19-Apr-2001
Title: Cold Comfort, A Duo and Heero Out-take
Author: TB
Archive: yes please at GW Addiction
Category: pov piece
Pairing: 2, 1
Rating: PG
Warnings: slight language
Spoilers: for one ep
Notes: The POV switches back and forth between Duo and Heero. I'm not labelling them, I hope it's obvious enough. Starts off with Duo, though.
Feedback: feed me! You all know where.
Disclaimers. I will not own GW in any reasonably near amount of time (like the rest of my life), so I'm borrowing the characters for this. Please to not sue.
Man, you think *you're* down in the dumps. I've lived on ginger beer and applesauce for two weeks now. I ran out of kleenex and I just got a cold, and when I tell you I *never* get colds maybe the fact that I am dribbling snot down my chin as I gripe all this at you will seem more significant. I don't have any clean clothes, because I only own one pair of clothes, not counting one of Quatre's pink shirts, which I wouldn't otherwise be caught dead in. The heater isn't working and every time I open up the vent to go find out why, I get assaulted by this rat the size of a small pony. Hey, obviously it's the rat's territory. My bad. But to make this deplorable situation worse, as if it needed any help, the most awful thing I can think of has happened.
Heero Yuy arrived to take care of me.
Now, granted, you wouldn't think that's so awful. I mean, he's a superman, right? Never ill, never faltering (unless he's shooting Relena), never *speaking* so far as I can tell. But that's the problem. He'll drive me nuts. Bonkers. No more Duo Maxwell, no sir. I'll just drown myself in my breakfast applesauce and end the pain.
He doesn't talk to me. He doesn't pay any attention to me. Not that I'm horribly needy or something-I mean, I grew up pretty self-sufficient. Solo wasn't a top-notch baby-sitter, and Father Maxwell and Sister were usually busy enough without me underfoot. G certainly had better things to do than waste idle chit-chat on a nosy, mouthy brat like me. But I mean, it's *freaky* to have someone else in the room with you and go for hours on end without hearing more from him than a joint popping or his sneaker brushing the carpet.
So what the hell is he here for? Am I not miserable enough without him around? Hold on-gotta blow my nose. Oh wait, I don't have tissue. Maybe Quatre's old shirt'll come in handy after all.
Sorry. Where was I? Right. Being miserable. Okay, look, I realise I'm being bitchy and ungrateful. But you put yourself in my shoes, okay? I genuinely like Heero. It's cool to be fighting a hopeless war with someone who laughs like a psycho whenever he kills somebody. Makes me feel a little better about declaring myself the God of Death. It's great to go to school under assumed identities with a kid who gets perfect 110%'s no matter how boring the assignment. Makes me feel competitive enough to actually turn my work in, instead of blowing it off, the way I did when I went to the Federation school. It's great to do normal kid things like play basketball with someone who's even more intense about winning than me, though I'd prefer if he stopped wearing his spandex short-shorts while we play. It's honest-to-God nice to be around someone who doesn't ask anything more of me than everything I can give-my absolute best, because to expect any less of me wouldn't be respecting my abilities-even if I have three broken ribs and a concussion and it's all I can do to walk straight, much less fly a stolen shuttle whose controls I may or may not have seen before *ever* in my short life.
But I don't want to live with him.
The first day he let me walk around, at least. Even a kid who used to amuse himself by staring at a wall until he saw spots gets bored in a tiny boarded-up, termite-riddled death-trap of a condemned building. Lying in bed with even that hallowed pleasure losing its charm, I get so bored I start chewing my leg off just for kicks.
He brought age-old remedies to care for my cold. He spoon-feeds me chicken noodle soup from a can and smears some kind of cough-suppressant that smells like piss all over my chest (never-mind that it burns my flesh off). He gives me seltzer water instead of milk and makes me spit up all the shit draining down the back of my throat. He gives me frickin' sponge baths.
It's not that I don't appreciate the care. I mean, he doesn't have to do anything, doesn't have to be here. But I'd almost rather he had just showed up at the door, delivered a bag full of FDA-approved happy pills, and turned right back around and left. The silence will kill me, if this cold doesn't.
