Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Strong Enough ❯ Strong Enough ( One-Shot )

Title: Strong Enough

Author: Cherry Blossom

Warnings: Songfic, angst, het pairing.

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing. Are you satisfied now?

Notes: So many people hate Dorothy. When asked why they often reply with things like "her eyebrows are weird" or "she stabbed Quatre" or "she's a psycho bitch who loves war". But there aren't many fics out there that explain why she's such a "bitch" as they say. And that's what I tried to do with this story. I wanted to build Dorothy a past. I wanted to explain. And I still think that QxD is a great pairing for no other reason than it's damn hard to pull off a believable romance fic with those two and I admire people who try to do so. So here's my take on the Dorothy subject. And if you still hate her after this then so be it.

Musical Inspiration: The song responsible for this fic is "Strong Enough" by Sheryl Crow. Listen to it sometime. It's very beautiful.

Archive: Sure, what the heck. Just tell me that you're doing it, all right?

Dedications: I'd like to thank the academy…just kidding. Thanks to green-chan for beta reading and generally being there when I needed her. And because I know they'll bug me about it later, thanks to both my muses: Matteo and Melpomene.

Strong Enough

From the moment I was born I have hated being a woman. This female's puny body, so weak and unprepared for the harsh world around it. I should have been a boy. It was a sentiment so often repeated by my father that I was inclined to believe it myself. I should have been a boy.

It is strange that even after all I have been through, the war, the aftermath, the return of Trieze's daughter, this place can still cause me to shiver in fear. This house, the one I grew up in, brings forth more memories than I would like. But I suppose that after 10 years it is appropriate that I return to claim it as my own. There is no one else now. I look down at the picture in my hand and scowl.

My father.

I never talk about him, or my family. There's really no point. Grandfather Dermail was the only person who understood me in the least and he has been dead for nearly three years now. And even he underestimated me. But I'm getting ahead of myself. My father was David Edgar Catalonia, perhaps the most ruthless politician this earth has even known. Father liked to treat politics like a battle. With him, defeat was not an option. Needless to say he came from a very prestigious background. He had never wanted for anything, money being of no object to his family. He was a spoiled brat and everyone knew it but didn't dare say so in his hearing. Father's temper was extraordinary and he had a tendency for violence. Those who opposed him found their wives dead and their houses burnt down the next morning. To this day I cannot imagine what prompted his family to arrange a marriage between him and my mother.

Ah, mother.

Sweet, obedient, lovely, little Angelina Jemiea Demarcus from colony L3. It's true that her family was also quite prestigious but that alone could not make up the fact that this woman was really no more than a child who could never hope to hold her own against such a man as my father. Her weakness astonishes me to this day.

I can see why she agreed to the match though. The pressure from her family must have been enormous and father was very handsome when he wasn't tearing about in a blind rage. And the money was good. The money was very good.

Still she must have known that she would be miserable. She must have known that nothing she could do would ever please him. She must have known that once she was bound to him she could never be free again.

Poor Angelina. You never stood a chance.

Still, you would expect that over the years the woman might gain some backbone. But no, there seemed to be just a general retreat into a hollow little shell. The bruises always faded after all, and what were a few broken bones in the scheme of things anyway? She was well taken care of. The money was good. The money was very good.

And there seemed to be hope for little Angelina yet, something that would prove to her husband that she was not the worthless little weakling that he had always accused her of being. She could produce an heir! Someone to carry on the strength of the Catalonia line.

But alas, she could not even perform this simple task correctly, and brought forth, not a strong son like they had wanted, but a daughter. Yes, 17 years ago I was born in this ugly little house, in this ugly little room. And poor little Angelina, it seems, was not cut out for child bearing. The doctor's made sure that she could never have another child.

So, I became the newest cause of my father's displeasure and he made it known to me every single day of my life. I suppose he wanted to make sure that I never forgot that it was I who ruined his chance at happiness.

