"Young Jacob took first place at the Fair with his prize steer. A prouder young man never walked the Earth. He talks of studying animal husbandry--perhaps veterinary medicine. Imagine that--a potential doctor in our family! I wish Eliza could have been here to see this..."
--excerpt from the private journal of Ephraim Barton
Smoky Hills Part 11
Exploring
Trowa looked up from the phone book, where he'd been preparing to dial the local police and report the missing dog. "Oh! He came home!" he exclaimed as Heero carried the big dog into the kitchen.
"Sort of," Heero said wryly, setting Thor down carefully. "Stay!" he ordered, heading for the first aid kit in the bathroom.
Thor hung his head, looking the part of a scolded child. But he stayed put.
"What's up?" Trowa asked.
"He hurt his paw, or leg or something," Heero told him, bringing the supplies back into the kitchen, and going to the sink to run a bowl of warm water for cleaning the cut he'd seen. "Could you take a look at the left front leg?"
"Sure." Trowa shifted his chair closer, since he couldn't very well kneel next to the injured animal. "C'mon, Thor. Gimme your paw."
The dog obligingly held up his left leg, keeping his weight on the right.
Trowa went inch by inch, feeling the bones and joints, and manipulating them carefully to see if it caused any pain.
"I believe there's a cut on his pad," Heero pointed out.
"Yes, not too deep, but we'll need to clean and wrap it." Trowa felt the joint above it again. "He might've sprained the pastern a bit. You might want to take him to the vet for an x-ray in the morning, and see if they think the cut could use a stitch or two."
"I will," Heero said without hesitation, a hand resting gently on the big head, while his fingers fondled a scruffy ear. "Troublesome beast," he said affectionately.
"Where'd you find him?" Trowa asked, beginning to rinse the wound.
"The mailman brought him home."
"Seriously?" Trowa looked up in surprise. "Isn't it a little late for him to be delivering mail?"
"He said he was up at the reservoir, and found the dog there. Since he knew where he lived, he brought him home."
"How nice of him," Trowa said warmly.
"Yes, it was." Heero looked away with a pensive expression on his face.
"Bet you feel badly for complaining about him that time, don't you?"
"Certainly not!" came a hasty reply. "The mail got damaged that day. I had every right to complain about it."
"Plus, you were tired and cranky and looking for a scapegoat."
Heero opened his mouth to protest, and then just shrugged. "That's beside the point. He was wrong and he knew it, or he'd never have apologized."
"Jesus, Yuy--seriously? You could make Mother Theresa feel like she had something to apologize for with that glare of yours!"
"Not if she didn't have a guilty conscience to start with."
Trowa chuckled at that, and they both relaxed as he began winding gauze around Thor's injured paw. When he finished, he smiled up at Heero and gave the big wolfhound a pat on the head. "I suggest you feed this monster his missed supper and throw a couple of aspirin in the mix to help with his 'owies.'"
"I intend to. And thank you for the emergency vet care."
"At least I can feel useful for something."
"Barton--"
"I know! I know you don't think I'm useless," Trowa said, waving aside his friend's attempt to contradict him. "Just kidding."
"I wish you wouldn't kid about that. I don't want you pushing yourself too soon." Heero gestured to the crutches Trowa was insisting on using instead of the wheelchair.
"I'm not. I called the doctor yesterday, and he said it'd be fine to increase the use of the leg, so long as I don't overdo it. He's sending out some physical therapy recommendations and a referral to an outpatient facility about an hour from here, so I can go for weekly progress checks." He looked up from under his bangs. "If you don't mind driving me--"
Heero just snorted and smacked the back of Trowa's head on his way past, as he went to get Thor's supper. "You know I don't."
"Love you, too," Trowa chuckled, gathering up the first aid supplies to stow back in the kit.
After the stressful day and hectic finale, both men were tired, and went to bed shortly after settling the dog in for the night.
~*~
Of course, first thing in the morning, Heero was up well before Trowa, and on the phone consulting with the nearest veterinary clinic about Thor's injured leg. He'd forgone his morning run to tend to his patient, and decided that a thorough check-up was in order.
"No, we haven't seen you before," he said a bit impatiently. "We've just moved to the area. But if you check with the Sanc Veterinary Hospital, they can fax over Thor's records before I bring him in. I'll have hard copies with me as well."
Trowa hobbled past on his crutches, pausing to scratch Thor's ears and murmur reassurances to the big dog, and then heading for the coffee pot.
"Of course he's up to date on his shots. I'm a responsible dog owner." He listened for a moment, rolling his eyes expressively at Trowa. "We were out for our morning run yesterday and he got away from me. He's got a cut on his pad and I'd like to have an x-ray to be sure there's no bone injury."
