Title: Kingfisher
Author: Sol 1056
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: no, don't own 'em... duh.
Archived: sweetlysour and gwaddiction
Critiques: always welcome, natch!
"And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang"
--- Alfred Lord Tennyson
Duo sleeps during the day, while Trowa works. The time passes in half-light, curtains drawn, and he dreams of swans and princesses. When he wakes, he can hear the leashes slapping against the wall, settling into place. The front door shuts, locks, and then there's the click of paws against wooden floors. Molly returns to her pillow, nuzzling Duo's face before lying down, the broad sweep of her golden tail thumping gently on his chest.
He gets up when a neighbor's footsteps echo in the hall, coming home from work. He showers, shaves, dresses; he stands over the laptop, reading emails, not bothering to answer. The dogs weave between his legs, mutters and snorts and light growls, demanding his attention.
He checks the list of medications, but Trowa's neat hand has marked off the pills for the day, a reference for the dog-walkers, the neighbor, whomever else might be moving through this apartment of no pictures and too many books. Duo wanders from the front room to the back again, into the kitchen, through the bedroom, aimless. In the living room, Emily watches from under the sofa, her gaze never leaving him, and he sits for a long time with his back against the wall, watching her in return.
Brewster sleeps on the sofa, snoring with his nose pressed against a pillow; Buddy is curled in the small spot between Brewster's legs and the end of the sofa. Rufus sits next to Duo, then leans into him. For so long, Duo has had no time, no energy for anything but the endless artificial days of engines, spare parts, metal that cuts his palms and grease that turns his fingernails to black half-moons. There has been no one to lean against him, but Rufus is patient; warm weight against Duo's chest. The dog's breath is hot and fast on Duo's arm, and Duo scratches Rufus absently, watching Emily watch him.
At length he stands, stretches, and the dogs cluster around him, eager for a walk. Duo hesitates, then decides. If nothing else, he tells himself, he can practice. There is something Heero learned, in the absence of their friendship, that Duo did not teach. He wonders what he hadn't known, what emptiness they had not filled that let the distance be so easily accepted.
Perhaps, he muses, he should learn it, himself.
He collects the leashes, seeing the names machine-embroidered in stylized patterns, and hooks up each dog. He's surprised that even Emily consents to his nearness long enough to be leashed. He opens the door and lets the five dogs lead him to the park.
He speaks to no one while he walks. Duo knows Hilde would not believe it, nor would those who insist they know him best. He doesn't want to laugh, to joke, to pretend; he wants to accept the silence of twilight, stretching shadows across the bike path. The dogs move at their own pace; Brewster and Molly the slowest, Rufus leading forward and back, around and tangling the leashes until Duo is tied in knots.
Emily hovers close to Buddy, who digs for a few seconds, sniffs intently, barks at Duo, and dashes off to find a new spot. Emily remains, frightened, regarding Duo with a puzzled look as though she's waiting for something. He calls her name and she flinches.
He wonders what is required to gain trust from something that cannot speak.
The movie is predictable, but Duo doesn't mind; the theater is a place of warmth and darkness to wait for the right time. The pretty girl and chiseled-jaw hero have the same choices, the same words, the same story; help comes at the right time, the war ending in peace for the good guys. Duo's memories of war have only blood, too-young faces, desperation, and a singular princess who now lies in traction. It's the painful consequence of heartbreak that the stories never tell.
Outside the hospital, he once again considers and impulsively discards the option to meet with Heero while a doctor is present. He avoids the main doors, turns, heads down the alley. In the early night, the streetlights cut a beam of bright, angling across the sidestreet, leaving the rest in pitch-black. The shadows wreath him in darkness; he scales the walls easily.
He thinks of the book in his jacket pocket, and the story he will tell. He thinks of the dogs, waiting at home for Trowa's return after dinner, and the story they might tell. He thinks of his fingers, digging into the crevice between concrete and mortar, and the story he'll never tell.
