Type K Part 19
by Kira Maxwell
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise, not me. I don’t own the G-boys, so please don’t sue me. You wouldn’t get anything anyway.
Warnings: Yaoi, Yuri, Het, Drug abuse, Gore, Strong language, NCS, Violence
Pairings: 13xR, implied 1x2, 3x4, 5+R, 9x11
Dedicated/Thanks to: Killraven, for all those late-night 1xH lemons! Be they finished or not, they still be inspiring. ~_^
“Wait here a second, Quatre. I’ve got to go get him another pint,” Sally said, examining the diminished supply of blood that hung on the I.V. rack. A little plastic sack filled with red life, threaded into the fading mortician with a tube, and the life inside of it had almost run out.
Quatre nodded. “Yes, by all means. Go as quick as you can.” Sally left.
Alone with Trowa, the blonde glanced down and placed his palm against the mortician’s clammy forehead. Trowa’s face was pallid, lips tinged with blue. Despite the ghostly hue of the mortician’s face, Quatre could see a little improvement. He wiped a few strands of hair back from Trowa’s face.
“It’s okay, Doc,” he whispered. “You’re gonna be okay.”
He was surprised by the sudden rapid fluttering of the mortician’s eyelids. Quatre quickly drew his hand away from Trowa’s face, but he didn’t move the other from the wrist wound that he still clenched a piece of blood-soaked gauze against. The blonde had been holding the gauze there so tightly and for so long that his fingers had gone numb.
“Trowa?” he asked softly. “You awake?”
*~*~*
“Trowa? You awake?”
Quatre’s voice sounded muffled and faraway to Trowa. He blinked slowly, bringing into focus the blonde’s concerned face and the clinic’s vivid fluorescent lighting. Shutting his eyes against the glare, he groaned, now also realizing a deep throb in his wrist and an itching, burning pain in his forearm.
“Where…am I?”
“In Dr. Po’s clinic. We almost lost you, Tro—Dr. Barton. You’re safe now. You’ll be all right.”
Suddenly it all came back to Trowa. The dream of running down the long, endless hallway to reach his mother, and then the sink, the razor, and the blood on the porcelain. His blood.
I should be dead right now. I should be free from all of this. Why am I alive?
In a mad panic, Trowa struggled to sit up, but as soon as he tried he flopped back on the table helplessly. He didn’t have the strength to lift himself. Quatre frowned deeply and placed a hand against the mortician’s chest, holding him down gently.
“Where do you think you’re going? You can’t even sit up, for God’s sakes!”
Trowa hissed at Quatre. “Why’d you save me? You should have left me alone!”
“Why? So you could stain all that nice white tile? I don’t think so. The boss would be furious,” Quatre said, chuckling nervously and pressing harder on Trowa’s wrist. The mortician winced and turned his head the other way, staring off into space. Quatre bit his lip and touched the green-eyed young man’s cheek gently. “Look, I couldn’t let you just die. And you know it.”
“It’s none of your goddamn business whether I live or die. Leave me alone,” Trowa retorted sullenly, refusing to look the blonde in the eye.
The blonde sighed and drew the gauze away from Trowa’s wrist, looking at it. The blood on it had turned brownish, and though the gashes on the mortician’s wrist were still raw and red, they were no longer seeping freely.
“Looks like you’ve stopped bleeding, Doc.”
“Oh, damn. Get me a knife. Maybe this time I can finish the job,” Trowa replied sarcastically.
The blonde didn’t catch the mortician’s sarcasm. He panicked, grabbing Trowa’s wrist firmly and pulling it away from his body. “No you don’t! I’ll tie you to this damn table if I have do. You aren’t going to do shit to yourself, Doc!”
“I will if I want to.”
“No you won’t, Trowa,” Quatre replied, grabbing Trowa’s chin and forcing the mortician to look at him. “I won’t lose you.”
Trowa’s voice was icy. “You don’t have the right to keep me.”
*~*~*
Dorothy was calm as she gave herself a final once-over in the mirror. Her jacket lapels were straight, the black velveteen just the hue to set off her pale coloring—light hair and lighter eyes. Everything was cut just right, the skirt high enough to show leg, but low enough to conceal a garter, perfected by a tailor to each nuance of her willowy body. Hair gathered in a French knot on the back of her head, a string of diamonds on her neck, and two more dangling from ear lobes like unfortunate moonlight trapped in someone’s tears.
She was ready.
“Come in, Dorothy,” came her summons, in the form of a voice she’d known—and coveted after—since infancy. Rarely had it been directed at her, but now, things were different.
“I’m coming, Father,” she replied, delighting in the informal name. Not Mr. Catalonia. Not sir. Just Father.
A secretary escorted her past the two uniformed guards and into her father’s office, a place she’d been twice only. Once, to be told of her mother’s death. Second, to be told of the patriarch’s refusal to make her an heir. She remembered it with a mixture of bitterness and awe: a large, rectangular room paneled in dark wood and lined with French windows that faced the eastern gardens of the estate. It was a long walk down the burgundy carpet to get to her father’s black walnut desk, plenty of time to be intimidated by the leering animal busts hung on either wall that had been gathered on various hunting trips to the private preserve in Kenya. Cheetah, lion, wildebeest, impala, their glass eyes and skins carefully stitched together by men who made an honest living by sewing together other creatures’ bones. Not so different from my father’s work. By the time one reached her father’s desk for their audience, they were usually sufficiently cowed.
Dorothy passed all these things she’d known in moments of grief—the carpet, the dead animals, and the pristine French windows—to her father’s desk. He sat waiting for her, a man with broad shoulders, an iron gray moustache, and very few wrinkles around his eyes. His steel blue eyes—Dorothy’s eyes—fixed on his only daughter, and he smiled.
“What is so urgent that you’ve gotten dressed up about it?” he asked, addressing her in a tone that one might with a little girl caught parading in her mother’s high heels. Dorothy felt a spur of irritation, but refused to acknowledge it.
“It’s about Treize, Father. I’ve received some interesting news.”
“Oh, really? What could that be?” Damon Catalonia lifted his cognac glass, looking faintly bored, and took a sip.
“He’s been married.”
“What?”
Dorothy tossed a folder with several papers—one of them a copy of Treize’s marriage liscence—onto her father’s desk, and enjoyed with relish as her father’s expression changed from disbelief, to shock, to dismay, and finally rage.
“Believe me now, Father?” Dorothy couldn’t resist tagging some venom to the end of her sentence, drawing a little blood for the insult he’d given her a few seconds before.
Damon glanced up at his daughter, seeing not the girl who he’d believed was the ghost of his dead wife, but a twittering harpy. He did not like the change.
“Go pack a valise, Dorothy. We’re going to visit your grandfather.”
Dorothy had to resist clicking her heels together in joy as she left her father’s office, striding as fast as she could.
~TBC~
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On to Part 20!
Email: KiraxMaxwell@aol.com