Trowa poured his coffee and leaned against the counter to sip it.
"He's an Irish Wolfhound. Yes, they are big dogs. That's why I'd like his leg checked out for damage; considering his body weight, I don't want him using it if it's compromised."
Trowa looked at Thor. "You're a troublesome beast," he said with a smirk. "See what you put your 'daddy' through?"
"Eleven would be fine. Yes, that's Yuy--Heero Yuy. And the dog's name is Thor." He scowled in the big dog's direction. "He's almost four. Yes, neutered. No allergies that I'm aware of." He nodded and jotted down some directions. "Thank you very much. I'll be on my way shortly."
Trowa raised an eyebrow as Heero hung up the phone. "Shortly? It's only eight-thirty."
"Yes, and the place is a good two-hour drive from here."
"There's no local veterinarian?"
Heero gave him a dark look. "I'm not trusting some backwoods horse doctor to care for Thor."
"Jesus, Yuy--a vet's a vet. They all attend the same kind of school and receive the same training."
"Yes, but this place is affiliated with Tufts University Vet School. It's got state of the art facilities, an experienced staff, and access to the most up-to-date research in the field." He leaned to run a hand over Thor's broad forehead. "Since our old vet is six hours away, I'm not settling for less than the best I can find close by," he said firmly.
Trowa coughed to hide a smile. "Well, it's your dime," he noted. "What am I supposed to do while you drive across half the state to take your dog to the vet?"
"You should relax today. Take it easy," Heero suggested. "Obviously you won't be able to do any heavy lifting. So concentrate on your exercises the surgeons recommended." He gathered up a folder containing his copies of Thor's vaccination records, but paused in the act of clipping the leash on the big dog. "Unless--you want to come along?"
Trowa was on the verge of saying "yes," that he wanted to get out of the house for a change of scenery, after weeks of being stuck there. But he glanced down at the loose sweats he was wearing, with one leg cut short to allow for his wrapped and braced knee to be tended, and knew damned well it would take awhile for him to get dressed to go anywhere.
His gaze darted to the clock on the wall. "Naw, Yuy. Y'better get going. I haven't even had breakfast yet, and I don't really fancy two hours of sitting in your car smelling wet wolfhound."
"He's not wet--just damp. I decided to clean the mud off his legs and belly this morning to check for any other cuts."
Trowa smirked nastily. "He's close enough to wet. In a stuffy car, he'll smell." He waved his friend aside. "Go on then. Get out of here so I can enjoy my breakfast."
"Careful, or Thor and I won't bring you back a doggie bag from wherever we stop for lunch," Heero joked.
"Don't you mean a 'person' bag?"
"Semantics," Heero said breezily, giving Trowa a pat on the shoulder as he passed on the way out the door, Thor limping carefully along beside him.
"Drive carefully," Trowa cautioned. "And don't pick up any strays."
"This from the man with the myna from Hell."
"Wing is a good bird."
"He's a vandal. No wonder the last owner abandoned him."
"Hey--you're the one with two dogs and a parrot who thinks he's Houdini."
"Have a nice day, Trowa," Heero called back, shutting the door firmly behind himself.
Trowa grinned and shook his head, seeing that his roommate had cooked breakfast for him, and left it covered up and waiting. "Jeeze, Nurse Yuy," he muttered, lifting the lid to see his eggs and sausage still steaming. "I take it back--Chef Yuy. Yum!"
After his solitary breakfast, Trowa spent half an hour cleaning up the kitchen, and then another half hour doing his stretching and bending exercises for his knee. But by ten o'clock, he'd run out of mundane chores to fill his time.
He hobbled from room to room, looking for something he could work on that wouldn't require the use of his legs. But painting involved ladders, or at the very least a stepstool, and cleaning required two free hands. Since he had to have at least one crutch in use at all times, he couldn't realistically expect to do much in the way of cleanup.
"Well--there's always exploring--" he murmured, eyeing the stairs speculatively.
He'd only been upstairs once, when he and Heero had first arrived. He'd insisted on seeing the upstairs, and Heero had embarrassed the shit out of him by carrying him to the top, and then going back down and hauling the wheelchair up. Since then he hadn't dared ask.
But now that he was on crutches, he saw no reason he couldn't take the steps one at a time, using his good leg.
Granted, Heero would probably have a list of reasons a mile long--but then, he wasn't around right then, was he?
Before he could talk himself out of it, Trowa carefully navigated his way to the foot of the stairs and put his good leg up on the first step, using it to lift himself and the crutches up and brace for the next one.
