26-Apr-2000
Heat stroke turned into fever, and fever into the rapid deterioration of Trowa's physical condition. The doctor was summoned, but even he couldn't explain the alternating periods of burning fever and wracking chills that afflicted the young man. "My guess would be that his body is finally breaking down from prolonged periods of intense stress, but that's just my best guess. There is certainly no indiction of bacterial or viral infection."
"What do we need to do then, doctor?" the kind bartender asked, his eyes shaded with concern.
"Nothing really. We can move him into the city hospital for observation and treatment, but without funds, it's unlikely that we can get him admitted. The alternative - if you're willing - is for him to stay here. This room is adequate, certainly; bright and airy. He doesn't actually require medical treatment though he would need constant observation and care. In the meantime, we can try to track down his family and friends. Chances are they are also looking for him. It should not be long before he is reunited with them, and off your hands."
The bartender looked at his daughter. "Well, Katya," he said, his voice solemn. "Do you think we can do it together?" he asked her.
The little girl pursed her lips, a serious expression on her young face as she carefully considered her father's question, then she nodded emphatically. "Yes, papa. I think we can do it together."
The doctor smiled, placing a gentle hand on the bartender's arm. "You're a good man, Trevor. I'll come back every other day just to check on him and make sure he's doing okay, but if you need anything at all, just send Katya down to the clinic to holler for me."
"I'll do that, doc. Thank you."
No, Trevor. Thank -you-, the doctor mused, taking a final look at the young man as he drifted in and out of a fevered delirium - vivid emerald green eyes closed, his face terribly pale, skin alternately cold and clammy, or burning and slicked with sweat. "Rest easy, boy," he said, gently brushing sweat-soaked locks from the fevered brow. "We'll have you back with your family soon enough."
"Duo's regained consciousness," Quatre reported as he hung up the phone after his usual daily conversation with Sally. "Heero's condition is improving steadily, and they hope he'll wake soon so that they can discharge both of them. Duo won't leave without Heero, and in the meantime, he's driving all the hospital staff insane."
"Better them than us," Wufei chuckled grimly, the edges of his mouth quirking up slightly - a barely tangible betrayal of relief at the good news. "Sally still doesn't know where we are, does she?"
"No. And she will never know where we are. She cannot betray what she does not know."
Wufei tensed at the chill edge in Quatre's toneless voice. Damn. He hoped - perhaps naively - that the few precious days of rest they'd had thus far would manage to thaw out his friend. I should have known better, he realized. Trowa's apparent betrayal had hurt too badly, had cut too deep into Quatre's soul. The Arabian would not forgive and forget so easily. "We're going to have to get word to Heero and Duo though, so that they can find us," he pointed out reasonably.Quatre shrugged, the action dismissive. "In due time. When they are ready to join us, they will be told where to find us."
[[ Three weeks later ]]
"Duo and Heero took off last night!" there was a very subtle edge of panic in Sally's usually calm and assured voice as she spoke over the phone. "The two idiots just walked out of the hospital and no one even bothered to stop them! After all, the hospital bill would be forwarded to their respective homes for settlement!"
"Calm down, onna," Wufei grated. "Where were they going?"
"If they had bothered to tell me do you think I would have been this angry?!"
"We'll start looking out for them. Meanwhile -"
Meanwhile... there was a smart, sharp rap on the metallic frame of the tent.
The Chinese boy hung up the phone abruptly without even a token farewell, then reached for his sword even as he began to move towards the tent entrance. "Who the hell knows we are here?!" he demanded of Quatre in a whisper as he strode silently over to the tent flap.
"No one," Quatre murmured the reply, reaching for the gun Wufei hadn't even realized he was carrying.
"Let us in. We know you're there," a flat, slightly nasal voice demanded, muffled by the material of the tent.
A familiar voice.
"Heero!" Wufei uncharacteristically tossed caution to the wind and pulled the tent flap open to reveal Duo's grinning face and Heero's usual non-expression.