Heero comes awake when Duo slips through the window. This night, a soft light glows near the bed. It illuminates Heero's face and shoulders, a soft golden wash across his skin, turning the paper-white hospital gown to cream. The right side of Heero's face is calm, impassive; the left side is frightened, worried. Heero's face shifts and reacts, his shoulders hunching. Duo realizes that the right side is always a half-beat behind. That shoulder not as high, the rattling restraint not as loud.
Duo settles into the chair, and pulls out his braid, draping it over his chest.
"I'm Duo," he says, and Heero frowns, an uneven scowl. Duo brings out the book. "Recognize this?"
"My book," Heero replies, eyes wide. He reaches, caught back by the restraints, and gives Duo an angry look. "Skylight! Skylight!" He glares at the restraints, his voice a hissing whisper. "Skylight!"
Again Duo must leap after Heero's mind, trusting the sense and not the sound. He understands, and gives Heero a small, unhappy smile.
"I can't undo that, Heero," he says. "You're safe here. These people can take care of you."
"Stairs fall down," Heero tells him, eyes narrowed, gaze darting between the door, the window. He twitches, awkward jerks, before Duo realizes Heero is trying to see the machines over his shoulder. Heero ducks his head, whispering intently. "Stairs, remember, running mission practice. But, here no tells. Get out here."
"You remember falling down the stairs... " Duo says, piecing the images together, following the bits of candy and apple laid before him. "A practice mission, and you fell?"
Heero nods abruptly, his good shoulder lurching with the motion. He glares at the book in Duo's hand, but the glare slides away as Heero jerks upright, restraints beating against the bars.
"Who are," Heero says, panting. "Not tell anything!"
"Shh," Duo replies, seeing the shift, the recognition gone instantly. He holds up the book, and begins again. Every tale is the same, but only the opening lines. From there, the boy may win his love, or the girl may win her freedom. "You know this book? This means you can trust me. I'm Duo."
"Duo," Heero repeats, and chews his lower lip, just the left side of his mouth. Uneven, hesitant; he glances around, tries to lean forward. "Get out me," he pleads. "Want home."
"Not yet," Duo tells him. "Nothing will happen to you here. You'll get better, and then you can leave."
"Butter, bread," Heero says, unconvinced. "Mission dangles rustic had, not tell earth... shit!" He frowns, clenches his left fist. His right hand tightens, then loosens. "Shit, shit, shit--"
"Earth," Duo repeats, puzzled, heart rushing, breath coming fast. He can't keep up, leaping along the precipices of Heero's words. "Earth Sphere Alliance?"
Heero nods, and brings up his hands. He can raise them only a few inches from the bar, his fists at chest-height as he sits in the bed.
"No, you're not being held by them," Duo says. "This hospital is... an ally."
"Eyeball?" Heero looks surprised. "Eyeball," he murmurs, staring down at his arms. He shakes his head. "Drugs, want interrupt," and Duo is uncertain; the words slur in Heero's lips, trapped by unwilling muscles. "Practice mission end stairs, report base."
Always the mission, Duo sighs, and manages a smile. "No, Heero," in the gentlest tone he can manage. "You don't need to report in." He remembers the stories, whispered at night in dorm rooms, across ten feet, ten miles between strangers. "That's what I'm here for. Every night, you report to me, and I'll pass the word along." He's not sure what they're telling Heero during the day, but interrogation would have been his first fear at fourteen, too.
Then again perhaps that is where his likeness to Heero might end. He opens the book to the second story.
"There was once upon a time an old king who was ill and thought to himself, 'I am lying on what must be my deathbed'," Duo read. "Then he said, 'tell Faithful John to come to me.' Faithful John was his favorite servant, and was so called, because he had for his whole life long been so true to the king."
