The Hawaiian and the Hunchback

by Guille van Cartier

Complete! Lilo visits the bell tower for a final time in an attempt to reassure a depressed Quasimodo...R and R...LiloStitch and HoND crossover

9. Old Mathaias

Stitch's Trip

A/N: I know it's been forever, but I'm back. After some...unimpressive work, I've decided it's time to come back to my first. Okay, finally, the loading bar is set up and Stitch can get back in the past to find Lilo! Wouldn't that be great? Okay, well, I'm actually putting in my absolute favorite character in this chapter, though I was expecting him later on in the story. But, I couldn't help myself, so I'm going to cram him in there as much as I can! "Giggle"! Okay, now let's get this started. Read on, and please review!

Stitch's ears perked up excitedly at the news, his nose twitching happily at the prospect at finding his long lost (well, sort of) friend. He had missed her so much over the past few hours, not to mention every bit of worry and horrible, horrible pessimism that had infected his mind during the wait. That stupid loading bar was actually filled, and now, they knew exactly (or so he hoped) where little Lilo may be. He crawled off the black stool from which he sat, running with the greatest of spirits toward the table where his equipment was.
"626," Jumba said, grinning grimly at the little creature as he hurried in preparation, "I am seeing you are ready to get our little girl back, yes?"
626 nodded briefly, a sharp jerk of his head. Apparently he was too preoccupied with what he was doing. Jumba nodded back to him, though I doubt Stitch noticed (or really cared for that matter), and the scientist turned to the panel before him, typing in certain keys and pressing every other button on the board. The chamber in the center of the makeshift laboratory, which had been shut down at the disappearance of the little girl, hummed suddenly back to life, the little light bulb set in the center of its low ceiling blinking on.
Stitch was taking longer than he had at first with his equipment, for he was planning on bringing much more than just a silly translator in his ear. Such a preposterous action when stepping into the unknown! No, he was planning on bringing as much of an arsenal he was allowed, fitting himself with several belts with holsters all across the front, and placing a plasma gun and a grenade into each of them he could. Pleakley watched the experiment from across the room with distaste.
"You don't need all that, Stitches," he told the little creature, stepping over and attempting to pull a net-gun from one of the many holsters. Stitch fought back successfully, sending the cyclopean to the floor and explaining to him the supposed dangers there may be to experience. Pleakley scoffed the thought.
"Apparently you haven't heard of Paris before, have you?" he asked with a tone of superiority and annoyance. Stitch growled at him, but then grumbled out a "no".
"It's the city of lights!" Pleakley exclaimed. "It's beautiful! Several of the structures there are famous, like that pointy tower thing and that really big church! It's in France."
Stitch raised an eyebrow. "France?"
Pleakley nodded. Jumba stopped his work at the panel. "You are meaning France, Earth, right?"
"Of course!" Pleakley exclaimed. "Where else would it be?"
Jumba shrugged at the question, "I am not knowing." He stopped to think for a moment, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Is dangerous?"
"NO!" Pleakley replied vehemently. "It's one of the most feminine places on Earth, actually!" he sighed and put his chin in one of his palms. "I wish I could go there."
"Naga!" Stitch exclaimed angrily, claiming that it was he who was going to France to save Lilo, and that Pleakley would have to find another feminine place to fantasize about because he wasn't going! Pleakley just stared down distastefully at the protective little alien, telling him that he wouldn't go to France in one of Jumba's inventions, especially one that has thus far proved a danger to little girls. Stitch just scoffed. Whatever.
But, despite all of his anger, he pulled off the belts from across his chest, throwing the weapons and their holsters on the floor in the corner. Pleakley watched as the little experiment did this, eyeing the guns and explosives with a certain discomfort.
"Where did you get all of those, anyway?" he asked, coming to lean over the arsenal. Stitch looked up from his work, looking straight at the cyclopean, and then shifted his sight to his creator. Jumba stood behind the control panel (and out of sight of the ex-galactic agent), waving his hands before him quickly, shaking his head side to side. Stitch nodded quietly, then shrugged at the noodle-man before him. He didn't need to know anything.
"Are you being ready, 626?" Jumba asked, clearing his throat. Stitch nodded, racing anxiously toward the cubicle in the center of the room. "Remember this," Jumba said, pulling on a pair of goggles, "I am giving you only three days to find little girl. Remember. Three days only, yes?" Stitch nodded, knowing that Nani would probably become suspicious otherwise. He pulled open the door, and stepped in, his heart palpitating with obvious excitement. Finally, he would find Lilo. Finally, this whole thing will end. And, last but definitely not least, Nani will shut up. That was, of course, only if Lilo was where the transmitter was. But, Stitch forgot all about that.
Jumba typed in the coordinates and readied the machine for the second travel of the day. He signaled to Stitch that the process was to happen in only several seconds more, and the little alien nodded, giving him the clawed thumb's up. Jumba looked back down at the panel, his face concentrated, and he put up one hand, holding up five fingers...four fingers...three fingers...
Stitch stared down at the scorch marks left by Lilo's earlier excursion. He hoped greatly that everything would go as planned (as he planned to be more precise), and his best friend, the closest member of his Ohana, would be with him soon enough. Jumba's hand was now balled into a fist, signaling the last of the seconds gone. He pushed the red button on the control panel and glanced at Stitch as the little alien stared forward out of the glass window set in the door. A moment later, with a single flash of light, he was gone.

