Chapter 7
Heero grumbled as he loped down the hallway, thoroughly fed up with the crutches propped under each arm. They seriously hampered his mobility, making even the simplest movements awkward. For a boy who'd been trained for a pilot's speed, agility, and reflexes, it was akin to slow torture. Unfortunately, he'd managed to break his left leg in two places during his last mission and was now sporting a plaster cast from ankle to hip.
Completing his mission after the injury was painful, but not extremely difficult. The Gundams were controlled by hands, not feet, and though he got tossed around some more, his fighting ability was not seriously compromised. It had not been his intention to go to the hospital, thinking he could simply set the bones himself and stay off the leg for a few days, but others had held quite different opinions. Duo and Wufei ambushed him the moment he emerged from his suit, taking him forcefully to the emergency room.
Unlike Quatre's extensive battering, a badly broken leg could easily be explained to inquisitive staff, and it wasn't as though Heero had an identity to be traced. The Gundam pilots were no fools. The better medical care they received, the sooner and more completely they would heal, thus, the sooner they could return to battle. It also saved their own limited supplies for emergencies.
So, like it or not, Heero was stuck in this heavy awkward piece of plaster, thumping his way down halls that never seemed so long.
* * *
*WHUMP!*
Quatre pounded the hanging bag with all the pent-up frustration of the past few weeks.
*THUMP!*
He'd finally gained the okay from Wufei to start training again, and it felt as though he hadn't worked out in a year. His whole body seemed soft and pliant, unused muscles protesting at the slightest strain.
*THWAP!*
He wasn't even as flexible as he had been before his 'accident', and should have taken the time to work things out slowly, but he was in no mood to go easy on neglected limbs.
*BUMP-A-THUMP-A-PUMP-A-THUMP-A-PUMP-A-THUMP . . .*
Unleashing a torrent of quick blows against the red leather, he fought against his own cells, willing them to heal faster and allow him to continue as before. Maybe, if he just worked hard enough . . .
Sweat rolled down his forehead, but he ignored it, pressing on even when he couldn't see. His chest and stomach were aching, and the sharp pains shooting up from his wrist threatened to make him quit, tugging at his resolve.
It had taken him well over a week to finally get the coughing spells under control, but he had managed to do it, and now, when the scratching arose deep within his rib cage he simply held it down, breathing with tight regularity as he focused on the equipment before him.
He knew he was weak, that his empathy made him more susceptible to pain, but he would not let that stop him. He just needed to learn how to ignore the pain and focus on the mission. He'd done it before. Maybe then he would actually be worthy of Sandrock and the title of Gundam Pilot.
*THWAP!*
He spun to kick the bag, tugging at muscles still tender from deep bruising. The dull ache from Heero's broken leg was still there as well. The boy refused to take any pain medication, yet would not sit still. Most of the time he was fine, but a heavy cast did not add to one's agility, and every so often Quatre would get a nasty jolt.
*THWAP!*
Maybe if he worked himself hard enough the pain in his leg would go away, as well as the ache throughout the rest of his body. He pushed, harder and harder, gasping for breath as his lungs rebelled against the unrehearsed activity.
Maybe if he just kept fighting everything would go away.
He just needed to protect them. How could he be a leader of the team if he was stuck in the safe house? Sure, he could double the other pilots up on missions, plan their escape routes, even put aside the most dangerous missions for when he was up to the task himself, but this wouldn't be enough for long. He had to be out there in the field with them. Who knew when something unexpected would happen? He had to be healthy to protect them.
That's the only reason he had agreed to Wufei, Duo, and Trowa's insistence that he stay in bed. He could have been up and fighting a week ago, ignoring the pain as he always did, but he would not have been at one- hundred percent, and he couldn't trust himself with their lives until he was.
*THUMP!*
Finally, though, Duo had deemed him fit to be up and about. Wufei had been slower to concede, but eventually gave his grudging ascent. He was forbidden to use his wrist and was expected to avoid any and all forms of strenuous activity, but what the other pilots didn't know would - in this instance - help them. He had to get back into top shape, and pushing himself was the only way to achieve that.