What seemed like an eternity later, he found himself nearing the top--sweating like a pig, and with his armpits aching from the effort he'd expended--but almost there. And with a couple more hops and hauls, he made it.
He promptly sat down right where he was and leaned his back against the wall to catch his breath.
"Well that was way more effort than I expected," he sighed, dragging a sleeve across his sweaty forehead.
It was several minutes before he felt up to the task of exploring. But when he did, he was a bit dismayed to see how much work remained to be done.
While Heero and Cathy's helpers had hauled out the bulkiest of items, including mouse-riddled mattresses and broken furniture, there remained a tremendous amount of cleaning up to do. Floors needed stripping and refinishing, windows could use a good washing, and wallpaper and painting was an absolute must.
"Good thing we've got a place to sleep downstairs," Trowa mused. "It could take months to get these rooms livable."
But even as he winced at the amount of toil ahead of them, he took the opportunity to examine the hearths in each room, and the old stone of the fireplaces that had once heated the entire house.
He imagined the original occupants of the house, building up a hot blaze in each room at night, and savoring the cozy warmth while watching snow fall outside the windows. It must have been a very satisfying feeling--to know they'd thwarted the elements. He'd read as much in the journal of Ephraim Barton that Heero had brought down from the attic.
When his thoughts turned to the journal, of course Trowa headed straight for the attic, eager to locate the other volumes his roommate had mentioned. But when he looked up the narrow staircase into the dark room above, he hesitated.
If he tried to make it up those stairs and failed, Heero would kill him. Not literally, of course. But he had a feeling if he in any way injured himself, his obsessive friend would strap him down to the bed and spoon feed him until his knee was a hundred percent healed.
"Fuck." He sat on the bottom step to rest again, and then realized that if he left the crutches at the foot of the stairs and used his arms to pull himself up from one to the next, he could make the top quite easily.
Sure enough, by pushing up with his good leg, and using his arms to hitch himself up so he was seated on the next step, he made his way to the top much easier than when he'd come up from the first floor to the second.
When he got up into the dusty attic, though, he wished he'd thought to bring a flashlight. It was almost pitch dark up there, only lit by small windows at either end, and the sun was at the wrong angle to shed much illumination on the piles of trunks and furniture.
"Jesus, they were some pack rats," he breathed in awe, running a hand over a dusty suitcase.
And speaking of rats, he heard a rustle and the patter of little feet that made him realize he was far from alone in the derelict space.
He'd just decided to give up on exploring until he and Heero could run some sort of lighting up there, when he spied an open trunk, and edge himself over closer to peek at the contents.
"Score!" he said eagerly, finding the container filled with more leather-bound books like the journal he was reading downstairs.
He pulled one out, squinting in the dark to try to make out the writing, but it was too faded for him to discern without better lighting.
"Fine then. These have gotta come downstairs."
The auburn-haired man looked warily down the steep steps, wondering if he could slide the trunk down and inch himself along after it. But an experimental tug on a handle proved that it weighed too much to drag along easily. And the old leather straps that served as handles would probably break under any serious stress.
"One by one then." Trowa took one notebook and carefully tossed it to the foot of the stairs. But when it landed, the cover flopped open and several pages spilled out across the floor.
"Fuck!" Trowa anxiously made his way back down the steps, forgetting about the trunk in his desire to salvage the volume he'd dropped.
He found the spine had come loose upon impact, and the pages were in danger of falling all over the place. So he carefully tucked them back together, and then stuck the book into his shirt for safekeeping.
"Okay, Barton. Give it up," he chided himself, gathering up his crutches and heading for the first floor again, realizing he was in no shape to continue his exploration.
By the time he got downstairs, he was worn out--feeling the strain in muscles long-unused. He barely made it back to the kitchen, and flopped wearily into a chair to catch his breath.
"I'm so out of shape," he sighed.
Balder came ambling into the kitchen to sniff at the dust on Trowa's pant legs, and look quizzically at the man, as if wondering where he'd been.
"You are not the brightest bulb in the pack," Trowa noted wryly, giving the big head a pat.
Then Balder barked and trotted towards the front door, and Trowa heard the beep of a horn.
"Shit! Who's here?" He fumbled for his crutches and hastily made his way to the door, praying that whoever was out there didn't leave their vehicle and start poking around the barn.
Another beep sounded just as he reached the front door and threw it open, and he saw the post office Jeep just starting to pull away. But even as he slumped in the doorway, figuring he'd missed out on a package--probably the one sent by the doctor's office--he saw the vehicle stop, and then a very good-looking young man with a braid down to his thighs got out and headed for the porch.
All he could think was, "The mailman's hot."
That and, "Yuy's an ass."
TBC...
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