The sky of the plains just outside of Paris was the brightest of blue, and the cotton-white clouds floated lazily in the winter morning sky. The grass rustled with the passing of the wind, which blew lighter and cooler than it had only the day before; why? No one knew. Why? No one cared. It was a natural thing, and it was a belief that one imposed God's wrath (or some believed) to question it. Besides, such a trifle as the wind and its conditions and patterns fazed only a small amount of people; what did it matter to them if the breeze chose to be cooler?
No one was visible upon the grassy expanse; the only life other than the flora of the wilderness was several gophers and insects that drew about as much attention as the wind that morning. Of course, several things may have been hiding in the grassy knolls that dotted the landscape. But, to those who were not searching for a hidden being in the outskirts, the field was practically empty.
The blue sky was absolutely still for several moments that winter morning; neither bird nor bee seemed to stir the air around. Nothing but the wind. Everything seemed motionless excluding the wild grass, disturbed by the breeze. Something about the whole thing was unnatural. And, one would have to admit, rather ominous.
Suddenly, above the ground at a height of about two stories, a large explosion sounded, sending more air streaming out in irregular currents and forcing the little creatures scurrying about the ground either into their burrows or up into the sky. Both were heading for safety.
From the sky, with a pained grumble, something small, furry, and blue fell the twenty feet from the explosion's area down to the Earth below. The ground shook horrendously as it made its collision, and a small system of cracks appeared, streaming outward from the impact. Clouds of disturbed dirt flew up into the air, staining the surrounding area brown. And, soon enough, everything resettled, and the frightened squawks of birds disappeared with the breeze.
With an irked groan, Stitch sat up from his spot in the center of the cracked ground, rubbing his head, his fur stained brown from the earlier impact. He rubbed the top of his head, where he felt a large bump that thumped to the beat of his heart. Darn it, that hurt! He would have to inform Jumba about how dangerous that was right after he mangled him for causing him pain. He let out another moan of pain. No, he thought. He would tell Jumba right after he beat him to an inch of life. If the scientist was still able to hear, that was.
After several moments of recuperation and regaining his senses, Stitch shook his head and opened his eyes wide to take a look around. All that surrounded was nothing more than a grassy expanse, with several small hills appearing at the surface every thirty feet. A sky of blue above and stalks of swaying grass below, with little in-between. No life. No Lilo. Cru de tay! She wasn't here!
Stitch walked forward to a grassy knoll, taking glimpses about him to make sure that his friend wasn't there. And, perhaps, to find that transmitter, though that wasn't really the first thing on his mind at the moment. What he really thought about was his little friend, and how he was really going to kick someone's butt when he got home. Lilo was supposed to be here. So where the heck was she? His eyes scanned the great horizon. Nothing. Not a single form of life could be spotted anywhere in this plain, and Stitch was too aggravated by the horrible pain on his head to really care about any sounds of movement. Besides, the grass seemed to keep swaying, which didn't help at all, to be truthful. His keen hearing made his headache even worse.
He looked, grumbling sourly over his breath, out to his right, his hand set over his eyes to block out the pale sunlight that shone into his eyes. The green stalks waved to and fro, and, with after several seconds of staring outward bitterly, Stitch noticed something gleaming a bright green among the darker shades. He blinked quietly. What was that?
The experiment rushed forward to where he had spotted the glint, his heart beating faster. As he neared the spot, the faint sounds of beeping reached his ears, and soon enough he was leaning over a glowing metal band. It was scratched and damaged just a bit around the edges, but not too much harm; everything seemed to be working properly. The screen showed everything from the time to the coordinates, even right down to the exact date and hour that it had left home. Stitch lifted it up from amongst the blades, hanging it before him with a sense half of triumph, half of bitter disappointment.
Though he had the transmitter now, Lilo's area was still rather obscure. There was a chance, perhaps, that she was just several miles from the spot, but what if she wasn't? What if she was lost in some unknown time and place that was only barely connected to the transmitter? With a groan and a sudden shaking of his head, he pushed as many of these pessimistic thoughts out of his immediate concerns. If she wasn't there, then that was a problem, but until he was absolutely sure, he would forget it all and search. Being a worrywart wasn't going to help anything.
Suddenly, Stitch lifted a pointed ear up to the passing breeze. He squinted his eyes suspiciously. He could have sworn that he had heard something in the grass...of course the wind wasn't making the thought much easier. But, then again, the noise was unnatural. It was too solid to be the wind, and too heavy-footed to be one of the animals that would by chance be living amongst the grasses of the plain. He sniffed the air. It smelled like man.
Before he could react to this new discovery, a sack was thrown over him and the sound of a victorious exclamation rang in his ears. Stitch snarled and clawed, tearing little holes in the material that kept him inside. But, nothing more could be done. Stitch stopped for a moment, still growling, but eyeing the brown material bitterly. A great brown eye appeared, glancing in at him through one of the tears that he had created.
The person that held the sack clicked his tongue in mock disapproval.
"The little creature would not be able to break through the sack!" said a raspy, old voice. "It's old Matthias's material. It's nearly unbreakable!"
Stitch scoffed the man's words, cursing in his alien language under his breath. He clawed the thick fabric yet again, creating yet another tiny tear. A mere grain in a dune of sand.
The chuckle rang out again.
"Little creature has to learn to listen, doesn't he?" came the voice, and Stitch cursed him inwardly. It wouldn't be very wise to reveal his blessing of speech, he realized.
The man (for it as a man) swung the sack over his shoulder, and Stitch felt himself bumping against something horribly bony, which he suspected to be his captor's back. There was a slow movement as the man carried him on his way, whistling a loud jumpy tune that Stitch didn't like too much. The experiment continued to growl, but then allowed the man to take him. When he took him out of the sack, then he would attack and run off to hopefully find his little girl. He didn't have time for this.