The days stretch cold into winter, frost on the panes when Duo closes the curtains. Every morning he returns to find them open, dawn glittering on the patterns, crystal shattering early light. He closes them, crouches down to greet Emily in her place under the sofa, and crawls into bed. Some mornings the bed is warm, perhaps from Trowa; some mornings it's perhaps from the dogs.
Mid afternoon, he wakes, showers, walks the dogs, and leaves for downtown. The cab ride is ten minutes, and he doesn't care about the expense. The minutes pass; he watches the city roll past him and he lets it go. Stories echo in his head, and he thinks of the girl draped in the donkey skin, the boy with the goose under his arm. Children, lost in the wood, and if not for the taxi driver, Duo could not find his way home.
Relena is doing better, he hears, and he sends flowers. Quatre is back at work, but keeps in touch with email and news; Wufei has accepted an assignment out of the country but emails when he can. None speak of Duo's failure to visit Heero. They are patient, accepting that he will go when he is ready.
He never sees Trowa; their schedules miss each other, until a day two weeks after they began to share Heero's apartment, trading off days and nights. Duo is in the living room when Trowa leaves the bedroom. Duo still wearing his jacket, nose cold, lips chapped from the morning chill. He's emptied his pockets on the table and is unzipping his jacket.
Trowa pauses at the door, hand on the doorknob, and stares down at the book, a thin line between his brows. He picks up the book, flips it open, and smiles at the pages. Duo tenses; he and Trowa have never been close, and the extended close quarters worries him sometimes. He fears his presence annoys Trowa too much, so he's been keeping his distance. He hadn't meant to arrive back so early, before Trowa had left for work. But Trowa's smile catches him off-guard, so Duo doesn't apologize. He simply waits.
"I know these stories," Trowa murmurs, and sets the book back down. He picks up his briefcase and leaves; the smile lingers on his lips, tinged with sadness.
Duo remains, the book momentarily forgotten on the table.
Three weeks have passed, Duo realizes, seeing a string of lights in a shop window. Soon, the year will end and take with it all the days and nights, into a new beginning.
The street lamps blink out, caught in the beams of an oncoming car, then flicker into life as Duo passes beneath them. He watches his breath form before him, passing through the smoke. It disperses behind him. At the hospital, he picks the lock and slips through the basement service door, moving down empty hallways. His passage is silent, a breath of air that dissipates at the sound of approaching footsteps, and no one knows when he has come and gone.
No one but the boy in room 417-B, who is awake and waiting.
"Duo," says the boy, a young man with a boy's half-smile. Duo is taken aback, startled to hear his name before he's spoken.
"Heero," Duo replies, and sits in the chair that always seems to be ready for him. He brings out the book, and checks his place, but does not read. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," Heero tells him, gravely. He frowns, and looks pointedly towards the door. "Doctors question, soon get out?"
"Soon," Duo promises. "They can help you here. This hospital is the best."
"Say hospital, but feels prison," Heero retorts, but it's a mild grumble. His hands clatter when he tries to cross his arms, and he sulks. "Want home."
"I know, and they'll... " Duo catches himself. The story isn't the same if he changes even a word. "We want you to come home soon, too. But you just have to trust us."
"Jay," Heero says, ducking his head. His fingers play across the blankets; he's sitting almost cross-legged. His left shoulder is lower, his left arm moves in soft gestures while his right arm swings up, making the metal clash against the hospital bed's bars. "Mad me," he murmurs, a forlorn tone. "Always mad if fail... "
"Doctor J," Duo realizes, tracking the words, inserting the lead frame between the bright words of Heero's stained-glass speech. "He's not mad at you. He's... proud of you." Duo stares down at the book, recalling the dedication, and Relena's words from years before. "He calls you his scamp."
Heero flushes. His smile turns impish.
"How did you get that nickname?" Duo knows he's leaving the story behind. He's asking for a fairy godmother, an old woman on the road, a kindly peasant, invoking one where none will appear. He promises himself that later he will find a way to create that magic, if he can hear Heero's answer.