My mother was still hopelessly ignorant. She wanted to name me Felicity or some such fancy name. Ridiculous. My father said as much. My name was to be Dorothy: plain and strong. It's the only thing I have ever thanked him for. Dorothy Catalonia. And my eyes of course. The white blond tresses are definitely my mother's but the pale ice blue eyes are all his. Those eyes can freeze a person. I know, I have been on the receiving end of more then a few of father's stares.

Ceasing in my musings, I place the picture carefully back down on the dresser where I found it. The room is exactly as I remembered it, despite it being covered in a thick layer of dust. The walls are still a deep blue colour. I remember asking that my room be painted black. My mother had refused. No real lady had a black room. It was unthinkable. She had suggested pink and I had adamantly protested. Blue had been the only option we both agreed on. My bed is still clothed in a disgusting floral print and the ancient china rose vase collects dust on the boudoir. How I hated this room. I hear movement in the hallway, soft footsteps on the carpet. Not surprisingly, a few seconds later a blond head sticks inquisitively through the doorway.

"Miss Dorothy?"

I sigh and turn around, making sure to keep my face free of any emotion whatsoever.

"It is rude to sneak up on people unannounced, Mr. Winner."

He blushes and stammers a bit while I wait impatiently.

"So sorry, Miss Dorothy, I didn't mean to. May I come in?"

The formality is sickening. I bite my lip in exasperation. Why couldn't he just call me Dorothy? But then, I would probably accuse him of being rude again, which he is most certainly not. I just wish he would show some backbone. Quatre Rebaba Winner. He reminds me of my mother, her weakness and anxious wish to please. And yet, I know that he is stronger than that, maybe even stronger than me. I do not underestimate Quatre anymore. But I wonder, is he strong enough?

It is a question I have plagued myself with ever since I moved in with him. Yes, after the little Mari Meia incident I found myself without a permanent residence. I suppose Quatre was just being polite when he offered to give me a room in his estate until I could find another home. From the look of surprise on his face when I replied he did not expect me to say yes. That was understandable. I didn't expect to say yes either. But the offer was the best thing I had so far. My family's inheritance had gone to pay for war crimes and the only thing I had to my name was this house which I wasn't sure I wanted. And besides, there was an innocence to Quatre that made me both scorn and admire him. He made me feel safe and sure of myself in a time that was so confusing to me. He still does.

He just stands in the doorway, looking at me. I realise that I have not answered him.

"If you wish."

He moves hesitantly into the room, as if afraid of disrupting the eerie silence I had wrapped myself in.

"So," he says, "was this your room?"

"Yes," I reply.

There is a long silence and he looks at me expectantly, as if more needed to be said.

"Well…" he starts nervously, breaking the silence, "it certainly is very-"

"Mr. Winner?" I interrupt.

"Yes?"

"I do not wish to inconvenience you but may I stay with you just a bit longer?"

He is startled but recovers quickly.

"Of course," he smiles, spreading his arms wide. "You can stay as long as you like. But I thought you wanted to reclaim this house."

"No," I whisper, "I want to burn it."

"What?"

"It's an eyesore, don't you think?" I exclaim coldly. "Too big, too old, too dusty. It deserves to burn, to feed the flames of all the dreams I've had since I was born."

Quatre's gaze falls on the picture on the dresser and reaches over to grasp it in his hands. He looks at it intently, examining the hard face, the eyes of blue stone. I feel my anger and need for destruction build as I snatch the picture from his hand and dash it to the floor. The glass frame shatters and pieces of glass fall in bright sparkles on the carpet. My father's face becomes distorted in the twisted slivers. I calmly brush the few scattered beads of glass from my dress and walk out the door.

"This room will burn first."

I don't look back to see if he will follow me. Right now, I don't really care.