Clopin stood atop the great painted roof of his caravan, reenacting a scene from one of his latest stories. A throng of children clustered about the wagon, eyes wide open in curious wonder at the man before them who was singing and flipping with supposedly infinite energy. The gypsy was talking to two puppets that he had in his hands, one a real facsimile of his own face. The story I shall not now record, for it has been to me forgotten, but one should note that it was as good as every one of his stories always are.
Clopin was feeling slightly troubled that day, though it didn't seem so much when he was doing his "job". His flips were just a little less spirited as usual, and his singing, though magnificently spectacular (like always) was slightly duller. But it was unnoticed by the children who came to be swept away by his tales of fancy, much to the gypsy king's comfort and he kept on his way as usual.
What was harrying him so much lately was of little consequence, nothing more than just a bit of a creative speed bump in his story making. He had been thinking over the lyrics and all, the scenes and how to portray them. Usually it was rather easy for him; he had a talent for such things. But this, based on a supposed true story, he found difficult, and was unable to draw any inspiration from the great sights of Paris, where the tale had taken place. But, then again, whenever he had found himself in ruts like so, he would be able to pull himself out sooner or later. There was little use worrying about it all the time. The best inspiration usually came when he wasn't thinking about it. 'Besides,' he would tell himself, 'what does it matter to feel such a way? I'm not a playwright or anything like that."
Clopin and his caravan had come into Paris only a few weeks earlier, new to the sights, but familiar with other gypsy convoys that had passed through. He wasn't too well known yet, though there were several children grouping themselves before the open window of his wagon that were beginning to become familiar with his face. As usual, the residents of the supposed "modern city" respected his race little, but there was a sort of tolerance to their being. Clopin and his troupe took residence in the gypsy hideout known non other than the Court of Miracles, infamous to everyone but its location known only by those fortunate (or unfortunate in some people's views) to be of gypsy race or descent. Living below the surface was a bit suffocating at times, but Clopin guessed that he would grow accustomed soon enough. He and the rest of his family had experienced less hospitable conditions.
As his story came to a musical close, and the children flipped coins into his wagon by use of the window, there was the sound of a starting uproar coming from around the corner of one narrow Parisian street. It was as if all people sounded a bit irked, sounds of women gasping and men yelping, some even going so far as uttering several swear words. Clopin flipped off of the roof of his caravan, the children disappearing around the bend to see what was taking place. He lifted one masked eyebrow, leaning over and walking forward slowly to see what all the hubbub was about, not having so much luck seeing how his neck wasn't that long. But it wasn't long before the reason appeared, whistling an old vagabond tune, the same mischievous smile taking his leather-like face.
"Matthias," Clopin said, smiling and shaking his head at the same time. An old uncle of his, taken into his troupe when his cousin had discovered a dislike for the impish old codger. Matthias was truly a sight to behold, his thick skin as tight as a drum's hide and blackened by years under the merciless sun. He was clothed in little more than what appeared to be a bag, created by different patches of cloth picked up over the years and sewn together. An old stitched up rag that resembled a nightcap wrapped his head and he was barefoot. He resembled a black, smiling corpse.
"Matthias, you old fool," Clopin yelled out in a teasing sense, "who did you kill to cause such an uproar?"