His arms, slowing with fatigue, leapt back into rhythm, attacking the bag with such ferocity it jumped in its supporting chains. The dull ache in his chest began to rise in intensity, sending shocks of pain out through his entire torso with each impact. Hot fire flowed up his arms and shoulders, barely healed muscles burning from overexertion.
He could work harder. He could take the pain. It was for them.
*PUMP-A-THUMP-A-BUMP-A-THUMP-A-PUMP-A-THUMP-A-BUMP- . . .*
The pain swelled, a rising tide that threatened his resolve, but he forced it down and pounded harder. Sharp jabs of lighting flashed up his arm with each strike, screaming a warning that he didn't heed. It grew and grew, the physical pain lost in a swirling sea of emotional turmoil. Fear, anger, guilt, responsibility, determination, doubt, loathing, and love tumbled together to drown the real world, each fighting to be heard above the din.
He could save them. He wasn't weak. He would not betray them as he had his father and sister. He would save them all, no matter what.
Finally, the abused wrist gave out completely, and the wild force behind the swing tossed Quatre forward against the punching bag. The sudden cessation of blows allowed the heavy bag to drop and swing, throwing Quatre bodily to the floor. He twisted and caught himself on hands and knees, but the fresh jolt of pain that flared from his wrist caught him by surprise and he crumpled to the floor. He lay there, panting, his head resting on the mat below him, as the pain slowly receded from his trembling body. For a brief moment his mind and heart were still, and he relished the calm, not even noticing the tears which ran down to pool with his sweat on the floor.
* * *
Heero limped his way sourly toward the gym. He despised feeling so helpless, and couldn't help but sympathize with Quatre's recent frustrations. The blonde had surprised them all with his unremitting requests for freedom: from the bed, for exercise, and for his computer. The pilots were well used to their Arabian friend's bottomless reserves of patience, yet now they watched that patience run dry as day after day the blonde became more and more restless. He was still kind with them, and courteous as ever, yet the growing tension in his shoulders, and the unsettled shifting of his sea-blue eyes was enough to alert them to his mounting unease.
When Quatre had finally been allowed to leave his bed, Heero had felt the relief as though it were his own, and now, feeling the same restrictions, his sense of empathy grew.
As he turned down a long hallway toward the gym, Heero heard the familiar sound of fists on leather echoing down the corridor. The wild pounding sounded like Duo's erratic style, but something just didn't sit right in Heero's mind. True, Duo's fighting style was unorthodox, and rather sporadic, but he used that to gain the advantage of surprise in an actual fight. His practice routine was a bit more structured.
Heero continued to limp along as the frantic pounding rose to a violent crescendo. The beats came harder and faster, nearly causing Heero to wince at their ferocity. Then, without any warning, they stopped altogether. Silence rolled down the hall like a mist, enveloping Heero in its still tendrils.
He paused, straining to hear more, to discern what had happened to cause such an abrupt silence, but he could hear nothing. As the silence continued, Heero started again for the gym. It took an agonizingly long time for him to reach the entrance, shuffling along the carpet, but when he finally limped into the doorway, the sight that met his eyes was not at all what he had expected.
Quatre lay panting on the floor, soaked and trembling. He was gasping, sucking in quick lungs full of air, only to choke. Coughs racked his already shaking form, expelling the air as soon as he could draw it into his lungs.
Quatre showed no signs of moving from the floor, but Heero knew he was currently in no shape to help. For the moment he simply remained silent, watching as the boy's breathing gradually slowed, and the violent seizures of abused muscles calmed to a slight tremor.
Finally, after the moment had stretched beyond the limits of his patience, Heero decided to make his presence known. Rather than approach the fallen figure, Heero simply cleared his throat, the small noise catching Quatre by complete surprise. The boy froze, calming his still ragged breathing immediately, and even stilling the tremors by sheer will. He rose slowly from the floor, lacking any semblance of grace, yet not betraying any pain or weakness. Having kept his eyes turned to the floor, he now raised them to meet Heero's own gaze. The slightly shimmering trails still remained across blotchy red cheeks, but Quatre's expression was completely composed. If not for the red, swollen eyes and other aftereffects completely beyond his control, Heero could have believed he'd interrupted the blonde from a business meeting.
