Somewhere in New York Part 7
Bundled up against the frigid night air, Heero and I walk briskly up the street. Six blocks to the Shamrock.
As few people have chosen to endure the wintry weather, the sidewalk is nearly deserted. Ahead three men are partially shadowed by a broken streetlamp. A subtle touch on my arm is Heero's unspoken signal to veer widely around the dusky trio.
Before we can move to the side, one man flanked by his cronies, steps out to block our way. "Hey Yuy."
Slowing our pace, Heero affirms forcefully, "I don't want any trouble."
Roger Whitman sneers, "You should've worried about not wanting trouble before acting like a cocky ass last Saturday."
*********
Heero ignores the smug reprimand. "I'm not interested in a pissing match." He informs matter-of-factly.
Whitman pauses perplexedly, no doubt to get his punch-happy brain in gear. "The only pissing that's gonna be done is in your pants." is announced for the amusement of his equally addle-minded associates.
Now, it seems, Heero and I have two choices, (maybe three if you count pissing our pants). Try to reason with Whitman, but judging by his liquor fouled breath and slurred speech that'll probably be an exercise in futility, or stand our ground, hope the bluff works and, if not, beat the shit outta of him and his goons.
"Hey," the burly man with a thick scar etched across his cheek says to no one in particular, "Ain't that," he stabs an index finger at me, "the son of a bitch who flipped you the bird?"
"The loud mouth with the braid." Whitman confirms, "I'm gonna enjoy messin' up his pretty face."
With the threat of bodily harm, Heero angles his body as if to shield me. I lay a hand on his shoulder and lean forward, just enough to whisper lowly. "Don't worry I got your back."
With a fierce forewarning glare, Heero unzips his quilted coat for a better range of motion then glides into a defensive stance. Without hesitation I copy his posture, shifting my weight to center my balance.
The stage is set.
Not in an arena with regulations to govern the game; on the street where it's win anyway you're able. Like a deranged Mad Hatter, Whitman focuses on Heero which leaves Tweedledee and Tweeledumber (yeah, literary license) for me to sort out. My skill level isn't anywhere as advanced as Heero but two against one ain't impossible odds.
In the brief, tense interval before all hell breaks loose it becomes eerily quiet, even the wind holds it's breath in anticipation. To accentuate the silence, like thousands of arctic butterflies, downy snowflakes flutter soundlessly from the slate gray sky.
In a millisecond Whitman cocks his arm and aims a swift fist directly at Heero's head. Spurred by sheer instincts and impulse, Heero throws up a forearm block, deflects the blow and plows a retaliatory punch into his taller challenger's breastbone.
Whitman totters back a few steps. Face screwed up in a scowl, he mulls over how to use his longer reach to an advantage. Heero's breaths crystallizing in the cold he bounces in place and formulates his own plan of attack.
While Whitman and Heero reevaluates the clash's cadence and retunes the rhythm, I'm not about to wait for the dim-witted duet to initiate our tango, after all there's no chivalry when it comes to street brawling.
A swift snap kick to Tweedledee's crotch triggers a cringing yowl and doubles him over. An elbow spear between his shoulder blades crashes knees into the concrete then, in slow motion, he pitches over with a thud. I'm not bloodthirsty or take pleasure from pummeling someone just for the hellva it so I sincerely hope the man stays down.
To my left a blur of motion means Heero and Whitman are locking horns again. Bodies spin, boots smack flesh. Fists seek out incapacitating targets or hum through the frosty air with near misses.
All I want to do is jump into the fray, stand side by side in defense of my friend. This momentary distraction breaks the number one rule of competition---whether in a sanctioned match or just plain fighting---never lose concentration.
As punishment for the foolish inattentiveness I'm ambushed by Tweedledumber. A sucker-punch to the head scatters my senses. In a pathetic attempt to stop the cityscape from spinning, I suck in a lungful of wintry air and am rewarded with a flash of pain.
*Got what you deserved.* I mentally chastise my damn cocksureness.
Blood oozing from both nostrils I'm vaguely aware the cowardly bastard is making a grab. Somehow through the sensory disorientation I hear Heero shouting. Can't make out the words but the cautionary tone is clear, unfortunately, I comprehend a fraction too late.
Beefy hands seize fistfuls of my jacket. As if defying gravity I'm launched sideways, the momentum slamming my back into a building with sufficient force to render me breathless.
Tweedledumber leans close to gain my undivided attention. "I'm gonna teach you a lesson in manners." he hisses with a promise of cruelty.
"Go to hell."
"I'll show you hell, pretty boy." is declared as I'm dragged by my braid into the alley where a forearm pressed across my throat pins me against a filthy "NYC Department of Sanitation" dumpster.
Face to face with the brutish pervert, his licentious grin gives me the creeps. *Don't panic. Think.* I recall Heero's streetwise guidance for such dire situations.
Tweedledumber's free hand fondling between my legs, "Suck me off real good and I won't share ya with Roger and Jack." sets the rules. "Give me any trouble and your dead." is warned to ensure my cooperation.
"Okay." I wheeze through my compressed windpipe.
"Ya smarter than ya look." The forearm slips away. "On your knees and, like I said, make it good."
Feinting fear, I flex my legs as if to comply. The yellow-tooth grin grows wider then disappears when my boot slams into the bastard's kneecap. The sickening snap when the joint shatters extracts an excruciating scream.