I wish he would just *say* something. To be honest, I don't care about the cold. I'll live, right? But I can't stand being in a house with someone who won't even open up his stupid mouth to tell me why he cares enough to sit there all day and drive me nuts while I get better.
I wish he would shut up.
He talks all the time. It's driving me insane. What is wrong with him? I can't even blame his illness, because that first day when he brought me and Wing to Howard's floating MS-factory he all but babbled my ears off. And now it's even worse, because he's so stuffed up I can't understand half of what he says.
Does he just take for granted that I went out of my way to come here and endure this? It's not easy, you know, and while a little gratitude isn't necessary, it wouldn't hurt. When Quatre mentioned that the last time he'd spoken to Duo, the American had looked like a mess and mumbled something about lying low for a while, I'd actually been worried about him. I've never been honestly worried about any other person in existence before him. And he doesn't even bother to thank me when I show up to take care of him, like this is easy for me, like I've ever done it before, like I'm not reaching out to him the way he was begging me to do that first day on Howard's boat.
He makes me so angry sometimes I'm amazed that I can keep up my pretence of just ignoring him, instead of leaping at him and strangling him. He's not an easy person to get along with, you know! He's constantly in my face. He's always pushing for more, even when I'm bone tired and it's all I can do not to put a fist in his face-not that I've always managed that. He's so immature. He pushes all my buttons just because he can.
Don't misunderstand me. I... I genuinely like Duo. I wouldn't put up with him otherwise. But it isn't easy. I'm not good with people, and while it's great that he always introduces me to all those friends he makes so easily at the schools we go to, we both know I'll never fit in, and that hurts. In battle, he never mocks me when the rage and the insanity of it all catches up with me and the only way to let it out is to laugh-pretend it doesn't scare me-but when I look at his face on the viewscreen and I see those weird purple eyes go flat and dead, it's like I'm being forced to face all the deaths I've ever been responsible for. It's fun, and I've never really had any fun before, to play games with him, but whenever I make a decision to let him win a game, just this once, he acts like he's mortally offended and won't be satisfied unless I completely rub his ass in defeat. And it's impressive, really impressive, that he tries so hard to hide it when he's hurt, but when I go along with him and pretend not to notice, either, I can feel him glaring at me like I've done something wrong. So what else am I supposed to do? He drives me to it. He makes me angry, and I don't know what else to do but ignore him, so I won't shoot him.
I definitely can't stand living with him.
First of all, the place he chose is just-well, it's idiotic to think that he can recover his health here. Couldn't he find someplace that doesn't scream death-trap? I tried to open one of the windows and when I tore off the boarding, it fell apart to rot in my hands. I think somebody died in that bed he sleeps in, if I'm supposed to judge by the stain on the mattress. Every time I move five feet, I step on a spider or a roach. I wouldn't let him walk after he nearly squished some kind of neon-orange insect with his bare feet. Can't he see those things? I shouldn't have to tell him why I don't want him out of bed. Not to mention that half the time he's got a fever, and in the name of God, how much snot can one person produce? Why the hell won't he use tissues? I hate, absolutely *hate*, the sound of someone sniffling.
I even brought all those things that Quatre recommended, the chicken noodle soup, the vapour rub, the hot washcloths and tea with honey for a sore throat. I don't want him to get all fuzzy on over-the-counter drugs, in case we have to move for some reason, and also because I know he'd fight the lack of control. I do, anyway, and just because he hides it doesn't mean that he's not just as afraid of losing control as me. So why does he glare at me all day long? I'm not deliberately trying to make him miserable. I'm trying to help him! A little gratitude wouldn't hurt. It really just wouldn't hurt. Damn it.
I rolled over onto my stomach and experimented with breathing through my nose. No. No luck. Actually I ended out choking myself, and started coughing like my toes were in danger of taking a trip up my esophagus. To my surprise, Heero was there almost immediately, helping me sit up when I got dizzy from lack of air and rubbing my back, where the pain was starting to work its way through.