For a moment each stared at the other. Heero was at a true loss for words, not knowing where to begin, with comfort or anger. He wanted to throttle Quatre for being so foolish and risking his fragile health so recklessly, yet he understood the desire that drove his actions. To hold the fate of the world in your hands one moment, then be completely helpless the next . . . was indescribable. Heero understood the gnawing frustration all too intimately, yet that did not excuse Quatre's self-endangerment. There was more to this, though. Heero knew he lacked Quatre's confessed empathy, or even Duo's ability to read people, yet he could see more than the composed front his friend was showing him. He could see a deep writhing pain behind the calm facade of Quatre's eyes, which bound his tongue from any harsh admonishments or orders. Heero simply couldn't feed that guilt and shame and fear and . . . he didn't want to know what else.
Quatre stood, still and silent, daring Wing's pilot to deliver the tirade he knew he deserved. His stance was challenging, but Heero ignored it, focusing instead on the swelling he could see around the tight bandage on Quatre's left wrist.
"Come to the infirmary and I'll look at that." He gestured to the limb which Quatre held subtly against his stomach. The blonde blinked, obviously surprised, and nodded, following silently as Heero turned and headed out of the gym.
As he limped down the hall, Heero's mind spun over the growing mystery that had become his friend. He agreed with Wufei. Quatre was pushing himself far beyond reasonable limits; he had been doing so for months now, if not years. Thinking back, Heero couldn't remember a time when the blonde had not been driving himself with incredible ferocity. In fact, there had been other times, when it had nearly cost him his life, when he was injured at the launch pad, yet had remained behind to fight and see Wufei and Duo to safety, when he had been stabbed by Dorothy, yet fought to destroy Libra. It was dangerous. Both times he had nearly died, and now this. If such an injury had not curbed this self destructive impulse, Heero didn't think anything he or the other pilots said could have a greater effect. The only option left in Heero's mind was to discover the cause behind this irrational behavior. Perhaps the motive might reveal a cure for the problem. Otherwise, he didn't think Quatre would survive to see the end of war.
He had tried to broach the subject with Quatre before, but the blonde possessed an uncanny ability to calm his fears without divulging any information or addressing the problem at all. Heero would leave the room with the assured feeling that everything had been resolved, only to realize hours later that he knew nothing more than he had before. He wasn't sure whether this was another facet of Quatre's empathy or merely the tactics he'd been taught as the Winner heir to deal with intrusive media, but either way, the Japanese boy was growing tired of being circumvented.
He'd finally come to the determination that the only way to get the information he needed was to catch Quatre at a vulnerable moment and press the issue. Heero did not like the idea of using such inconsiderate and hard-fisted tactics on his friend, but he could see no other option. Quatre had already overcome every other idea.
They walked in silence, save for the rhythmic thump of Heero's crutches on the carpet, each boy lost in his own thoughts. Heero could feel Quatre walking just behind him, and when they reached the infirmary he pointed to a waiting bed. Quatre raised an eyebrow but complied without comment, easing himself onto the low bunk with a slight wince.
After a moment Heero turned back around with scissors and a thick Ace bandage. He missed the slight break in Quatre's stoic expression, but there was nothing the blonde could do to hide the angry red swelling around his wrist.
Without a word Heero pulled a stool over to the bed where Quatre sat, place the rolled bandage on the sheets next to his patient, and held out his hand, palm extended. For a moment Quatre looked as though he may protest, blue eyes glancing longingly toward the door, but quickly changed his mind, obediently placing his wrist in Heero's waiting grasp. He didn't make eye contact, and a quick shake of his head brought wisps of bright bangs down in a curtain to further shield his averted eyes. He knew a lecture was still coming, despite the short reprieve, and wasn't about to encourage it.
Heero calmly strengthened his grip on Quatre's injured wrist, carefully snipping away the outer layer of restrictive gauze. Quatre's hand had begun to turn a throbbing dull red by now, due to the swelling and blocked circulation. Heero carefully supported the whole forearm with his own, noticing the warmth of Quatre's swollen fingertips as they brushed along his skin. He wanted to speak now, to ask what was wrong, and how he could help . . . why he pushed himself so hard and sacrificed himself so readily for the other pilots, yet refused to care for himself with the same determination . . . why, since the huge Christmas Eve battle, his smiles, though more numerous, had seemed slightly false . . . but nothing would come. As layer after layer of tight white gauze was lifted from skin just slightly less pale, the silence continued. Finally, as the last strip came free to release the tight swollen skin, Quatre breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
Pausing only momentarily to dispose of the gauze, Heero began to wrap the elastic bandage tightly around the swollen wrist. Quatre's face crinkled into a grimace as the pressure was applied, but the expression of pain was immediately wiped away by a wry smile.
