Elevator Love_Closure part 2b: Jiro's
POV
By Tralla
Mr. Winner is a strategist. He's capitalizing on any rapport his son has established with his underlings. He made no formal request for Quatre's return, but he has spurred dealings that will bring him back. By telling Raberba's "caretaker" that he would prefer to do away with his son's wayward contraption, he's forcing his son's hand via his employee's weakness. Of course, if I ever held any loyalty to Quatre, I would seek him out and inform him of the current situation. It's a win-win situation for Mr. Winner. If I stay, I allow Raberba to get what's coming to him and he has one less nuisance to worry about. If I go and tattle, his son returns. And I have other concerns. It's possible that he could find out what I am. Then things will get even more complicated.
I'm off duty, but in my office, and not for long. I've called Catalonia and explained the situation to her and what my next course of action will be. But she has her doubts, as evidenced by her line of questioning.
"There was such an altercation?"
"Yes."
"And Quatre's father believes you are Heero and nothing more?"
"Yes."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes." I'm a broken record.
There's a soft noise of consternation from her end. "That Raberba…While I approve of being mischievous, even I know when to bite my tongue." There's another noise from her end. It sounded like a sigh, a tired one. "After a few phone calls, I can have you out of there and on your way in as short as an hour."
"That's all I need."
It's been five months since my visit with Quatre and there has been no contact from him. He's conversed with Raberba often. Yet, there was nothing given to me. No inquiry. No effort. But he'd said it back then. His words were: "If it's what you want, visit…even without a warning."
I suppose that was the message. Contact will only result out of agency on my part. It took this troublesome scenario to make that clear.
I've returned to my quarters to obtain clothing and cash. I've spoken to Duo. He knows where I'm heading, but he doesn't know why. As long as I tell him where I'm going and when I'm getting back, he keeps his stalker ways under wraps. But he does follow me in a way he doesn't know. Without his knowledge, I've taken his advice and adopted a frame of mind that should be alien to me. I can think outside the box, beyond what is my default behavior, and now beyond what is obviously necessary for this trip. I reach out for the hook on the wall to my right. I pull from it what isn't necessary, but wanted. I resolve to pack it. I'll consider putting it in a box to keep it free of wrinkles.
Catalonia went farther than I requested. After the plane touched down, I'd disembarked to find a driver waiting for me. Instead of having him take me to my destination, I opted to be left at its outskirts. I want to understand what I'm walking into. The change in locale is important to note.
Quatre and my original have left the tropical behind for something more uniform. What I see is not what I'd anticipated, even when I was informed of the location of their abode. In this neighborhood, the buildings are identical. The distinguishing features are limited to the lawns and what vehicles are in the driveways. It isn't too much to assume that the residents of this area have no idea that they're harboring a billionaire who dabbles in android creations.
I'm almost at my destination. A car just passed me. I saw the driver and I'm certain he saw me. I'm certain because, instead of parking in his driveway with what I assume is Quatre's car, he parks in front of their house, directly in my path. Either I go around the car or over. Over isn't feasible.
My original steps outs out of the car and approaches. We're both standing by the front bumper. He left the key in the ignition with the driver's side door open. The car is chiming incessantly for its owner to leave it secure.
Said owner is addressing me.
"He doesn't remember your visit."
"What are you saying?"
"He doesn't remember the day before the hurricane."
"Why?"
"Head trauma."
He's not meeting my gaze. I expected glaring. But there's more to question as I scrutinize his form. "What about the marks on your face?"
"Flying debris," he responds.
He's answering my questions. I can be forthcoming as well. I inform him of my own condition during the hurricane. "Like Raberba, I was completely unharmed, but that was only due to a timely intervention by Duo." We're even, information-wise. I start walking to their house, but I'm blocked both physically and verbally.
"It's better to leave him as he is."
He's going to keep feeding me excuses if I let him. I make sure my tone leaves no room for disagreement. "Step aside."
He's not moving. We're interrupted from a potential confrontation.
There's activity coming from the front of their house. We both caught it in our peripheral vision. Their front door was just opened. We both see the person responsible and we are seen in return. The doorknob is still in Quatre's grasp as he looks back at us. He goes stiff. A second later, he turns around and retreats into the house. He didn't just walk away. He speed-walked.
There's a low noise coming from my right. It's murmuring.
I look back at the source as he says, "I'll return in an hour. I don't expect to see you when I get back."
I watch him go. He gets into the car. The chiming ceases as he closes the door. But he doesn't drive off. He's sitting in the driver's seat and staring out the windshield.
I head toward the house's front door and the reason for my appearance.
I found him. He's in the kitchen and focused on his task. He'd just retrieved a glass and has a pitcher of water in his other hand. He's pouring himself a glass of water. Without putting the pitcher down, he brings the glass to his lips. He gulps down half of the water, takes a breath, and then downs the rest. He moves the glass to just under the mouth of the pitcher. The glass is filled only three-fourths of the way. He puts the pitcher down.
"You'll feel bloated."
I caught him just as he was bringing the glass to his lips. He faces me. Our gazes are locked.
Finally, he murmurs, "Identical…except for the eyes."
"And the cuts. I don't have thin white scars on my face."
He just took a step back. His expression isn't welcoming.
He's using the glass of water as a barrier. He's holding it higher than necessary for someone who isn't in the process of drinking.
Maybe what I was told is true. I approach him. "You don't remember my visit."
"You're a relative of Heero's?" He looks uneasy. "He never said anything."
I reach out to take the glass from him. Maybe a splash of water will wake him up. But I don't do it. He didn't let go of the glass. It's in a tug-of-war between us. It's caught in between two equal forces that are pulling at it.
"I should be angry, but this is actually fun," he says.
Crackpot. Maybe he was damaged more than that jerk mentioned.
It's better to simply clarify. "You made me."
He lets go of the glass. There's water all over me.
"Duo…told you."
Bastard. He was playing dumb.
I'm still holding the glass and now I'm dripping. "Yes, and you and I have spoken in person before."
He shakes his head. "I would remember that."
I run through my options: (1) striking him might bring everything back; (2) explaining things would bring him up to speed; (3) simply conveying the message I had intended should move things forward. Option 3 requires the least amount of conflict.
I watch him. He's reaching for a roll of paper towels. He unrolls a few sheets and hands them to me, or at least attempts to. I don't take them.
My refusal is ignored. He's using the towels on me as he says, "Despite what you think, it matters if you stay wet. Such inaction will draw attention when you're around others. Even in my company, keep note of the appropriate behaviors."
He's being formal with me. Given our history, even though it was just a day, that cold response is not something someone like him should be able to manage successfully. I watch him step away. I get it. It isn't an act. He really has forgotten my visit.
That's fine. I still have an agenda. "Your father wants you to return. Until you do, Raberba has decided to be a nuisance."
He balls up the wet paper towels. "To make sure I'm appreciated when I arrive…"
I should have known. Of course, he understands Raberba's reasoning.
He's squeezing the balled-up towels as he says, "We have a problem then. I'm not going back."
Great. Nothing is simple.