DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sky High or any of its characters. I do not claim to know much about mental illnesses and certainly nothing about catatonia or schizophrenia. All of the craziness is gleaned from my own experiences and is, therefore, not totally bunk.
"You're burning up!" Layla jerked her hand away from Warren's forehead. She'd heard the statement used before in reference to fevers, but never had it been more true than with Warren. Apparently, when you're a pyrokinetic, your fevers are more like wildfire. It sure did look like he was feeling it, though. His sheets were damp with sweat. Warren was most definitely sick.
"I'll take some Tylenol. I gotta work today." He sniffled miserably putting his fingers to his aching temples.
"Oh, come on," She looked at him worriedly. "You should stay here - in bed - and get well!" Warren only responded with a shake of the head. Layla frowned.
"I need to work. We need the money." He slipped a wrinkled pair of pants over his boxer shorts and hopped to his feet weakly.
"I'm sure I can help you out financially." She put a hand on his shoulder.
"I don't need charity." His eyes narrowed angrily at her suggestion. Maybe if he wasn't so sick he would have been nicer. At least that was what Layla was trying to convince herself. It wasn't him being short-tempered but rather influenza or something like it. As she always did when Warren slipped and said something mean, Layla immediately forgave him without saying another word about it. Layla sighed with her hands on her hips like a frustrated kindergarten teacher.
"Well, I could bus tables for you." She suggested, shrugging a little. There was a long pause as Warren stared at her. Although he was a modern guy with modern ideals, Warren always thought of it as the man's job to bring home money and pay for stables like food or medicine. Having Layla go to work in his place conflicted with those ideals. He was feeling so very sick, though, and he wasn't going to argue with Layla over something so trivial.
"You'd do that?" He raised his eyebrows almost in disbelief. "Seriously?"
"Seriously." Layla smiled brightly at her boyfriend. He nodded with a small, grateful smile and collapsed back into his bed.
"Ohh, man, I owe you." He muttered, curling up and clinging to his pillow.
"Yes, yes you do." She smirked. "I'll come visit later if you aren't asleep." Layla planted a light peck of a kiss on his forehead like a doting mother and took the stairs down to the Paper Lantern's kitchen. How hard could his job be?
Now it was Layla who was sweating, carrying trays of food to and from the kitchen. She was out of breath but the patrons of the Paper Lantern weren't about to have mercy on her. In fact, from Layla's point-of-view, they seemed to be even harder on her than they ever were on Warren. This was the opinion of a tired, stressed-out, sensitive young lady, though, not a level-headed pragmatic pyrokinetic.
"Sweet and sour chicken with wheat noodles…" She set down a plate in front of a man who was seated by himself. He responded with a scowl and a glare.
"This is not what I ordered." He stated, staring at the plate in disgust. "I ordered pot stickers and rice."
Layla's mouth dropped slightly. She looked from the man to the plate in front of him, frowning.
"I'm sorry, sir." She laughed nervously. "Simple mistake. My fault. Pot stickers it is!" She chirped with a forced smile on her face, grabbing up the plate of sweet and sour chicken.
"Miss…?" A woman sitting at the table just behind the man raised her hand politely to flag Layla down. "Did I hear you say 'sweet and sour chicken'?" Layla nodded. "That's my order." Layla's eyes widened just a little.
"OhmygoshI'msosorry!" All of the words in her apology melted together in a moment of embarrassment. Layla set the plate of chicken in front of the woman who just smiled at her politely.
"Are you new, dear?" The woman tilted her head, smiling up at Layla sympathetically.
"Well, I don't really work here… I'm just filling in for someone who got sick." The woman nodded with that kind smile stuck on her face.