"We have to keep pressure on the swelling." There was no need to explain, Quatre had been taught and equal amount of field medicine to his own, but the words came anyway. He felt the need to justify the pain he'd seen flit across the blonde's face. If it wasn't for Quatre, it was for himself.
As he secured the end of the bandage Quatre moved to rise, but Heero quickly placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down. He couldn't leave yet, he hadn't even asked any questions! Heero realized he was missing his opportunity, quite possibly his only opportunity, to find out what was causing all this pain. He couldn't let that happen.
"Wait."
He quickly grabbed a small towel and filled it with ice. As he walked back to the blonde, who was now looking at him with a somewhat amused expression, head cocked slightly to one side as though he were attempting to solve a puzzle, Heero folded the ice into the towel. With any luck it would begin to reduce the swelling and keep Quatre here a bit longer.
This time when he opened his palm Quatre responded much more quickly, offering Heero the abused limb with a slight chuckle. Again Heero supported Quatre's forearm with his own, wrapping his fingers loosely around the blonde's upper arm near the elbow as he laid the ice pack gently over the bandage.
At the sound of another chuckle Heero looked up into warm aqua eyes. The genuine happiness he saw there took him completely by surprise. This was a depth of honest emotion he had not seen in Quatre since Christmas, and he did not want to crush it with pointed questions. His resolve crumbled, and he simply offered a small wry smile in return.
"Thank you, Heero."
The Japanese boy sighed and shook his head, simply marveling at the boy who sat before him. With no more than a smile he had managed to obliterate the best laid plans, and Heero once again found himself at a loss for words. With all his questions and accusations dashed, he replied the only way he could.
"You're welcome, Quatre."
* * *
Heero grumbled as he loped down the hallway, thoroughly fed up with the crutches propped under each arm. They seriously hampered his mobility, making even the simplest movements awkward. For a boy who'd been trained for a pilot's speed, agility, and reflexes, it was akin to slow torture. Unfortunately, he'd managed to break his left leg in two places during his last mission and was now sporting a plaster cast from ankle to hip.
Completing his mission after the injury was painful, but not extremely difficult. The Gundams were controlled by hands, not feet, and though he got tossed around some more, his fighting ability was not seriously compromised. It had not been his intention to go to the hospital, thinking he could simply set the bones himself and stay off the leg for a few days, but others had held quite different opinions. Duo and Wufei ambushed him the moment he emerged from his suit, taking him forcefully to the emergency room.
Unlike Quatre's extensive battering, a badly broken leg could easily be explained to inquisitive staff, and it wasn't as though Heero had an identity to be traced. The Gundam pilots were no fools. The better medical care they received, the sooner and more completely they would heal, thus, the sooner they could return to battle. It also saved their own limited supplies for emergencies.
So, like it or not, Heero was stuck in this heavy awkward piece of plaster, thumping his way down halls that never seemed so long.
* * *
*WHUMP!*
Quatre pounded the hanging bag with all the pent-up frustration of the past few weeks.
*THUMP!*
He'd finally gained the okay from Wufei to start training again, and it felt as though he hadn't worked out in a year. His whole body seemed soft and pliant, unused muscles protesting at the slightest strain.
*THWAP!*
He wasn't even as flexible as he had been before his 'accident', and should have taken the time to work things out slowly, but he was in no mood to go easy on neglected limbs.
*BUMP-A-THUMP-A-PUMP-A-THUMP-A-PUMP-A-THUMP . . .*
Unleashing a torrent of quick blows against the red leather, he fought against his own cells, willing them to heal faster and allow him to continue as before. Maybe, if he just worked hard enough . . .
Sweat rolled down his forehead, but he ignored it, pressing on even when he couldn't see. His chest and stomach were aching, and the sharp pains shooting up from his wrist threatened to make him quit, tugging at his resolve.
