Posted: Fri Aug 23, 2002 2:52 pm
Title: Closer
Pairings: Quatre+Dorothy
Warnings: Sappy, mushy, fluff. ^_^
Disclaimer: GW doesn't belong to me, much to my infinate sadness and constant whining. I don't make any moolah, I just make characters lives miserable.
Notes: This takes place approximately ten years after GW. It's just... mushy. I don't quite know where it came from. I think Quatre and Dorothy are an interesting couple if they're handled right. I'm not sure if I did, or not, but I had fun trying.
She stands with her back to me, an ivory statue, carved from ice and steel, blanketed by a sheen of pale blonde silk. She always holds herself so upright, so stiffly, as if she is afraid of what we will see if her shoulders drop even an inch. I have long admired her resolve, her ability to hold onto what she believes even as it crumbles around her. But I have seen inside of her, into the deepest parts of her heart and mind, and know that beneath it all, she is afraid of reaching out for fear of loss and rejection. So she spurns everything she craves, and embraces everything she hates.
I know she still resents me for that, for that split second when our minds, enhanced beyond a person's capacity for understanding with the ZERO system, connected. In her, I saw the lost, weeping girl who watched as countless wars claimed those she loved, and left her with an emptiness so profound, she had no choice but to clasp it to her, to take it so deeply within, it was all she breathed. I felt the heights of her intelligence, saw the depths of depravity Duke Durmail went to by inserting her in the midst of a political revolution, and understood, that she mocked the very things she so admired in Relena Peacecraft.
But I can't forget it was two-fold. What I saw in her, she also saw in me. My weaknesses, my strengths, my fears. She tasted my grief, was burned by my guilt, and burdened by my need. For that short moment, a brief flash, we saw everything, crawled around in each other's minds, and touched a way no one else has ever before. I could not help but feel closer to her after that, as if there was no one single person that could know me that well. I know she felt the same. Her anger at me, her tangible fear as she shoved me away and disconnected told me. She wasn't ready. And in her anger, her search for understanding, she struck out the only way she knew how, by fighting.
Time has passed, altering our bodies, maturing our minds, giving us responsibilities, joys, and grief. Yet, as I watch her through the thin glass of this door, she seems the same to me. She cut her hair, so that it falls only to her waist now, and wears it without the girlish headband, but there is still that air of purpose there, that sense of control and confidence I know she does not always posses. Like others I have known, she is adept at hiding herself behind a cool veneer, so untouchable, it would sooner numb your hand than waver. She has never made any secret, either, that she has little fondness for me. So I wonder, what it is that brings her here today.
Taking a slow breath and exhaling, I push the door aside and cross to her, my shoes clicking smartly on the tiles as I go. She is in the lobby, standing in front of a window, her hands folded precisely behind her back. My secretary told me she refused to come up to my office. Maybe she finds herself on more even ground here, away from what is familiar to me, away from a place where I make decisions and fall into a persona I shed when I step outside the doors to go home every night. For her, the advantage gives her the needed leverage. I'm not surprise that hasn't changed. But I have to smile. It is still about the battle to her.
She doesn't turn as I approach, or even acknowledge my presence when I fall next to her. Instead of greeting her, I follow her eyes, watch as she does, while a bird struggles to right itself and fly. It's wing is injured, a potentially fatal injury for an animal that prides itself on moving from place to place on the air. She has always loved struggle, especially when she can be close to those on the verge of losing. For her, there in beauty in that, a sort of clumsy grace that builds a stronger foundation in the end.
She breaks the silence, her voice cool and modulated, as if every syllable was thought out beforehand. "Do you think I'm like that bird?"
I glance at the bird, then her impassive face. "Is that what you came here to ask me?"
She doesn't look at me yet. "I felt that way, for so long. As if I had one broken wing, and I was struggling to rise above everyone else. I never quite made it, I never found the air. And every person I met held me down. They couldn't mend my wing."
"Why are you telling me this, Dorothy?" I ask quietly, aware of the barrier she keeps between us, yet seeks to break down with her words.
Her head snaps around, her eyes pull me in, measure me. "Quatre Raberba Winner."