Heero only shrugs, but he looks pleased with himself. His blue eyes glitter under his eyelashes, watching Duo carefully. Duo brings one ankle up to rest it on his knee, settling back, and Heero flinches at the movement. His gaze never leaves Duo, and for a long moment, Duo watches Heero, watching him.
Finally Duo drops his gaze, and opens the book.
"There was once a wizard who used to take the form of a poor man, and went to houses and begged, and caught pretty girls," he reads. "No one knew whither he carried them, for they were never seen again. Then one day, he appeared before the door of a man who had three pretty daughters."
A week of stories pass, a week of cold nights and empty hallways, of computers whirring at the business center while Duo tweaks the design on one of his projects for Hilde. He reviews the metrics and considers the shape of circuits, beams of light, story-bound. He carries the book with him everywhere. While the system processes, beeps, a low hum of electricity carrying his design into three dimensions, he reads by the light of the screen.
At midnight he takes his mid-shift break, waving to the night guard, the slim volume in his jacket pocket. The usual cab is waiting outside, and Duo says nothing to the driver; he would open his mouth and speak of gyroscopic bulkheads and bolts of silk that weave themselves while the household sleeps.
The hospital sleeps, nurses drowsing at their stations, and none see Duo pass, a shape in black, braid swaying behind him. At Heero's room, the door is open, the low night-light on. Heero is awake, anxious.
"Duo!" Heero bursts out. He struggles with the restraints, his right arm barely moving. He kicks with his left leg, and metal creaks. "Duo," Heero says again, beckoning frantically.
"Heero, shh," Duo says, and for once he comes to stand close to the bed. Heero's hair is wild, his eyes angry and intense. "What's wrong?"
"War," Heero tells him. "Today the doctors told war," the words dropping away in the rush of his fear and anger. "Told them not war, but say four years and don't recall that long." He drops his chin, his eyes fixed on Duo, narrowed, furious. "Not stupid. I've trained, and know when I'm giving drugs. You have get out!"
"Shh," Duo replies, his hand falling on Heero's arm. "Quiet. If you speak loudly, the nurses will hear you and I'll have to leave."
"Please take," Heero cries, grabbing for Duo. "Leave, don't."
"I'm not, just calm down." Duo can't think.
He doesn't know where the trail leads, and he thinks of Heero's stories, the times he's read out loud while Heero drowsed into sleep, a childish smile on his lips. He realizes he has no happy ending, or perhaps this is the story where there is none. Duo looks down to see Heero is grasping his hand, tightly, white-knuckled, but it does not hurt. Heero does not have the strength back, yet.
"You're them with," Heero says, when Duo doesn't respond. He jerks his hand away, but Duo catches it.
"Heero," Duo says, with a sigh. "You were trained to fly a Gundam."
"Wing," Heero replies, eyes wide, stunned.
"I'm the pilot of Deathscythe," Duo tells him, desperate under a veneer of calm. "I was trained by one of the scientists, too."
"Train car," Heero spits, pulling back, shaking his head. "Train car!"
Duo blinks, hesitates, and listens; Heero's face is closed-down, on guard. His hands form claws, ready to defend. The muscles quiver under Heero's skin, one shoulder held higher. The left side of Heero's face is inscrutable, but for the furrow between the brows; the right side mirrors it exactly. Expression gone, stony; betrayal is hiding in the set of the down-turned mouth.
Traitor, it says.
"No," Duo tells him, but Heero won't look his way. "I'm one of the good guys. I'm on your side."
Heero doesn't respond, his gaze fixed on a point across the room. Duo reaches into his jacket, and pulls out the book. He sets it on the bed, in Heero's lap, but Heero doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge him.
"I'm sorry," Duo whispers, aching in the silence. "I'll leave now."
He walks slowly, just in case, but Heero doesn't call him back.
End Part 3
(:./sol/kf3)