It had taken him well over a week to finally get the coughing spells under control, but he had managed to do it, and now, when the scratching arose deep within his rib cage he simply held it down, breathing with tight regularity as he focused on the equipment before him.
He knew he was weak, that his empathy made him more susceptible to pain, but he would not let that stop him. He just needed to learn how to ignore the pain and focus on the mission. He'd done it before. Maybe then he would actually be worthy of Sandrock and the title of Gundam Pilot.
*THWAP!*
He spun to kick the bag, tugging at muscles still tender from deep bruising. The dull ache from Heero's broken leg was still there as well. The boy refused to take any pain medication, yet would not sit still. Most of the time he was fine, but a heavy cast did not add to one's agility, and every so often Quatre would get a nasty jolt.
*THWAP!*
Maybe if he worked himself hard enough the pain in his leg would go away, as well as the ache throughout the rest of his body. He pushed, harder and harder, gasping for breath as his lungs rebelled against the unrehearsed activity.
Maybe if he just kept fighting everything would go away.
He just needed to protect them. How could he be a leader of the team if he was stuck in the safe house? Sure, he could double the other pilots up on missions, plan their escape routes, even put aside the most dangerous missions for when he was up to the task himself, but this wouldn't be enough for long. He had to be out there in the field with them. Who knew when something unexpected would happen? He had to be healthy to protect them.
That's the only reason he had agreed to Wufei, Duo, and Trowa's insistence that he stay in bed. He could have been up and fighting a week ago, ignoring the pain as he always did, but he would not have been at one- hundred percent, and he couldn't trust himself with their lives until he was.
*THUMP!*
Finally, though, Duo had deemed him fit to be up and about. Wufei had been slower to concede, but eventually gave his grudging ascent. He was forbidden to use his wrist and was expected to avoid any and all forms of strenuous activity, but what the other pilots didn't know would - in this instance - help them. He had to get back into top shape, and pushing himself was the only way to achieve that.
His arms, slowing with fatigue, leapt back into rhythm, attacking the bag with such ferocity it jumped in its supporting chains. The dull ache in his chest began to rise in intensity, sending shocks of pain out through his entire torso with each impact. Hot fire flowed up his arms and shoulders, barely healed muscles burning from overexertion.
He could work harder. He could take the pain. It was for them.
*PUMP-A-THUMP-A-BUMP-A-THUMP-A-PUMP-A-THUMP-A-BUMP- . . .*
The pain swelled, a rising tide that threatened his resolve, but he forced it down and pounded harder. Sharp jabs of lighting flashed up his arm with each strike, screaming a warning that he didn't heed. It grew and grew, the physical pain lost in a swirling sea of emotional turmoil. Fear, anger, guilt, responsibility, determination, doubt, loathing, and love tumbled together to drown the real world, each fighting to be heard above the din.
He could save them. He wasn't weak. He would not betray them as he had his father and sister. He would save them all, no matter what.
Finally, the abused wrist gave out completely, and the wild force behind the swing tossed Quatre forward against the punching bag. The sudden cessation of blows allowed the heavy bag to drop and swing, throwing Quatre bodily to the floor. He twisted and caught himself on hands and knees, but the fresh jolt of pain that flared from his wrist caught him by surprise and he crumpled to the floor. He lay there, panting, his head resting on the mat below him, as the pain slowly receded from his trembling body. For a brief moment his mind and heart were still, and he relished the calm, not even noticing the tears which ran down to pool with his sweat on the floor.
* * *
Heero limped his way sourly toward the gym. He despised feeling so helpless, and couldn't help but sympathize with Quatre's recent frustrations. The blonde had surprised them all with his unremitting requests for freedom: from the bed, for exercise, and for his computer. The pilots were well used to their Arabian friend's bottomless reserves of patience, yet now they watched that patience run dry as day after day the blonde became more and more restless. He was still kind with them, and courteous as ever, yet the growing tension in his shoulders, and the unsettled shifting of his sea-blue eyes was enough to alert them to his mounting unease.
When Quatre had finally been allowed to leave his bed, Heero had felt the relief as though it were his own, and now, feeling the same restrictions, his sense of empathy grew.