She is one of the few people ever to use all three of my names. She says it with such precision, such scorn, as if she is enjoying it and hating it all at once. I could never quite understand that, her. Yet it is strange, how little our connection has diminished with time. I feel it clearly, now, standing near her. I see what she won't share, and if she remembers, she also sees mine. Like lovers, who have never touched.
Dorothy's eyes are so blue, so sharp, I feel every time that she looks at me, she can see into my soul, past it all, to the things no one else can see. Maybe she means for it to be that way. Maybe it's part of the illusion she presents, like a character in the elaborate play we give the name life.
She looks away again, and I wonder if she found what she was looking for.
"You knew I was married."
Automatically, I glance to her hands. They are both resting on the rail in front of the glass, her thumb absently caressing the underside of her finger where her ring had been.
"I had heard, yes."
This time, as she looks at me, she smiles. It isn't filled with mirth, it doesn't reach her eyes. There is a derisive edge, but I can't tell if it is turned inward, or directed toward me.
"But you're too polite to mention my divorce."
Before I can answer, she spins, facing me fully. "I've always hated that about you. Your kindness, your understanding, your patience. It's so weak."
Weak. The barb hits as she meant it to, and digs in. The world is filled with hate, and yet no one gives it a label. Treat others well, and you are considered weak.
"If you've come here to insult me, Dorothy, then I think this is a waste of both our times," I answer, my tone neutral, holding none of my irritation, masking all of my anger.
She laughs. A light sound as empty as her smiles. "So polite. Why don't you say what you really feel, Quatre?"
I've never heard her refer to Relena as anything but Miss. Relena, even now, after all this time, and yet, she allows herself to forgo formality with me. I don't think she realizes what this shows me.
I want to sigh, but I don't. Dorothy has always been confusing, talking in riddles, leading you down a path you hadn't expected or wanted to go, but never quite touching the heart of the matter.
"Did you come here to tell me about your divorce then?" I ask, side-stepping the other comment.
Something flashes in her eyes, her expression shifts for just a moment, and I glimpse pain. There is no surprise. I know she feels, like we all do, she simply tucks it away, hordes it like a child would sweets, and wishes it would melt.
"No. It's old news. Two years to be precise. A supreme failure, a waste of valuable time," she adds, her lips twisting just faintly into a sneer. I can't tell if she is turning my words on me, or mocking herself.
She married a military man. I remember standing in my office, holding the paper in my hands as I stared at the picture, and wondering if she did it to be closer to fighting, or to punish herself. And, as I looked around, I wondered if I remained alone and here to run from the fighting, or to punish myself for the loss.
I would say she is making conversation, but Dorothy never was one for discussing useless information. Everything she divulges has a purpose. And because I think somehow she needs this, I won't turn her away.
"I never married," I say, feeling as if I'm simply playing at a game.
"I know. It would have been in every paper otherwise," she adds, her tone suggesting she finds my comment inane.
I look at her. "I don't think you understand."
Nothing, and then she smiles again. Only this one is more genuine.
"Then, I never married either. I was simply playing at a game."
Her words jolt me, as they so closely reflect my thoughts, and I look away before she can see.
"I married the wrong man. On purpose. I married one that could never hope to understand me. And when he left, I knew, I was the only one who could mend my own wing." She stares at the bird. Watches it flap feebly, and then lift.
Something in her words rattle me. Finality. It's as if she has come to a point where she realizes something, and it has led her here to me. Suddenly, I feel trapped, as if the space we occupy has grown smaller and smaller until there is barely room for the both of us.
"I don't understand what this has to do with me," I tell her, my words sounding distant to my ears.
She watches me, much like a hunter would prey. There is a calculated gleam in her eyes, an unmistakable sign of indulgent humor.
"Aren't we friends? Friends share things with each other." There, that mocking tone again, so cool, laced with personal amusement, and ripe with condescension.
"Whatever we are, neither of us has called it friendship. And you aren't here to tell me about your divorce. This isn't like you, to show up out of no where, when we've seen each other a handful of times in the past ten years."
She laughs again. "Straight to the point. That, I do like about you, Quatre Winner."
Warmth. Her words hold warmth, and it touches me, makes me want to take a step back from her. I have this uneasy feeling she is leading up to something neither of us quite know what to do with.
"Look, the bird flew," she says abruptly, pointing.