The old gypsy glanced up, the smile on his face ever widening at the sight of his nephew.
"I've killed no one, you see," he said. "The sack is still moving!" He gestured to the old sack he had slung on his back, supported by one bony shoulder. It was wriggling and growling with a wild passion, every once and a while creating several tears along the thick fabric.
Clopin raised an eyebrow, approaching his uncle curiously.
"What have you got there, friend?" He asked, staring, interested, into one of the many rips. He could not catch much of a sight other than a glimpse of blue fur. He straightened out, scratching the back of his head questioningly. Blue fur? He looked up, wondering just what it was that his uncle had chanced upon. Behind them, he saw a gathering of many Parisians, children, men, and women, blocking the one street his uncle had come through. Though they looked as curious as he was, they kept a safe distance from the old man. Clopin wondered if it would be appropriate for him to do the same.
Matthias took the bag, swinging it over his shoulder roughly onto the cobblestone-paved streets of Paris. There was a loud, unpleasant thump, followed by a shocked silence, as if the thing that had been forced into the pack was unsure of what just happened. Seconds afterward a pained and annoyed moan came from the sack. Matthias chuckled aloud, pulling a length of rope from some unknown hiding place beneath his clothing. Clopin watched interestingly. Bracing himself with the rope in two withered hands, Matthias lifted a foot to the opening of the old sack. With monkey-like movement and agility, he pulled down the end of the bag and rushed forward with a prodigious yell.
From within the brown, ripped confines of the old thick sack a strange blue creature started forward once the edge went over his body. It shot out with spectacular speed, unnatural some might say, as quickly as an arrow released from the bow. The crowd behind flinched and gasped with surprise. Clopin, though a little startled by the sudden speed, reacted a little more helpfully, leaping forward with a fantastic speed of his own, gained by years of prestidigitation and gymnastics. The creature barely evaded his gloved fingers, and escaped with a few blue hairs left in the black palms of the gypsy king. It was growling and heatedly angry. It jumped onto the wooden supports of a surrounding building and climbed upward as if it could not fall. It stopped for a moment, far from the gypsy king's reach, and sniffed the air, glancing downward at those that stood, shocked, below.
It was then that Clopin got a first good look at the odd animal. It resembled something of a rabbit, with long ears sticking out of the side of a half-circle head. But, very un-rabbit-like, it had inch-long claws at the end of four short fingers; these were what supported him so well on the wood. There was a look in its beetle-black eyes, glittering with a vengeful light, glancing angrily from him to those who stood in a frightened group yards away, then to the old man, clutching a length of rope in his blackened hands.
When the creature had gotten a sight of the old gypsy, he growled viciously and leaped downward from his spot and rushing forward, as if the fall had not affected him in anyway. He rushed toward Matthias, angry with the man whom had caught him and bagged him like little more than a loaf of bread. The old gypsy grinned with a youth that was hidden within by his own withered figure, tightening the rope as if he were mocking the animal. As the blue-furred creature rushed, brandishing a malicious claw, Matthias took a stance, bracing himself. Clopin ran to the old man, unable to match the beast's speed, worry taking every bit of his agreeable countenance.
"Matthias!" He yelped, concerned that the creature would be able to swipe his uncle. But, as it turned out, as he could not catch the creature's agility, the creature could not match Matthias's. With movements barely traceable, the beast that was readying to kill the man was in ropes, wrapped tightly from beneath his chin down its knees. With a frustrated groan it fell to the cobbles, moans of complaint exiting its lips. Clopin looked at him curiously. It almost sounded human.