As he turned down a long hallway toward the gym, Heero heard the familiar sound of fists on leather echoing down the corridor. The wild pounding sounded like Duo's erratic style, but something just didn't sit right in Heero's mind. True, Duo's fighting style was unorthodox, and rather sporadic, but he used that to gain the advantage of surprise in an actual fight. His practice routine was a bit more structured.
Heero continued to limp along as the frantic pounding rose to a violent crescendo. The beats came harder and faster, nearly causing Heero to wince at their ferocity. Then, without any warning, they stopped altogether. Silence rolled down the hall like a mist, enveloping Heero in its still tendrils.
He paused, straining to hear more, to discern what had happened to cause such an abrupt silence, but he could hear nothing. As the silence continued, Heero started again for the gym. It took an agonizingly long time for him to reach the entrance, shuffling along the carpet, but when he finally limped into the doorway, the sight that met his eyes was not at all what he had expected.
Quatre lay panting on the floor, soaked and trembling. He was gasping, sucking in quick lungs full of air, only to choke. Coughs racked his already shaking form, expelling the air as soon as he could draw it into his lungs.
Quatre showed no signs of moving from the floor, but Heero knew he was currently in no shape to help. For the moment he simply remained silent, watching as the boy's breathing gradually slowed, and the violent seizures of abused muscles calmed to a slight tremor.
Finally, after the moment had stretched beyond the limits of his patience, Heero decided to make his presence known. Rather than approach the fallen figure, Heero simply cleared his throat, the small noise catching Quatre by complete surprise. The boy froze, calming his still ragged breathing immediately, and even stilling the tremors by sheer will. He rose slowly from the floor, lacking any semblance of grace, yet not betraying any pain or weakness. Having kept his eyes turned to the floor, he now raised them to meet Heero's own gaze. The slightly shimmering trails still remained across blotchy red cheeks, but Quatre's expression was completely composed. If not for the red, swollen eyes and other aftereffects completely beyond his control, Heero could have believed he'd interrupted the blonde from a business meeting.
For a moment each stared at the other. Heero was at a true loss for words, not knowing where to begin, with comfort or anger. He wanted to throttle Quatre for being so foolish and risking his fragile health so recklessly, yet he understood the desire that drove his actions. To hold the fate of the world in your hands one moment, then be completely helpless the next . . . was indescribable. Heero understood the gnawing frustration all too intimately, yet that did not excuse Quatre's self-endangerment. There was more to this, though. Heero knew he lacked Quatre's confessed empathy, or even Duo's ability to read people, yet he could see more than the composed front his friend was showing him. He could see a deep writhing pain behind the calm facade of Quatre's eyes, which bound his tongue from any harsh admonishments or orders. Heero simply couldn't feed that guilt and shame and fear and . . . he didn't want to know what else.
Quatre stood, still and silent, daring Wing's pilot to deliver the tirade he knew he deserved. His stance was challenging, but Heero ignored it, focusing instead on the swelling he could see around the tight bandage on Quatre's left wrist.
"Come to the infirmary and I'll look at that." He gestured to the limb which Quatre held subtly against his stomach. The blonde blinked, obviously surprised, and nodded, following silently as Heero turned and headed out of the gym.
As he limped down the hall, Heero's mind spun over the growing mystery that had become his friend. He agreed with Wufei. Quatre was pushing himself far beyond reasonable limits; he had been doing so for months now, if not years. Thinking back, Heero couldn't remember a time when the blonde had not been driving himself with incredible ferocity. In fact, there had been other times, when it had nearly cost him his life, when he was injured at the launch pad, yet had remained behind to fight and see Wufei and Duo to safety, when he had been stabbed by Dorothy, yet fought to destroy Libra. It was dangerous. Both times he had nearly died, and now this. If such an injury had not curbed this self destructive impulse, Heero didn't think anything he or the other pilots said could have a greater effect. The only option left in Heero's mind was to discover the cause behind this irrational behavior. Perhaps the motive might reveal a cure for the problem. Otherwise, he didn't think Quatre would survive to see the end of war.