Her conversation was interrupted by a harsh voice screeching in Mandarin. Layla winced, not knowing the words that were said and yet understanding the woman perfectly. They wanted Warren back. He was smooth and composed and didn't confuse pot stickers with chicken. Layla frowned, tears welling up in her eyes just from the stress, but she tried her very hardest to keep it all inside. This was a favor for someone she loved very much and she wouldn't ruin it by cracking under pressure in front of paying customers. So she did what was necessary - She bailed to the employee restroom.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid…" She murmured, sitting down on a toilet. Layla had a newfound respect for waiters, busboys, and anyone else involved in the restaurant business. Had she known that it was going to be so difficult she might had thought twice about temping for Warren. She thought that all busboys did was wipe the tables clean and wash the dirty dishes. Apparently 'busboy' at the Paper Lantern meant 'doing anything you're told.' She was waiting for the order to burst into a song and dance routine.
Layla tore off a square of toilet paper, dabbing her eyes with it so no one would know about her brief lapse in sanity. She stood up with a sigh, facing the rest of the day-shift with a determined attitude. Of course, the moment she stepped out of the restroom a chef from the kitchen tapped her shoulder, speaking loudly in Mandarin.
"I don't speak Chinese!" Layla said in a much louder voice than she had intended to, making her seem a bit rude. The man spoke again, this time slowly and in English
"You have toilet paper on your shoe." He pointed to the white trail of paper clinging to the heel of her shoe. Layla blushed more fiercely than she'd ever thought was possible.
"Thank you…" She squeaked out in a meek voice, lifting her leg to peel the paper from the sole of her shoe. Could things get any worse?
"Hey…" Layla whispered, opening Warren's bedroom door just a crack so she could see if he was awake or not. When she spotted him staring blanking up at the ceiling she stepped into the room, toting a brown paper bag underneath her arm. Warren looked up at the sound of her entrance.
"So… You survived." He smirked as playfully as one can be when they feel like their head is being crushed under many, many tons of rock.
"I almost didn't make it." She frowned miserably, then replacing the scowl with a tiny smile. "Anyway, I got you some wedding soup from the Italian eatery across the street. It's not chicken noodle soup, but I'm hoping it has that same medicinal affect." She set the brown paper bag on Warren's nightstand. He scooted over, allowing her room to sit on his bed, and propped himself up on his elbow.
"I'll eat later, but thanks, Layla." She smiled at him, feeling much like a teenage Florence Nightingale. They sat in silence for a moment before Warren's mother burst into the room, smiling brightly and yet still looking like she was only half-there.
"Warren! Your father is on the television! Oh, hurry!" She disappeared, darting into their living area where the television sat. Layla felt sort of excited for Warren. After all, he never got to see his father. The infamous Baron Battle was stuck in prison away from his loved ones. Warren, however, didn't look excited at all. If anything he looked slightly sad.
"Stay here…" He muttered to Layla, kicking himself free of his sheets and blankets to stumble into the living room. Layla, though, followed him, peeking around the wall to see him hugging his mother tightly. The woman she saw was far from the strikingly beautiful and confident person she had seen that night that she'd first met her. She looked disheveled and drowsy. The oddest part of all was the television. It was turned off and the screen was blank, but Pelefina Peace stared at it like a little child watching Sunday morning cartoons.
Layla couldn't hear what Warren told her, but he was surprisingly patient. It almost seemed like he was the parent and Pelefina was the child. He gently pryed her away from the television and led her down the hallway. As the two of them got closer, Layla stepped back into Warren's bedroom and pretended as if she hadn't seen anything at all.
Warren stepped back into his bedroom without saying a word. He slipped back into his warm bed and stared at the ceiling. Layla was afraid to ask what had happened, but she didn't have to. After a moment, Warren sat up.
"It's the Commander." His eyes narrowed as he growled out Steve Stronghold's codename. "I should just kill him." He swallowed the rather large lump that had found its way into Warren's throat. He had an odd look about him. Yes, there was anger in his face, but more than that there was heartbreak. He looked defeated and broken and he was beginning to cry.
Layla frowned as well, flinging her arms around him in a hug only to be pushed away the moment she got close to him. She stepped back, taking a seat away from him on a chair in the corner of the room.
She felt so hopeless, sitting there as silent tears streamed down Warren's face. She wanted to ask the obvious questions - What was wrong with Mrs. Peace? Why was he crying? And, most of all, what did Mr. Stronghold have to do with all of it?
She didn't have to ask. He was about to tell her everything.