Elevator Love_Closure part 6
By Tralla

This part is on the long side...

<< recollection >>

As I heard it from Trowa just over an hour ago,

<< Quatre called Raberba and told him that there had been an accident. But, instead of going into detail, he gave Raberba two requests. >>

Raberba was left with the responsibility of determining what would be the necessary steps to keep the press either ignorant of or quiet about the accident and

<< ...Quatre's and his father's whereabouts for the coming days. Raberba's second task is to instruct >>

the braid, Chang, and Trowa on how to

<< ...carry out those necessary steps. >>

Raberba had explained the current situation efficiently, as evidenced by the fact that his phone call to Trowa took under a minute. His communication required rational decision making from its listeners rather than worry that would change nothing. And Trowa, Chang, and the braid had each responded by agreeing to wait for further instructions from him before making any kind of move.

I wasn't given anything to do. It wouldn't have mattered. With the reverberation of the words "emergency room", a still violent storm, an obedient, immobile Trowa, and his car close to two miles away, I was left with one option.

I gave Trowa my own directive. I told him to call a cab and, after that last decision, during the solo, hour-long ride to the hospital, reason took a vacation.

That's why I just pushed past administrative interference and am now stalking my way through the emergency room.

But my entrance isn't without hindrance.

There are footsteps speeding up to catch me.

There's a hand on my arm.

I have a good idea of what I look like. I'll share. I want to see who's daring enough to try to stop me.

But I don't have to turn around. The reason for my brash behavior is a few feet in front of me, looking back. The reason is on my lips.

"Quatre."

All I can do is stare in cautious relief. He looks roughed up and there are some cuts on him, but they're superficial.

I feel the intruding hand withdraw its hold on my arm. There's a murmured apology from behind me. I hear footsteps retreat and my focus goes back to where it should be.

"Heero, I need a favor."

I watch his lips. They look dry and, for some reason, I know that within the hour they'll feel cracked. My gaze moves from them as he speaks.

"I have to get out of here." He closes his eyes. "I don't want to throw up around strangers."

Full relief finally sets in. He was waiting for familiar company to arrive before airing the contents of his stomach. He hasn't lost his strange ways.

He was too calm for the ER staff's comfort. As a result, they gave him a hard time about leaving. Strangely, my appearance was enough for them to discharge him. There are people spurting bodily fluids with barely attached limbs and they spent time keeping a guy who only needs a few band-aids under watch. It's odd, but, then again, they know something I don't.

I watch him. He misled me. I was expecting something liquid, Technicolor and violent from him, but he's quiet and distant. He's over ten feet away. We're outside a way's away from the hospital's northern entrance, protected from the light rain by an awning as we watch people come and go. We've been out here for at least a half an hour and he hasn't said anything. I can guess what's going on. He's not lost in his thoughts; he's being trampled by them.

I'll lead him out. With caution, I choose my words. "Earlier this evening, you said you had over three years of work to catch up on."

There's movement from him. He turns my way. There's an odd expression on him. It's the kind of look that lets me know that he'd forgotten that I was even there. It's a look of unease dappled with shock and embarrassment.

After a few seconds, he recovers enough to give a reply. "I realized that I didn't want to catch up." He fully faces me. "I knew from the beginning of the meeting with my father that he had no intention of discussing Raberba. He was more concerned with getting me up to speed and back in charge of the duties I'd abandoned. I went along with it…but not for as long as I should have."

It takes some time for him to continue and his voice is lower as he says, "I have to be honest. Before building Raberba, I never had the option of being idle. Traveling as you and I did, going from place to place without any real responsibilities, was…"

It was something that on the surface he'd treated casually, but deeply appreciated. He doesn't continue, but I know more than he'll say. When most people were still growing up, he was competing with adults. It's a price those who fit the definition of a genius often pay. I never thought that being mediocre could be a benefit, but what he says makes it true.

"The last five months, in particular, spoiled me."

Employing deception, with suburbia as a backdrop, I spoiled him. But it isn't blame that he's casting my way. There was still a lingering strand of relief even in his grave delivery.

He looks away as he says, "I informed my father that I wouldn't be ruled by ambitions that were never my own. I asked him…no, I told him to disinherit me."

Disinherit…

"He made no attempt to belittle or rebuff my demand. He asked me to drive him home. It was an unexpected request…The drive was long and, during it, I'd grown so focused on my plans for the coming days that I'd essentially blocked him out. I don't know how long his breathing was erratic, but, after I noticed...a rush…to a hospital…the storm…I got us here, but…"

Luck simply wasn't on his side. With an emergency situation paired with treacherous roads, the chances of him reaching his destination without incident were small and I let him know that.

It takes some time for him to respond. His gaze seems to be on my chin as he says, "A crash…yes…that I walked away from while my father needed to be resuscitated…but not because of…"

"The impact…"

I'm watching the years drop off him. From his tone and manner, he's lost a decade and is back in adolescence as he murmurs, "I…confronted him and nearly killed him. It was punishment for rebelling," he meets my gaze, "wasn't it?"

I don't have a response for him, not a verbal one.