Clopin reached his uncle, gasping just a little for the amount of breath he had lost. The creature had given up fighting for the moment and was staring up at the sky, the look of bitter annoyance on its face. Clopin leant over it, staring, his curiosity renewed.
"What is it, Matthias?" He asked, eyeing the sharp bared teeth and the angered black eyes.
"Isn't it obvious, Monsieur King?" He returned, leaning over the blue animal as well. "It's a rabbit. Can't you see the large ears peeking from its head?"
"What a vicious bunny," Clopin responded dryly, shaking his head. "I don't think a bunny could run so fast, climb so high, or growl for that matter."
"It's not a bunny, it's a rabbit," Matthias explained angrily, straightening out and crossing his arms around his thin chest.
"Either or, I don't think-"
"Then what is it, genius?" Matthias asked, something of an irked tone to his voice.
"I don't know," Clopin said, standing up and stroking his bearded chin in thought. "A cat...no, not a cat...a dog, maybe..."
Matthias interrupted the thought, chuckling so hard that he was doubled over.
"A dog?" he gasped, still snickering. "That ugly thing a dog?"
The animal growled, as if in understanding, but Clopin ignored this, a little embarrassed.
"I've seen uglier pups, you old fool," he responded. "Like the one that stands before me, gasping like a fish out of water."
Matthias glanced up and shook his head, but was smiling nonetheless.
"Oh, don't take it that way, king," he said, clapping his back with a skeletal hand. "If you think it's a dog, then it's a dog, all right? Don't be so bitter."
Clopin raised an eyebrow, but said nothing else about the "species matter". He glanced at the "dog" again, who seemed to have regained its want of freedom and was attempting to make its way onto its feet again by jumping on its back and rolling on the ground. Before it could, though, Clopin reached down and picked it up, making sure that it would not be able to take place. But the animal began writhing ever the more, beginning its growls yet again. But Clopin held on fast, not allowing its escape, but being thrashed a little in the process. Clopin looked down at the animal when it happened to settle down a little, and a question popped into his head.
"Matthias," he started, still looking at the "dog", "What reason do you have for capturing such a beast?" A thought popped into his head that made him gag inwardly. "We aren't going to cook him, are we? I remember last time you tried to make us eat something you caught. Homer had a stomachache for a whole week, not to mention diarrhea..."
"That snake was just fine," Matthias argued. "It's not any fault of mine that that lad couldn't take it. Everyone else was fine weren't they?"
"We all could tighten our belts but you and Homer," Clopin explained. "We threw it out when you weren't looking. Sorry. I don't know why it didn't affect you. Knowing you, you were probably immune to such things by the time you were five."
"So I was, so I was," Matthias chuckled. "But you needn't worry, son, it's not for eating. It's a little project I have to busy myself with."
"And, that is?" Clopin asked.
"I'm going to train this rabbit here to get us some money. In a week, he'll be doing flips for coins and dancing for silver."
"Don't you mean dog?" Matthias brushed this off and continued to go on about his plans. Clopin held in some laughter. Old Matthias, that fool. Train this creature in a week? Other than that impossibility, he never finished what he started, taking into account a half-built trough for the horses, and the new clothes he was trying to stitch for himself. They were half-finished now...one year after he had started. But he shrugged the thoughts off. He felt sorrier for the poor animal.
Clopin glanced at the animal he had in his arms. It had stopped moving for a moment, but its expression was very annoyed. It was as if it understood what Matthias had said. Clopin clicked his tongue and stared up at the sky. He must be seeing things.

