a list in the kitchen of the meds he needs, and when. It's all inside the door of the first cabinet, which is where Mr. Yuy keeps their medicines."
"Okay." Trowa's voice is flat, as though the single word were dragged from him, but Duo is relieved to let Trowa do the talking.
Duo kneels down at Joey's gesture, and waits. Trowa remains standing, but he glances towards the clock by the bed. He probably has to get back to his new job, Duo figures, and knows Trowa won't appreciate any further delay than necessary.
"This is Emily," Joey says, moving out of the doorway to reveal a frightened black Labrador. She's gangly, with big paws that slip on the wooden floors, and she skitters backwards to remain behind Joey. "She was tortured by some kids, but Mr Yuy found her. The rest are part of the local rescue squad rehabilitation program," Joey says, his fingers scratching into Emily's ruff. She moves closer to Joey, and her tail wags slightly, but she never takes her deep brown eyes off Duo. Joey pets her again, coaxing her into the bedroom. "But Emily he found while he was walking the rest of his gang, and I heard... " Joey looks embarrassed. "It's not good to gossip, but I don't believe Mr. Yuy would do something like that. He's a very nice man."
Trowa murmurs something noncommittal, holding out his hand for Emily. She sniffs once, and retreats into the living room.
"She'll hide under the sofa until she's comfortable," Joey says. He stands, brushing off his hands on his jeans. "I've got to run. The information for our service is taped up next to the medications list, and I put up the contact information for Mr. Yuy's vet, and the rescue squad folks. If you have questions, call them. I think Sarah's supposed to be by in two hours to walk them again, unless... " He leaves it hanging.
"That would be good," Trowa says. "They should stay on a regular schedule."
Emily is regarding Duo from under the sofa, wary. Brewster is standing on his foot, leaning into his thigh. Rufus is asleep, using Duo's bag as a pillow. Buddy is chewing on the hem of his jeans, and tugging on his shoelaces; Molly is licking his hand. He feels surrounded.
"We can do that," Joey says. "Mr Spizzoli called my boss when he got the news, and they set it all up. We know Mr Yuy wouldn't want his gang split up."
"Probably better if you could keep walking them until they know me better." Trowa picks up his coat, and walks Joey to the door.
"Yeah, dealing with five at once is a bit much for a newbie," Joey says, unconcerned. He hangs the leashes on the hook by the door and fills out the day's timesheet, leaving it on the table by the front door. Trowa pulls on his coat. They leave together, the door muffling Joey's cheerful chatter.
Duo stares at the four-legged family around him, and wonders what else about his old wartime friend had he missed, in the years gone by.
Trowa's stuff occupies the top right half of the shelf in the closet. Duo considers where to put his own belongings, only to find Buddy has eaten two of his socks. Duo puts his stuff in the bottom of the closet, behind Heero's boxes where Buddy can't get at it.
It's almost dark; Trowa will return in an hour from the position he accepted, temporarily replacing Heero as head of security at the embassy. Duo moves to the living room, but backs away when Emily growls from under the sofa. Rufus leaps up onto the sofa, tail thumping; Brewster joins Rufus and Duo wonders where he would sit, were he to turn on the television.
Another day or two, and Duo will decide what to do with the rest of his time while in Bremen. He's worked his entire life, it seems; yet he cannot bring himself to contemplate such mundane things. He puts it off. Later, he tells himself. He lingers by the phone, noting the lack of messages, and fiddles with his keys. He will visit Heero for the first time in an hour, and he paces the apartment, reluctant, until he ends up by the bookshelves.
Duo frowns, pulling down one title. To Heero, with love, Relena, it says. Another: Happy Freedom Day, from Quatre. And another, with only the date and Wufei's angular signature. There are several from Trowa, on animal care. Duo puts the books back in place, uneasy. There are none from him.
An older book is hidden at the end of the row, a leather spine fraying from handling, and Duo pulls it down. On the inside cover, a spindly hand had written in faded ink: to my dearest scamp. There is no signature. Duo flips through the book, a sorrowful smile gracing his lips. He glances around the small front room; three dogs are sleeping, piled on the sofa. Emily's black tail is visible from underneath; Molly is sitting by the television, watching him curiously.
Duo tucks the book into his jacket pocket, reties his mauled shoelaces, and leaves the apartment. He locks the door behind him, and thinks of the stranger he'd once called a friend.
Dr. Boris isn't around, and the nurses have no time to answer his questions. He glances at the computer screen on the desk: emergency in the pediatric ward. Duo frowns, tempted to wait, but decides against it. He can't go in alone, but he doesn't want to pester the doctor if he's busy with a dire case.
"I'll come back tomorrow," he says, waving over his shoulder.
Down the hall and around the corner, and he pulls out the schedule of rounds he'd lifted from the desk while the nurse was busy looking up the doctor's location. He studies the times, the names, and tucks the paper away.
Outside, the air is cool, thick with earth and the smells of the city, early winter winds chafing his face and tugging on his braid. Duo purchases coffee and prowls the hospital, studying the old building, walking the alleyways. He thinks of Heero, walking four dogs but stopping to rescue a fifth. He thinks of street kids, tormenting an animal for their own entertainment. He thinks of white knights and helpless maidens, but the maiden is small and black, with large brown eyes that begged for peace.
Two hours, three cups of coffee, and Duo pisses in the alley rather than show his face in the hospital again. He lets his braid slither down his back, inside his jacket, and zips up the leather. Checking his tools, he climbs up on a dumpster, and from there to the first level of windows.