"Heero who?" Duo smirked as he sauntered in, long braid swaying. "He's Kreon Delaney, and I'm Julien Rakehell. We're both delighted to make your acquaintance. And who might -you- be?"
"Baka," Heero snorted, moving past Duo and heading straight for the computer. "We don't have time to waste."
"How did you find us?" Quatre demanded, "We covered our trail -"
"But not well enough to deter Spandex-Boy," the braided pilot - obviously possessed of a death wish - chortled loudly. "What do you have to eat around here? Mr. Heero 'Perfect Soldier' Yuy was in such a huge rush to link back up with you guys that he didn't stop along the way to let me eat. I'm about to faint from fatigue and starvation."
"Then maybe you should stop talking and save your energy, Maxwell." Wufei glared at the loudmouthed American. He'd almost forgotten how much he both missed... and loathed... Duo's presence.
"Trowa's here," Heero said flatly, his fingers already flying over the computer keyboard, issuing one search instruction after another.
A moment of stunned silence.
Then two incredulous voices speaking in unison: "What?!"
"He's here," Duo chirped, already rifling through the chiller for ice-cream. "We were flying low, looking for a place to land. Then we saw Heavyarms. It crash-landed in the mountains - probably ran out of fuel; even the reserve tanks were completely empty."
"Trowa -"
"No sign of him," the braided pilot pulled his head out of the chiller, triumphantly waving a small tub of 'cookies and cream' ice-cream. Ignoring Wufei's warning glower, he grabbed a spoon and started digging into the deliciously cold treat. "How do you -handle- the heat, Quatre?" The violet eyes latched onto a keg cooling in ice. "Beer?!" Ice-cream momentarily forgotten, he grabbed a mug and poured out for himself a large, frothing serving of beer.
But the scrunched-up expression he offered to Heero when he tried to wash ice-cream down with beer was priceless. Even the perfect soldier's stoically impassive expression gave way to shielded amusement for a brief second. "Yuck!" Duo tried to rinse the taste of beer flavoured cookies and cream ice-cream from his mouth, then he glared viciously at the offending mug of beer. "Note to self:" he announced firmly. "Never drink beer while eating ice-cream ever again."
"Baka." Heero turned back to the computer, a very, very faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
"Trowa -"
"Oh yes, Trowa," Duo continued, apparently determined never to let Wufei complete the sentence, or the question, or whatever the heck it was supposed to be. Setting the beer aside for now, he concentrated on depleting Quatre's supply of ice-cream. "No sign of him. Probably made it out alive - there are tracks going down the mountain, at least a couple of weeks old."
"And you've seen no sign of him?" Heero demanded, cobalt blue eyes sweeping through the information rolling rapidly across the computer screen. "He's left no electronic trail."
"I could have told you that," Quatre mentioned briefly. "There's no sign of him at all. Perhaps he did not survive the desert."
Duo paused, the icy edge of Quatre's voice freezing him to the core of his being. He looked up slowly, the ice-cream forgotten, his violet eyes questioning, boring intently into Quatre's blue ones, demanding an explanation. "-We- survived the desert," he ventured cautiously, never taking his attention off Quatre, perhaps expecting that the Arabian might do something to give away the true nature of the problem.
"We knew where we were going," Heero stated the obvious. "We landed only ten miles out and walked the rest of the way in. Trowa landed at least a hundred and fifty miles from the closest outpost, and would have found his way there only if he knew which way to go - which I doubt. The likelihood that he did -not- head in the direction of the outpost is at least 99.9898 percent."
Duo glared at Heero, furious that he could so calmly recite Trowa's survival rate (or lack thereof) with such cool and steady tones. Then the glare shifted to Quatre, furious that the Arabian could so calmly - and so callously! - accept this news.
Heero was unfazed. "Until we find his mortal remains, we have to assume he's alive, and that means we have to hunt him down. He knows far too much about us."
"We'll start with inquiring at the outpost," Quatre decided. "Get your things - we leave now."
End Part 5
(:./danyale/true5)