I get closer, as close as I'd wanted to when I first saw that he was scratched up, but safe. I bring my fingers to his mouth. I was right earlier about his lips feeling chapped.

I'm at the hospital again. It's been a week since the accident and, everyday since then, I've accompanied the blonde here. He's currently visiting his father and I'm standing in the lobby waiting and ruminating over the information I'd received these past days from him regarding his father's current state. It was abridged information from his father's doctors.

Ventricular fibrillation. Mr. Winner's heart had ceased doing its job before the EMTs had gotten to him. But it wasn't his first heart attack. That was new information to the blonde. His close to 4 year absence, paired with his determination not to be found, left him ignorant of all matters concerning his father. But it's unclear if an earlier inquiry into his father's affairs would have afforded him much information. Like his son, the old man was inclined to hide things. And he was good at it. He'd managed to keep his declining health under wraps for years, until recently.

Given his already compromised health, dealing with a renegade, uncommunicative son and his unpredictable, ill-mannered double had worn on him. No matter how one spins it, the blonde is the reason for his father's current condition and he's fully aware of it. He drove his father to grief and helped the old man stick one foot firmly in the grave. And, with this most recent encounter with death, there was more damage laid upon previous. Scar tissue added to scar tissue.

There's an inquisitive female voice that jars me from my thoughts. It's coming from somewhere behind me.

"Jiro?"

I look around. Did that bastard droid follow us here? I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look at the owner. It's a woman and she has buoyant hair...like chocolate clouds. It's an odd sight, although it shouldn't be. I've already come across two people with odd hair. There's a distraction. She's not alone. There's a little boy attached to her. He's got a hand on her skirt. He appears to be around 5.

The woman takes her hand back from my shoulder. She's peering at me as she murmurs, "Blue eyes again? No more contacts?"

"I'm not Jiro."

"You aren't?"

"No."

She's squinting. She thinks I'm lying.

I clarify. "My name is Heero."

"Yuy?"

"Yes."

"Then you two must be twins."

I'm staring. She's not going away. And she's also staring back, but, instead of mirroring my impatient expression, she appears apologetic as she says, "This is awkward. Neither Duo nor Jiro ever mentioned you…I've forgotten to introduce myself. I'm Catherine and this is my son Triton."

I look at the kid. I know just from a glance that he's the creepy type, the kind of kid who's quiet, but observant.

I twitch as he opens his mouth and says, "Hi."

I don't greet him back. I don't like children, especially ones who look as though they're trying to figure out what I'm thinking.

His mother interrupts me from further scrutiny. She appears concerned as she asks, "Are you here for an appointment?"

"No. I'm waiting for someone." She's smiling in a maternal way. She's pushing me to reveal more with benign curiosity. I give in. "Quatre Winner."

Her eyes go wide. "Quatre's here?" Her hair bounces as she looks down at the kid. "Then arriving early worked to our benefit." Despite her skirt and the possibility of flashing passersby, she lowers herself so that she's resting on her haunches in front of the kid as she says, "It's been close to 4 years since your last face-to-face meeting."

I glance around. Nothing particularly interesting is going on so I go back to what is taking place in front of me. I missed part of what the kid's mother is rambling about.

She's still on her haunches as she says, "I just thought that I'd see more of myself." She's got her hands in the kid's hair. She's murmuring, "For the longest, I'd thought he'd get closer to my coloring, but it stayed like this, almost platinum." She touches the kid's cheek. "He does have my blue eyes…but other than that…" She stands and is talking to me rather than herself as she comments, "Everyone says he looks like Quatre. I can't deny the resemblance."

I'm staring at the kid and thinking one thing, but his mother dampens my suspicions as she says, "I never told you why we came. My husband is working here and we've come for a visit."

There's a familiar voice that is just shy of being out of earshot.

"Catherine?"

She, I, and the kid turn around. It's the blonde. He's walking toward her and manages a smile. Unexpectedly, she pulls the kid over and leaves him by me. He's got a hand on my pant leg. The urge to shake him off is there for a moment, but I'm distracted.

His mother walks over to the blonde and embraces him. The hairs on the back of my neck just lifted. It's a warm hug and lingering. I glance down at the kid and look up. He does resemble the blonde…uncannily.

My gaze shifts back to his mother. She releases the blonde, but they're still close. She has a hand on his face. I start walking over there with the kid still holding onto my leg. He's keeping up with me, but not for long. He stumbles. I pick him up and have him tucked under my arm like a football.

I tap his mother on the shoulder. She turns around. As she faces me, I say, "Here." I return her spawn. I place him down on his feet, by her leg. There. He can grab onto that.

The blonde looks down at my recently abandoned baggage as he asks, "Is this Triton?" After his guess is confirmed as correct, he plies the kid's mother with another question. "What are you two doing here?"

She runs her hand over the kid's head as she says, "A visit to see dad."

"He's here?"

She takes in the blonde's expression. "Not as a patient. Because of a client, he's been a regular here for the last several months. I thought everyone knew...it hasn't been a secret."

The blonde briefly brings a hand to his head. "I'm sorry. I'm currently in the process of catching up with everyone."