The city does not echo like a colony; it's a place of dark noise, running under Duo's harsh breathing as he spider-walks the wall. Car horns, traffic, a siren in the distance; laughter from the coffee shop's outside stand down at the mouth of the alley. Someone rides a bike across the battered alley pavement, two floors below Duo. He grits his teeth, hooks his fingers over the window ledge, and pulls himself up higher.
He reviews his memories, certain he's at the proper window, and checks the security latch. Easily navigated, the lock pops and the window slides open. The curtains are not drawn. By moonlight and the slurring hush of machines pumping blood, medicines, draining fluids, he drops into the room, crouched by the window.
There's movement at the bed, quick, startled. Duo rises, sliding the window shut all but an inch. He ghosts towards the bed, settling comfortably into the chair set as though it were waiting for a guest. The occupant of the bed is awake, sitting halfway up, eyes dark holes in the blue city light.
"Hey, Heero," Duo whispers. He coils his muscles, braced to leap away despite noting the restraints on Heero's wrists and upper arms. The leather and metal is heavy, but the bed's guards shown signs of bending. Heero shifts, his knees coming up protectively; the sheets glow white in the light of the monitor over the bed.
"Who you are," Heero says, hoarse and tight.
"Duo." He waits, not sure, and studies Heero's expression; the gaze towards the window, back to the door.
"Get out me," Heero tells him. "I need to... I'm... " He stops, frown chasing confusion across his face.
"Prisoner," Duo whispers, a question.
"Pie pan," Heero replies, nodding. "I need to... "
"You can't, buddy, not yet," Duo says. He shifts in the chair; his skin crawls from tracking the words and quicksilver frowns. Carefully, slowly, he pulls the book from his pocket. "Recognize this?"
Heero's eyes narrow, and he lunges. Metal scrapes, groans, and Heero falls back, panting. His gaze darts between the book and Duo.
"You how did that get," Heero spits. He rattles the restraints, and Duo tenses, listening for footsteps, voices in the hall. No one comes. Heero leans forward again, grunting at the effort. "Mine, that's, my that's--"
"Book," Duo says, and nods. He flips the book open, tilting it to let the blue moonlight run down the page, filling the white spaces between the black ink. "It's your book. I have it. I can't get you out of here, not yet. They can take better care of you than we can. It's only for a little while... "
Heero starts to speak, then freezes. He shakes for a moment, and gives Duo a puzzled look, melting into suspicion. "Are you who," he says, his eyes wide, almost scared.
Duo blinks, intuitively leaping after Heero's question, and gives Heero a smile. "Duo," he says again. "I'm on your side."
"Alley-way," Heero asks, a hesitant question.
"I came down... " Duo pauses, seeing Heero's cocked head, intent expression. No, Duo thinks; this is not literal. This is sound, this is a break between what is said and heard, what is thought and said. He recalls the doctors' distant rumbling: neuronal shearing, axial injury. Duo gives Heero a quick shrug. "Yeah. Allies."
"Alley-way," Heero repeats, then sees the book. His eyes go wide. "Mine," he says, hoarse and frightened. "My that's--"
"Your book," Duo agrees, holding it up. The leather is oily from years of hands, fingerprints across the surface; it glistens dully in the half-light. "See, I have this. So it's cool, right?"
"You have this," Heero says, and shakes his head. "Duo. Duo. Duo."
Duo draws in breath, hissing. If Heero begins to panic, there's nothing he can do but flee and try again later, or not at all. He's read the records, he's done his research, he's done his best to listen when the doctors spoke, but it's not the same, seeing Heero, tied down and glowing white in a simple gown and sheets, surrounded by machines.
He thinks of the book in his hand, the stories he could tell. Heero is not sleeping, nor is he dreaming. Heero is lost. Duo wishes for breadcrumbs.
"Shh," Duo whispers, coaxing. "Just lie back, and listen."
He looks at the page, and takes a deep breath, letting the words resolve themselves into sense. A glance up, and he sees Heero is watching, mouth open, brow furrowed. Heero waits, and Duo acknowledges the moment before bending his head to read the small, antique letters.
"Once upon a time," Duo reads, "A King was once hunting in a great wood, and he hunted the game so eagerly that none of his courtiers could follow him. When evening came on he stood still and looked round him, and he saw that he had quite lost himself. He sought a way out, but could find none... "
He reads until his throat is sore. Heero is asleep, on his side, face turned towards Duo, a smile on his lips. Duo stands. Heero comes instantly awake, dark eyes tracking Duo's movements.
"Are you who," Heero whispers, arms jerking sleepily against the restraints. "You part earth... shit," he mutters, shaking his head, frustrated. "Shit, shit."
"Duo. I'm an ally," Duo says. "Shh, Heero."
"Why you leave soon," Heero says, breaking off his soft berating. He struggles to sit up, but freezes when Duo puts out a hand. "Who you... "
"I'll be back before you know it," Duo assures him, and slides the window open. The book is safe in his pocket, and he checks the clock on the wall before dropping out the window in a controlled leap. The night nurses' footsteps are a distant echo. Duo catches his weight with his fingers on the sill. Shoving up with his boots toed against the concrete, he shuts the window over his head.
Duo lowers his weight, and begins the climb back down to the alley. He thinks of the words: alley, ally. He thinks of the king, lost in the wood with no path home. He thinks of Heero, dark eyes watching him from the darkness. He pays no mind to the sting of the wind pushing water across his cheek. The concrete is dry, but he's certain it must be raining.
End Part 2
(:./sol/kf2)