Later that night I watch my house, the house that I spent seven years of my life in, burn to the ground. It's a controlled fire, of course, and it was set in my room, exactly to my instructions. Quatre asked me no questions and for that I was truly grateful. Still, I can't help wondering what he thinks of me now. This probably just reinforces the whole 'psycho bitch woman' image I've been labelled with over the years. Not that I haven't earned that reference. Seeing the old place smoulder and burn, watching the fire devour it whole, awakes new feelings in me. I feel vindictive. I feel guilty. I feel exalted. I feel something I have not felt in years.

I feel free.

But the memories that seeing my old room have raised will not leave me be and they spoil my happiness. Something hot stings the back of my eyes and I blink steadily to keep the treacherous tears from falling. When Quatre gives me a concerned look I claim that it is the smoke that irritates them. He says nothing but I can tell that he does not believe me. We stare at the fire in silence.

"You know that you will have to talk about it some day," he says quietly.

I sigh and lift my gaze to where the ash and smoke are rising into the sky, obscuring the blinding white sliver of moon. The clouds create strange patterns, fascinating and frightening all at once.

"I know," I say. "But not now and not here."

Once more silence takes over and this time, the only thing that breaks it is the crackling violence of the fire.

//God, I feel like hell tonight

Tears of rage I cannot fight

I'd be the last to help you understand

Are you strong enough to be my man?//

Dinner is extremely awkward tonight. I can feel the tension in the room building. Quatre tries to involve me in conversation, petty talk about the news and the weather. But I am in no mood for small talk tonight. Memories still haunt me and I feel vulnerable out here, as if I am on display, which is ridiculous to say the least. Who am I on display for? Certainly not Quatre. I've given up all pretentious attempts to hide my true self from him. He would just see through my ruse anyway. Although it is strange to think that in some way I've still managed to fool him. He has no idea how much I depend on him, need him, seek him out as the answer to all my problems. That's a good thing. A very good thing. Still, my mind wanders and I have to concentrate on pulling myself back to the words falling from his mouth.

"Don't you think that it's wrong, Miss Dorothy?"

Uh oh. He's asked me a question. I struggle to recall what he was talking about. Oh yes, that girl at the office, Jenny I think her name was, has been coming to work with odd bruises on her arms and face. Quatre has been telling me that he suspects her husband beats her. Ch'. Such a weak woman to allow her spouse so much power over her. She deserves whatever she gets and I tell Quatre such. His eyes grow round with shock and I have to try hard to keep my self from laughing at his expression.

"How can you say that Dorothy? It's certainly not her fault that her husband is a violent boar."

That makes me angry. It is so like Quatre to support another person's weakness. I abhor it entirely.

"If the woman is too weak to leave or stop her husband from tossing her around then she gains nothing from me but contempt. There's no excuse for cowardice in the face of abuse!" I fling back angrily.

Quatre frowns, scrunching his face up in perplexity.

"There is a difference between cowardice and caution. If she fears for her life then I see no reason why she would jeopardise it by aggravating the man."

"You know nothing about it!"

"Oh, and you do, I suppose?"

I freeze and toss him a cold glare before pulling away from my seat.

"This discussion is over." I state coldly.

"Dorothy…"

"Don't call me that. You haven't got the right. Goodnight, Mr.Winner."

"But-"

"Goodnight."

He sighs miserably.

"Goodnight Miss Dorothy."

As I walk up to my room I hear the crash of china against tile and I know that he has thrown his teacup. Pleased that I could get such a reaction from him, I climb the stairs quickly. I really am a bitch. But it sure beats being a pushover.

//Nothing's true and nothing's right

So let me be alone tonight

Cause you can't change the way I am

Are you strong enough to be my man?//

My room seems bigger tonight. Or maybe that's just my imagination. By all rights it should look smaller since I have transferred the rest of my belongings to it. I had managed to salvage some things from the house before I set the thing aflame. Useless little trinkets, mostly. Things that wouldn't remind me of the life I once escaped from. But there was also this: a locket with my mother's picture in it. The bit of gold dangles between my fingertips as I study the worn and faded portrait inside. She looks the same as she ever did. Stylishly dressed, long hair curled and pulled on top of her head in the fashion of those days, a small hesitant smile gracing her lips, as if her face might crack if she smiled any wider. Her eyes were a soft green-grey and they looked off into the distance, searching for something. For some reason I could not force myself to throw it away. My mother: the human doormat.