The kid's mother suddenly looks my way. She realizes that my knowledge of her husband is nil and takes it upon herself to explain more about him. She first mentions that he travels often and that having him within driving distance is a welcome occurrence. She then informs me that he's a literary agent specializing in medical publishing, but he goes beyond simply peddling other people's wares by taking on the duties of a consultant as well. From the way she's phrasing it, it appears that he's essentially created his own position, but it also sounds like he's someone who's crafty enough to ease his way into viewing everyone's research. I glance at the blonde. This guy seems like someone he'd keep tabs on, but he hasn't.

With her husband described, she turns her attention back to the blonde to ask, "What are you doing here?"

"My father…is here."

There's a long pause.

The expression on his face is enough. She doesn't ask why.

She turns to me as she says, "I've been wondering. Between you and Jiro, who is older?"

I'm being used as a distraction. I go along with it. "I'm older."

"By how much?"

She's expecting me to answer in minutes or hours. If I tell her "a little over two decades," there'll be trouble. I'm interrupted from having to lie.

There's a male voice coming from off to the right.

"Quatre."

We all turn to the source and I get an unusual sight as the owner joins us. I understand where the kid gets his coloring. His father has platinum blonde hair that reaches past the middle of his back. He's in the wrong century.

My appraisal is cut short. There's an introduction coming.

The blonde gestures to me. "This is Heero Yuy. We've been traveling together for about 2 ½ years." He gestures to his blonde competitor. "Heero, this is the Marquis of --" The blonde suddenly goes silent. He looks from the mystery man to me and then back to the mystery man. He apologizes.

Mr. Mysterious looks my way as he says, "My name sans title is more fitting. My sister and I are the result of royal blood mixed with attractive help. We have been bestowed honorary titles for living a quiet existence."

His wife looks uncomfortable. It's obvious. She's dealt with his natal issues more than once.

He extends his hand to me. "Milliardo Peacecraft."

I take part in the greeting. The blonde waits for me to get my hand back before speaking to the Marquis.

"Specifically, what are you doing here?"

I'm surprised. His question was executed with a suspicious tone, the type a person would use with a budding delinquent.

The Marquis gives a response without a discernible reaction. "I'm shadowing a doctor who's expanding research on neuropathic pain. He is interested in submitting an article to a medical journal and is seeking my guidance through the process."

Everyone is looking at the blonde. He's frowning. "You said shadowing." He's looking at the Marquis's white coat. "You'll be mistaken. You're--"

"A doctor in title, but not in practice."

His wife and the blonde look uneasy. They're probably sensing a potential segue back to his natal issues. He was toying with them because he continues, "I'm blending in. It would make my client's patients uneasy to have him approach them with a man in a suit at his side. In addition, his colleagues are unaware of his publishing aspirations."

The Marquis suddenly looks down. His kid has a grip on his pant leg.

"I need a little more time," he says in reply to the tug his pants just received. "Stay with your mother." He's kneeling on one leg and has a hand on the kid's head. "We can meet in the cafeteria. I'll be there in 15 minutes."

My stomach is turning from having to witness that interchange. It was a disgustingly tender communication from father to son.

The Marquis's wife takes their kid by the hand and then heads off. He stands and the blonde and I are once again the focus. After a three-way round of scrutiny, the Marquis asks the blonde about the reason for his presence.

The blonde responds with slightly more information than was given to his wife. After a pause, he adds, "We've managed to keep the press quiet, but I don't know for how long."

"You would prefer that Catherine and I not mention your father's state of affairs to anyone," notes the Marquis.

"Yes."

"And you're thinking of in-home care?"

"Yes…but…"

"You need to wait until you can move him."

The blonde is quiet, but not for long. The Marquis draws him out of silence by bringing up the topic of Brussels, where his client hails from.

Something comes to my attention as I watch the Marquis. With his wife and child out of the way, his air is entirely different. And, now with him chatting up the blonde, I have an opportunity at unconstrained scrutiny. I notice more with this second appraisal.

His posture is erect, but not rigid. He's a man that has never slouched out of natural poise. There's no effort; power and self-reliance waft from him. And there's another unusual observation. His eyes are a cold, iced over blue. They're almost unnatural, the kind of eyes an animal would have.

As I tune in again and broaden my attention, I realize that the Marquis isn't the only one whose bearing has changed. The blonde has lost his plaintive demeanor and the conversation has taken on a different shade. Their words are still formal, but there's a familiarity that's influencing their tone, warming it up, making it almost affectionate.

The blonde's phone suddenly interrupts them. He excuses himself to peek at it. He looks up, apologizes, and walks off to take the call.

As soon he's out of sight, the Marquis turns my way and says, "I was told that you have a knack for knowing exactly what time it is."

He realized that I hadn't been paying attention to the majority of their conversation and now he's trying to get chummy with me. I give my reply. "It's not a knack. It's a recurring fluke."

There's something that looks like the beginnings of a smile on him as he says, "That's fine. What does this fluke say?"

I give him the beginnings of my own false smile. "Your 15 minutes are up."

Part 7