When it was finally over, I sagged in his arms. Everything felt fuzzy and the room was reeling. I wiped my mouth on my arm, and closed my eyes. "Thanks," I gasped unevenly.
It seemed like there was a long pause. "Yeah." Ha. Typical of Heero. Probably thought he was just doing his duty, or something, and was looking at me like I'd grown an extra head for bothering to voice that bit of nonsense. "Any better?"
Aside from the top of my head waiting to explode off, not too shabby. "Can I have something to drink?" I thought better of that as he got up, leaving me leaning against the headboard. "No more soup, though. I swear I'll puke if you bring that shit anywhere near me."
"Fine." That was it. Such a warm and loving exchange we have going. I covered my face with my hands and tried to will the walls to slow down and let me catch up.
I nearly jumped out of my chair when I heard him start coughing. It sounded like he was dying. I ran over to him and got him sitting up, which seemed to help, and it really worried me the way I could feel his body shaking in my arms. He wasn't supposed to be this fragile. He was supposed to be strong, like me– but I'd thought that every time I'd held him when he hurt. The worst had been when I'd come to kill him, when he'd been captured, and he'd said that awful thing about being destined to die by my hand... he'd been so helpless then, and I'd known, as I hauled him along ungently through the explosions, that he hated me for seeing him like that.
Does he hate me now? Is that why we're so miserable here, together?
When it was over, his head fell back against my chest, and he wheezed, "Thanks."
Thanks. Thanks for being there. Thanks for helping me. Thanks, Heero, for caring enough to come see if I was okay.
I swallowed. "Yeah." I tightened my hold fractionally. "Any better?" Maybe I'd misjudged him. Maybe he did understand–
"Can I have something to drink?" he asked. I nodded immediately, and when I was sure he could sit on his own, got up to go the kitchen.
His voice hit me before I left the room. "And no more of that soup! I swear I'll puke if you bring that shit anywhere near me."
I gritted my teeth and kept walking. "No problem," I muttered.
Maybe some people just aren't meant to be friends.
I watched him stomp off. Didn't like my opinion of his soup, huh? Well, he could stick it.
Why the hell do I bother waiting for him to be nice to me? Maybe he just doesn't have it in him. Maybe I failed my tests with him a long time ago, doing something that was too goofy for him to handle. But not everything has to be so serious! Ah, hell.
Forget it, man. I don't have to spend my life waiting around for his good opinion. He's just a crabby old man sometimes. Maybe some people just aren't meant to be friends.
He brings me back– hey, that isn't soup, is it? I'm all set to throw it in his face and ralph on the carpet, just like I said I would– hey, Maxwell doesn't lie– when he puts the mug in my hands. And an absolutely heavenly smell wafts upward.
I sniff as best as I can through my cloggy nose. My eyes widen to their considerable widest. "Is this what I think it is?"
Heero stands there staring at me without the slightest discernable expression. "Hot chocolate."
My *favourite*. My absolute honest-to-God favourite thing in the world. One big gulp is more than enough to restore all the bad humour I'd been parading around for a week, and another is enough to melt a heart of stone, or at least a grumpy boy's with a nasty infection. With a sigh of intense contentment, I look up at Heero, and grin.
"Man," I said, and meant it with all my soul, "you are the best. How'd you know? Heero, this is... perfect. Totally perfect."
Maybe this wasn't so bad after all.
I'd figured maybe the chocolate would make him feel better. I don't even know why I cared, at that point. He can be such a jerk, and I was making him hot chocolate. Sweets probably weren't even good for him. I don't know how much longer I can put up with this. Maybe I should leave.
The expression that came over his face when he realised what was in the cup almost made me laugh. By the time he'd had a few sips and looked up at me with warmth I'd never expected in those weird purple eyes, all was forgiven.
"Man," he said, "You're the best."
I was suddenly smiling foolishly. This wasn't too bad, after all.
The End
(:./erin/cold)
