Author's Note: This more or less fits with chapters sixty three and sixty four of Witness, timewise.
Diary of a Protected Witness Part 51
On the Mend
Y'know what, Diary?
Lying around in a hospital bed recuperating is fucking boring as hell. Seemed like it took forever before they started getting rid of some of the wires and monitors, and even longer before they let me eat solid food and take a piss by myself. It was worse than the hovering 'Ro had done at the beginning of our road trip.
Seriously, if I hadda eat one more cup of green jello, or use a bedpan one more time--I think I'da gone nuts.
And since there was no window in my room, I wasn't even really sure of the passage of time. One day sort of blurred into the next.
But finally--finally--the nurse started helpin' me get out of bed and walk to the bathroom. Then they dispensed with the i.v. when I started eating soup and soft foods like mashed potatoes and gravy.
And eventually, I even got a shower! A blessed shower.
Hot water never felt so damned good!
I coulda spent a week under that soothing spray, lathering up my hair (which was totally disgusting after all that time without proper care) and letting the water rinse away that horrid hospital smell.
It was almost a religious experience--a close second-- Okay--a distant second to having sex with Heero.
Heero.
I didn't even want to think how much my lover was beating himself up over my death. I knew his capacity for guilt, and how totally responsible he'd felt for my well-being. He'd be hating himself for what had happened.
I wished I could let him know, it hadn't been his fault. None of us saw it coming--not Noventa, who was right there beside me--and not me, the one who was usually so good at lookin' out for himself.
Une was a malicious bitch. That much was certain.
I ran a hand over my stomach--over the newly-healed skin where the knife had gone in, and where the surgeons had opened me up to patch the gash in my lung. Alexander told me it'd missed my heart by less than an inch, and that if it hadn't, even the best surgeon in the world wouldn't have been able to save me.
Close, indeed!
I didn't like to contemplate how very close I'd come to dying (yet again)--not when I had so much to live for. The trial was over for me; my testimony had been given. All that remained was for me to reunite with Heero, and life would be perfect. Euphoric, even.
I hoped my lover would forgive me.
Not that it was my fault Alexander pulled the wool over everyone's eyes. But I already knew there was no way I could contact Heero until the verdict was in for the Khushrenada case.
And it wasn't just that I knew the Feds would watch me like a hawk; that was a given.
It was because I knew that until Khushrenada's fate was sealed, contacting Heero would just make me a target again. And worse, it would make my friends targets.
As long as Alexander was the only one who knew I was alive, I was more or less safe, and my loved ones were, too.
Okay--I'm realistic here. I knew full well that Alexander wasn't going to personally oversee hiding me out. That meant that he'd turn me over to other agents. And while I was reasonably sure he was on the up and up (hey, he coulda pulled the plug on me plenty of times in that hospital room if he'd been out to kill me), I had no such confidence in his cohorts.
I know I'm sounding like a broken record--but the FBI was corrupt--riddled with people on Oz's payroll. Aside from Alexander, there wasn't a single agent I'd trust to so much as watch my fuckin' dog.
(Yes, I know I didn't have one--but it was a good analogy anyway--and maybe Heero and I would have one some day, when all this was over.)
When I came out of the bathroom, winding my hair into its characteristic braid, Alexander was sitting on the edge of the bed with a bag in his hand.
"Doughnuts?" I said hopefully, giving him a wry smile and tightening my grip on my towel.
"Better," he assured me. "Clothes."
He tossed the bag and I caught it, feeling the reassuring bulk of something other than a flimsy hospital gown.
"Cool." I went around to the other side of the bed and started pulling things out of the bag.
There were jeans--baggy and nondescript--and a flannel shirt, a hoodie, wool socks, underwear, and a pair of sneakers.
Not cool.
"Uhm, Al? I'll look like a total dork in these clothes, y'know," I told him, eyeing the flannel shirt with almost as much distaste as the skirt Cathy had made me wear.
"That's the idea," he told me, smirking a bit. "You need to blend in--to be inconspicuous--for the drive to the safe house."
I looked up quickly. "We're leavin' the hospital?"
He nodded. "Technically, this isn't a hospital. It's a convalescent home. And I've managed to keep it so the only one who's laid eyes on you is the private nurse we hired. Since she's actually a medic for another branch of the service, we can rely on her silence."
"Yeah, it's not your life," I pointed out, sighing and beginning to dress in the totally unflattering clothes he'd brought me.
I didn't realize I'd embarrassed him by unceremoniously dropping my towel, until he turned sharply away. And I smirked to myself as I pulled on the boxers--freakin' boxers, for Heaven's sake. It looked like I'd stumbled across another prude like Chang.
I stored that information for future use, determined to use it to torment him after he'd subjected me to such a horrific outfit. I mean, flannel? I was no lumberjack, and I truly resented being dressed like one!
"All done," I told him as I tucked in the shirt and rolled up the sleeves. "You can turn around now, Miss Priss."
He glared across at me, his gaze raking over the outfit appraisingly. "Good. You don't look so much like Duo Maxwell now." He tossed a wallet onto the bed. "There's a driver's license in there under the name John Smythe. That'll be your new alias."
"Smythe?" I rolled my eyes. "Why not just make it 'Smith,' for fuck's sake? You think you'll fool anyone with Smythe?"
"Maxwell, I could fool someone with the name John Smith. There's a reason it's used as a cover--there are hundreds of thousands of very real John Smiths out there."
"Fine. But you tell your agents to call me Solo," I ordered. "At least that's a name I might recognize and respond to."
"Solo?" He gave a shrug. "I suppose in relocation you could use it as a nickname. But your official one will still be John Smythe."
I picked up the wallet and looked at the fake i.d., sighing as I realized it was almost the same as the ugly DMV picture on my real one. "Could've at least used one of the shots from The Jungle. They don't look so much like mug shots."
Alexander was smirking again. "That is a mug shot, Maxwell. We pulled it from your police record."
"Asshole."
So, I bid goodbye to my "hospital," feeling a teensy bit sorry I didn't get to thank the nurse who'd taken pretty good care of me, in spite of my impatience at the length of my stay. She'd put up with a lotta shit from me, 'cause I was anything but a cooperative patient. I hoped they'd paid her plenty for that.
It was dark outside when Alexander led me to a plain black car, and though it was nice to see the stars and feel fresh air on my face, I realized I honestly had no idea where we were.
That fact sorta shook me. I'd assumed they kept me somewhere close to the city, and that I could easily get my bearings. But our location was typical of any of a million suburban locales. I had no clue how I was gonna get to Euphoria once I slipped my leash.
TBC...
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