He had tried to broach the subject with Quatre before, but the blonde possessed an uncanny ability to calm his fears without divulging any information or addressing the problem at all. Heero would leave the room with the assured feeling that everything had been resolved, only to realize hours later that he knew nothing more than he had before. He wasn't sure whether this was another facet of Quatre's empathy or merely the tactics he'd been taught as the Winner heir to deal with intrusive media, but either way, the Japanese boy was growing tired of being circumvented.
He'd finally come to the determination that the only way to get the information he needed was to catch Quatre at a vulnerable moment and press the issue. Heero did not like the idea of using such inconsiderate and hard-fisted tactics on his friend, but he could see no other option. Quatre had already overcome every other idea.
They walked in silence, save for the rhythmic thump of Heero's crutches on the carpet, each boy lost in his own thoughts. Heero could feel Quatre walking just behind him, and when they reached the infirmary he pointed to a waiting bed. Quatre raised an eyebrow but complied without comment, easing himself onto the low bunk with a slight wince.
After a moment Heero turned back around with scissors and a thick Ace bandage. He missed the slight break in Quatre's stoic expression, but there was nothing the blonde could do to hide the angry red swelling around his wrist.
Without a word Heero pulled a stool over to the bed where Quatre sat, place the rolled bandage on the sheets next to his patient, and held out his hand, palm extended. For a moment Quatre looked as though he may protest, blue eyes glancing longingly toward the door, but quickly changed his mind, obediently placing his wrist in Heero's waiting grasp. He didn't make eye contact, and a quick shake of his head brought wisps of bright bangs down in a curtain to further shield his averted eyes. He knew a lecture was still coming, despite the short reprieve, and wasn't about to encourage it.
Heero calmly strengthened his grip on Quatre's injured wrist, carefully snipping away the outer layer of restrictive gauze. Quatre's hand had begun to turn a throbbing dull red by now, due to the swelling and blocked circulation. Heero carefully supported the whole forearm with his own, noticing the warmth of Quatre's swollen fingertips as they brushed along his skin. He wanted to speak now, to ask what was wrong, and how he could help . . . why he pushed himself so hard and sacrificed himself so readily for the other pilots, yet refused to care for himself with the same determination . . . why, since the huge Christmas Eve battle, his smiles, though more numerous, had seemed slightly false . . . but nothing would come. As layer after layer of tight white gauze was lifted from skin just slightly less pale, the silence continued. Finally, as the last strip came free to release the tight swollen skin, Quatre breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
Pausing only momentarily to dispose of the gauze, Heero began to wrap the elastic bandage tightly around the swollen wrist. Quatre's face crinkled into a grimace as the pressure was applied, but the expression of pain was immediately wiped away by a wry smile.
"We have to keep pressure on the swelling." There was no need to explain, Quatre had been taught and equal amount of field medicine to his own, but the words came anyway. He felt the need to justify the pain he'd seen flit across the blonde's face. If it wasn't for Quatre, it was for himself.
As he secured the end of the bandage Quatre moved to rise, but Heero quickly placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down. He couldn't leave yet, he hadn't even asked any questions! Heero realized he was missing his opportunity, quite possibly his only opportunity, to find out what was causing all this pain. He couldn't let that happen.
"Wait."
He quickly grabbed a small towel and filled it with ice. As he walked back to the blonde, who was now looking at him with a somewhat amused expression, head cocked slightly to one side as though he were attempting to solve a puzzle, Heero folded the ice into the towel. With any luck it would begin to reduce the swelling and keep Quatre here a bit longer.
This time when he opened his palm Quatre responded much more quickly, offering Heero the abused limb with a slight chuckle. Again Heero supported Quatre's forearm with his own, wrapping his fingers loosely around the blonde's upper arm near the elbow as he laid the ice pack gently over the bandage.
At the sound of another chuckle Heero looked up into warm aqua eyes. The genuine happiness he saw there took him completely by surprise. This was a depth of honest emotion he had not seen in Quatre since Christmas, and he did not want to crush it with pointed questions. His resolve crumbled, and he simply offered a small wry smile in return.
"Thank you, Heero."
The Japanese boy sighed and shook his head, simply marveling at the boy who sat before him. With no more than a smile he had managed to obliterate the best laid plans, and Heero once again found himself at a loss for words. With all his questions and accusations dashed, he replied the only way he could.
"You're welcome, Quatre."
* * *