When Lilo came back from the shadows of Notre Dame, she was absolutely disappointed. No sign of the metal transmitter anywhere. She brushed off her shoulders. Dust had fallen from the beams during her search, as if nothing had touched them for years. She had no doubt about this, which made more sense why that beam that she had walked on had almost snapped.
She sighed, picking up a pack of crayons that she had removed from her bag and looking for a stray sheet of paper she could perhaps color on.
"This isn't fair," she said, peeking into her bag. "I'll never get home if I don't find it."
She scanned the floor, still clutching the pack, and crawled along, searching beneath things that she had unpacked. She couldn't find any paper.
"What if I lost it and it got sent somewhere?" She thought aloud. "Nani would get mad at me, and then she would get sad. What if she punishes Stitch or Jumba? I hope they don't think I'm dead or anything. There would be no hope if they weren't looking for me, and I'd have to live with Quasimodo forever... if he let me. Darn it! Why did I pack crayons and didn't put any paper?"
She sat up and pouted, staring at the pack of crayons then throwing them angrily on the floor. She sighed.
"I really need a hug right now," she told herself. She looked up and scanned for Scrump. Seeing no trace of her little green doll, she stood up, a little worried. "Scrump? Scrump, where are you?"
She walked through the bell tower, searching desperately for her little friend, peeking through her bag, at everything she had searched before and glancing through the shadows as far back as she could. She looked as high as she could, and went through every level of the bell tower that she had traveled during her short stay. She was near tears when she stopped and she was sweating from the search.
"Oh, where did I put her?"
She walked quietly to the place where the small models were kept, and noticed something that she hadn't noticed during her search. She had looked below the table, but, desperate, had not paid any attention to what was above it. Or sitting next to it. Breathing softly, asleep, Quasimodo was resting his deformed head atop the surface of the table, leaning on his arm for cushioning. A troubled look was on his face, but he had a slight smile taking his mouth. In his hands was the model of himself that Lilo had been introduced to that morning, and in his arms lay her little doll. She smiled at the sight, remembering that she had given it to him to play with. She approached the scene cautiously, laughing gently at the sweetness of the whole sight. There was just something beautiful about it, absolutely beautiful.
"That's pretty cute," she remarked, walking beside the four-legged stool and looking straight up at her friend with gentle eyes. She leaned in gently for the hug she needed, a quiet tear running down her cheek at the returned thought of her troubles. Quasimodo stirred slightly, and Lilo let go, not wanting to mar the sweet scene. Yawning quietly, she took a seat on the floor, leaning against the stone legs that supported the table. She sighed, staring outwards, not feeling as alone and agitated as she had moments before. Just a little sleepy. Yawning yet again, and stretching out her arms, she nestled herself upon the floor slats, beside Quasimodo's feet, like a puppy. With one silent glance up at her friend, and another smile, she lay her head against her arm and fell asleep.

A/N: Okay that's it for now. I'm not sure how long it will be next time I update, but hopefully it'll be a little faster than last time. I'm sorry about the whole "paragraph stuck together" thing. I just want to tell those who I've annoyed inadvertently with that complication that I am not stupid and I do know how to break my stories into paragraphs. It was uploaded wrongly. I apologize and I hope I have done better with this chapter. Okay? Okay. Read and review, Mes Amis! More Clopin next chapter, hopefully.

A/N: Okay, the damn tenth chapter of this story. I know I haven't been writing as well as I would have liked, only able to get my writing done late at night. My muse seemed to lose its nocturnal nature, and it's asleep, along with any of my talent in writing. Well, here it is, I hope you like it! Read and review, you know the drill.