I follow her outstretched finger, look briefly, and then trail down, until I follow her arm and trace the curves of her face. There is something in her posture, the way she has slightly turned her body toward me, that tells me I passed a test. The physical barrier is gone, and I don't understand why. Or maybe, it is simply that I don't want to.
"Dorothy..."
She turns to me, moves closer, and I catch the small smile. It touches her eyes. It touches me, so that I want to reach up and press my hand against my chest.
Resting her hand on my arm, so that I can feel her through the fabric of my suit, she says, "I haven't forgotten. I can never forget. So I ran to the wrong man to do it for me. And it didn't work."
There is a tightening in my chest, a thrill that races across my skin. I want to push her away, I want to pull her closer. The witch. Why had I never took into effect this lure she has, this spell she can weave. It came as if from out of no where, hit me blindly over the head, and I hadn't even noticed.
"I saw you. I hated you. I wanted to be like you."
Closer. She keeps moving closer. And I stay, like a victim caught in the web of spider. There will be pain, but I can't discount the joy.
"I wanted to help you," I admit.
"I know," she replies, "and I hated you for that too."
The fabric of our suits touch.
"Then why are you here now?" I ask, aware of just how close my face is to hers.
"That's a stupid question, Quatre Winner. I expected more of you," but there is no admonition in her tone.
I lean down, touch my lips to hers, just once. Not ice cold, warm, so warm it lights a fire in my blood, and the heat, is everywhere.
There is a slight flush on her cheeks, reminding me of where we are, but at the moment, I can't seem to care. I'm still trying to understand this.
"You need me," she says, with real confidence.
"Yes," I agree. To fill the empty spots, to challenge me, to love me.
"I came here, because you need me."
And because she needs me. But those words, will remain unspoken for now.
_____________________________________________
I'm new here, so I hope I'm doing this right! ^^; Feel free to yell at me if I'm not. I've been out of the GW fandom for a while due to stuffs, but... I think I'm going to give writing for it a shot again. ^_^ And reading it. There are plenty of stories posted here I noticed!
Pairings: Quatre+Dorothy
Warnings: Sappy, mushy, fluff. ^_^
Disclaimer: GW doesn't belong to me, much to my infinate sadness and constant whining. I don't make any moolah, I just make characters lives miserable.
Notes: This takes place approximately ten years after GW. It's just... mushy. I don't quite know where it came from. I think Quatre and Dorothy are an interesting couple if they're handled right. I'm not sure if I did, or not, but I had fun trying.
She stands with her back to me, an ivory statue, carved from ice and steel, blanketed by a sheen of pale blonde silk. She always holds herself so upright, so stiffly, as if she is afraid of what we will see if her shoulders drop even an inch. I have long admired her resolve, her ability to hold onto what she believes even as it crumbles around her. But I have seen inside of her, into the deepest parts of her heart and mind, and know that beneath it all, she is afraid of reaching out for fear of loss and rejection. So she spurns everything she craves, and embraces everything she hates.
I know she still resents me for that, for that split second when our minds, enhanced beyond a person's capacity for understanding with the ZERO system, connected. In her, I saw the lost, weeping girl who watched as countless wars claimed those she loved, and left her with an emptiness so profound, she had no choice but to clasp it to her, to take it so deeply within, it was all she breathed. I felt the heights of her intelligence, saw the depths of depravity Duke Durmail went to by inserting her in the midst of a political revolution, and understood, that she mocked the very things she so admired in Relena Peacecraft.
But I can't forget it was two-fold. What I saw in her, she also saw in me. My weaknesses, my strengths, my fears. She tasted my grief, was burned by my guilt, and burdened by my need. For that short moment, a brief flash, we saw everything, crawled around in each other's minds, and touched a way no one else has ever before. I could not help but feel closer to her after that, as if there was no one single person that could know me that well. I know she felt the same. Her anger at me, her tangible fear as she shoved me away and disconnected told me. She wasn't ready. And in her anger, her search for understanding, she struck out the only way she knew how, by fighting.