The bested minion writhing in agony, I make my escape. Running onto the sidewalk all I can think about is Heero, if he's all right or beat to a pulp. In the broken streetlamp's dusky gloom I can just make out a vague profile bent over a prone form. If Whitman is still standing he's going to pay with a shit load of hurt.
Closer. The silhouette straightens and my heart skips a beat. "Heero!"
"Duo." The calling of my name causes me to tremble.
The fight had taken no more than fifteen minutes but it might as well have been a lifetime. Now Heero and I embrace in the swirling snow and don't give a damn if the world approves.
"You okay?" Heero whispers apprehensively.
"I am now."
Holding me at arm's length, he examines my face, inspects the tacky blood clogging my nostrils, the bruised welt on my cheekbone and puffy upper lip. "You're hurt. Duo, I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault." I insist, "Whitman started this bullshit."
"But if I hadn't acted so cocky last week---"
"I don't want to hear ya talk like that. Let's go home; it'll be our luck the cops will come nosing around."
*********
Heero and I help each other along as best we can. He's not complaining, but I know his ribs must hurt like hell. Oddly, instead of being exhausted, I'm exhilarated. Guess that's the adrenaline high Heero experiences after a match.
The neon Shamrock in the pub's window tints the dusting of snow pale green. I suppose the usual eccentric patrons are keeping company with Pat.
Waiting at the corner for the stoplight to change, .Heero urges, "Let's use the outside stairs."
"Pat gonna know something happened when he sees us."
"I know but I don't feel like answering a bunch of questions right now."
Trudging up the steps, I unlock the door going into the hall. Muffled conversations float upstairs as I unlock our room. Safe inside our sanctuary, Heero slip off his coat and I'm more convinced his ribs are giving him a fit.
"Gonna to run a hot bath for ya." is stated as I hang my jacket on a wall hook by the door.
Heero flops on his bed. "Thanks." is replied with a grunt of effort when then leans over to remove his boots.
In the bathroom I switch on the heater and set the water on the hot side so it won't cool off too quickly. While the tub fills I sprinkle in a liberal amount of bath salts Bill gave us to treat sore muscles and lay two towels within easy reach.
Shuffling in wearing jeans, but barefoot and bare-chested, Heero places clean boxers, fleecy green and white plaid trousers and a long sleeve green tee shirt on the closed toilet lid.
Turning off the water, "Call me if you need anything." is offered as I start to leave.
"You don't have to go." he insists, "Wash the blood off your face and put antiseptic cream on those cuts and that busted lip."
I do have the decency not to look until Heero eases into the tub with sides high enough to guard his modesty. A soapy washcloth gently dissolves the blood. Antiseptic is dabbed on my worse spots and brushing my teeth eliminates the telltale coppery taste.
All the while swishes of water confirm Heero is busy scribing away his own battle souvenirs. I glance over just in time to see him grimace then inwardly curse the saints for their lack of protection, the devil for inciting Whitman to violence and fate for having a good laugh at our expense.
"How ya doin'" I ask even though the answer is obvious.
Heero wiggles to get comfortable, "Fine"
"You ain't worth a damn at lying."
I expect a smart-assed retort or under-the-breath swearing, but I never thought I'd hear Heero Yuy actually ask for help. "Can you wash my hair? I don't think I can manage."
Under different circumstances the thought of Heero in his naked glory would get me all hot and bothered. Right now I'm too concerned about his well-being to ogle his anatomy.
Sitting on the tub, I test the water; it's tepid so the faucet is adjusted to a warm stream. A plastic cup from the sink dips water to soak Heero's hair. Herbal shampoo is lathered up. Conditioner rinsed clean, the water is turned off and the drain is unstopped.
While the tub empties, Heero towel dries his hair and wraps the second dry towel around his waist before I help him out.
"I'll turn down the beds." I offer to give him privacy to dress, brush his teeth and use the toilet.
"Duo." halts my intended exit, "Thank you for watching my back." Heero expresses his gratitude then admits, "I couldn't have fought off all three of those bastards."
A bit embarrassed, I shrug. "That's what friends do for each other. I'm just sorry we had to fight in the first place."
*********
Just like Pat does every evening he comes upstairs to wish us good night before going home. It takes only a moment to notice the scrapes, cuts, fat lips and bruised knuckles.
"Got something you'd like to tell me?" is asked rhetorically as our fatherly landlord scoots out the desk chair and sits.
Side by side on my bed Heero and I narrate the entire fracas from start to finish. Pat listens, interjects a few questions but doesn't yell or give us a lecture.
When the recounting is done, Pat's hazel eyes are like a ferocious junkyard dog staring at you through a fence. "Don't worry 'bout Whitman." is uttered with a hard edge to his voice. "I know people who'll make sure that son of a bitch thinks twice before startin' trouble again."
Standing, he puts a hand on Heero's shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "Although I don't approve of fightin', I'm proud of both of ya."
*********
Backlit by the streetlamp's amber glow surreal snowflakes fashion kaleidoscope patterns outside the window.
Judging by his steady breathing Heero is finally asleep. I'm about to surrender to my own, hopefully dreamless, slumber when a tingle tiptoes across my lips-a ghostly remembrance of the passionate kisses we shared at the gym.
Turning on my side to watch Heero sleep peacefully "Love you." is whisper so only the snowflakes can hear.
TBC...
Back to Karen, The Huntress's Fanfictions Page