Time has passed, altering our bodies, maturing our minds, giving us responsibilities, joys, and grief. Yet, as I watch her through the thin glass of this door, she seems the same to me. She cut her hair, so that it falls only to her waist now, and wears it without the girlish headband, but there is still that air of purpose there, that sense of control and confidence I know she does not always posses. Like others I have known, she is adept at hiding herself behind a cool veneer, so untouchable, it would sooner numb your hand than waver. She has never made any secret, either, that she has little fondness for me. So I wonder, what it is that brings her here today.
Taking a slow breath and exhaling, I push the door aside and cross to her, my shoes clicking smartly on the tiles as I go. She is in the lobby, standing in front of a window, her hands folded precisely behind her back. My secretary told me she refused to come up to my office. Maybe she finds herself on more even ground here, away from what is familiar to me, away from a place where I make decisions and fall into a persona I shed when I step outside the doors to go home every night. For her, the advantage gives her the needed leverage. I'm not surprise that hasn't changed. But I have to smile. It is still about the battle to her.
She doesn't turn as I approach, or even acknowledge my presence when I fall next to her. Instead of greeting her, I follow her eyes, watch as she does, while a bird struggles to right itself and fly. It's wing is injured, a potentially fatal injury for an animal that prides itself on moving from place to place on the air. She has always loved struggle, especially when she can be close to those on the verge of losing. For her, there in beauty in that, a sort of clumsy grace that builds a stronger foundation in the end.
She breaks the silence, her voice cool and modulated, as if every syllable was thought out beforehand. "Do you think I'm like that bird?"
I glance at the bird, then her impassive face. "Is that what you came here to ask me?"
She doesn't look at me yet. "I felt that way, for so long. As if I had one broken wing, and I was struggling to rise above everyone else. I never quite made it, I never found the air. And every person I met held me down. They couldn't mend my wing."
"Why are you telling me this, Dorothy?" I ask quietly, aware of the barrier she keeps between us, yet seeks to break down with her words.
Her head snaps around, her eyes pull me in, measure me. "Quatre Raberba Winner."
She is one of the few people ever to use all three of my names. She says it with such precision, such scorn, as if she is enjoying it and hating it all at once. I could never quite understand that, her. Yet it is strange, how little our connection has diminished with time. I feel it clearly, now, standing near her. I see what she won't share, and if she remembers, she also sees mine. Like lovers, who have never touched.
Dorothy's eyes are so blue, so sharp, I feel every time that she looks at me, she can see into my soul, past it all, to the things no one else can see. Maybe she means for it to be that way. Maybe it's part of the illusion she presents, like a character in the elaborate play we give the name life.
She looks away again, and I wonder if she found what she was looking for.
"You knew I was married."
Automatically, I glance to her hands. They are both resting on the rail in front of the glass, her thumb absently caressing the underside of her finger where her ring had been.
"I had heard, yes."
This time, as she looks at me, she smiles. It isn't filled with mirth, it doesn't reach her eyes. There is a derisive edge, but I can't tell if it is turned inward, or directed toward me.
"But you're too polite to mention my divorce."
Before I can answer, she spins, facing me fully. "I've always hated that about you. Your kindness, your understanding, your patience. It's so weak."
Weak. The barb hits as she meant it to, and digs in. The world is filled with hate, and yet no one gives it a label. Treat others well, and you are considered weak.
"If you've come here to insult me, Dorothy, then I think this is a waste of both our times," I answer, my tone neutral, holding none of my irritation, masking all of my anger.
She laughs. A light sound as empty as her smiles. "So polite. Why don't you say what you really feel, Quatre?"
I've never heard her refer to Relena as anything but Miss. Relena, even now, after all this time, and yet, she allows herself to forgo formality with me. I don't think she realizes what this shows me.
I want to sigh, but I don't. Dorothy has always been confusing, talking in riddles, leading you down a path you hadn't expected or wanted to go, but never quite touching the heart of the matter.
"Did you come here to tell me about your divorce then?" I ask, side-stepping the other comment.
Something flashes in her eyes, her expression shifts for just a moment, and I glimpse pain. There is no surprise. I know she feels, like we all do, she simply tucks it away, hordes it like a child would sweets, and wishes it would melt.
"No. It's old news. Two years to be precise. A supreme failure, a waste of valuable time," she adds, her lips twisting just faintly into a sneer. I can't tell if she is turning my words on me, or mocking herself.
She married a military man. I remember standing in my office, holding the paper in my hands as I stared at the picture, and wondering if she did it to be closer to fighting, or to punish herself. And, as I looked around, I wondered if I remained alone and here to run from the fighting, or to punish myself for the loss.
I would say she is making conversation, but Dorothy never was one for discussing useless information. Everything she divulges has a purpose. And because I think somehow she needs this, I won't turn her away.
"I never married," I say, feeling as if I'm simply playing at a game.
"I know. It would have been in every paper otherwise," she adds, her tone suggesting she finds my comment inane.
I look at her. "I don't think you understand."
Nothing, and then she smiles again. Only this one is more genuine.
"Then, I never married either. I was simply playing at a game."
Her words jolt me, as they so closely reflect my thoughts, and I look away before she can see.
"I married the wrong man. On purpose. I married one that could never hope to understand me. And when he left, I knew, I was the only one who could mend my own wing." She stares at the bird. Watches it flap feebly, and then lift.
Something in her words rattle me. Finality. It's as if she has come to a point where she realizes something, and it has led her here to me. Suddenly, I feel trapped, as if the space we occupy has grown smaller and smaller until there is barely room for the both of us.
"I don't understand what this has to do with me," I tell her, my words sounding distant to my ears.
She watches me, much like a hunter would prey. There is a calculated gleam in her eyes, an unmistakable sign of indulgent humor.
"Aren't we friends? Friends share things with each other." There, that mocking tone again, so cool, laced with personal amusement, and ripe with condescension.
"Whatever we are, neither of us has called it friendship. And you aren't here to tell me about your divorce. This isn't like you, to show up out of no where, when we've seen each other a handful of times in the past ten years."
She laughs again. "Straight to the point. That, I do like about you, Quatre Winner."
Warmth. Her words hold warmth, and it touches me, makes me want to take a step back from her. I have this uneasy feeling she is leading up to something neither of us quite know what to do with.
"Look, the bird flew," she says abruptly, pointing.
I follow her outstretched finger, look briefly, and then trail down, until I follow her arm and trace the curves of her face. There is something in her posture, the way she has slightly turned her body toward me, that tells me I passed a test. The physical barrier is gone, and I don't understand why. Or maybe, it is simply that I don't want to.
"Dorothy..."
She turns to me, moves closer, and I catch the small smile. It touches her eyes. It touches me, so that I want to reach up and press my hand against my chest.
Resting her hand on my arm, so that I can feel her through the fabric of my suit, she says, "I haven't forgotten. I can never forget. So I ran to the wrong man to do it for me. And it didn't work."
There is a tightening in my chest, a thrill that races across my skin. I want to push her away, I want to pull her closer. The witch. Why had I never took into effect this lure she has, this spell she can weave. It came as if from out of no where, hit me blindly over the head, and I hadn't even noticed.
"I saw you. I hated you. I wanted to be like you."
Closer. She keeps moving closer. And I stay, like a victim caught in the web of spider. There will be pain, but I can't discount the joy.
"I wanted to help you," I admit.
"I know," she replies, "and I hated you for that too."
The fabric of our suits touch.
"Then why are you here now?" I ask, aware of just how close my face is to hers.
"That's a stupid question, Quatre Winner. I expected more of you," but there is no admonition in her tone.
I lean down, touch my lips to hers, just once. Not ice cold, warm, so warm it lights a fire in my blood, and the heat, is everywhere.
There is a slight flush on her cheeks, reminding me of where we are, but at the moment, I can't seem to care. I'm still trying to understand this.
"You need me," she says, with real confidence.
"Yes," I agree. To fill the empty spots, to challenge me, to love me.
"I came here, because you need me."
And because she needs me. But those words, will remain unspoken for now.
_____________________________________________
I'm new here, so I hope I'm doing this right! ^^; Feel free to yell at me if I'm not. I've been out of the GW fandom for a while due to stuffs, but... I think I'm going to give writing for it a shot again. ^_^ And reading it. There are plenty of stories posted here I noticed!
, dorothy just can't say that she needs him, she's always the proud one in everything, she can never lose, even when she's close. but only quatre can bring that pride down with a warmth that the couple can revolutionize.