I remember I was only three years old when I asked her why daddy hit her. She told me that it was not a topic for little girls to discuss. Still, I knew something was wrong, even then. Then came my fifth birthday. I was so excited because it was the first birthday party I could invite people to. Of course I invited my whole class. The party was a huge success, that is, until my father came home from work. He had had a bad day I suppose, or maybe it was just because the air was so hot, or someone cut him off in traffic, or his lunch was two minutes late in coming. I never found out what the matter with him was. All I knew was that at the precise moment I was supposed to be blowing out my candles, my father burst into the room and shoved my face into the cake. I remember that the wax burned and stuck to my skin, and that the icing stung my eyes. I remember that my mother had cried out behind me and got a punch in the face for her troubles. I remember that the children had scattered like seeds in the wind with claims that they had to go home right away. I remember my father telling me that I looked disgusting and to clean myself up. I remember his sneer as he grabbed a bottle of brandy and took it up to his room, apparently to drink himself unconscious. I remember lying on the floor, next to my mother, in stunned hurt, until she picked me up and gently washed the wax and cake from my face.

'There now,' she said. 'Don't cry Dorothy. It's going to be all right.'

And that's when I knew she was a liar.

//Lie to me

I promise I'll believe

Lie to me

But please don't leave//

And as the years went by, nothing really changed. We lived together, but we were not a family. I knew my father did not love me. That was fine, I did not love him either. But my mother, I often wondered about her. Sometimes, when she looked at me, I could see something like love…or at least strong affection. But if that was real, how could she allow him to hurt me, to hurt us? How could she continue to be his doormat? If she really loved me…

But she didn't. How could she? An ugly girl with an ugly heart…how could she stand to call me her daughter? Especially when I started to turn on her, calling her stupid and weak, like father did. I remember how she looked the first time I told her that I hated her. It was right after she had explained why I could never invite any friends over to the house. Father wouldn't like it. And God knows, we couldn't do anything that father wouldn't like. So I let my anger fill me and I told her clearly and loudly exactly how I felt about her. And her face kind of crumpled and her chin quivered a bit as she left me alone, alone in that ugly little room. I had wondered why she hadn't hit me. Father wouldn't have hesitated to and it was quickly becoming something I expected. But she never raised a hand to me and I considered it a weakness on her part.

I miss her, even though I hate her still.

No, that's a lie. I pity her. And somehow that's worse than hatred. I pity the woman who gave me life, who was just too frail to continue to live when all the odds were stacked against her. I was so mad at her when she died. How could she leave me there? How could she leave me? Didn't she love me? Obviously not.

Pneumonia. What a stupid way to die. I suppose the constant blows to her chest and stomach didn't help her condition any. Yes, I knew the truth. My father killed my mother. And then I killed him, with his own gun. He never expected it. I was only a weak woman after all. But he had done it himself. He had programmed all the kindness out of me. He had taught me to hate the weak and praise the strong. And I was tired of being weak. I did what my mother could not. But it was too late…for both of us.

My hand tightens around the small metal locket and the chain bites into my hand but I don't mind. The pain is good. It reminds me that I am still here, that I can still feel. My eyes ache and burn with tears that long to fall but I know that I cannot permit them to pass my lids. If I started now then how would I ever be able to stop? And besides, crying is a weak thing. My mother used to cry. She cried every day, the tears flowing down her face like water, shimmering in her eyes, soaking her cheeks, soaking me… Why did she cry? What did it help? Her tears could not save her. Why should mine save me? Oh, but it burns so much, like the fire that devoured my home. For an instant I wish I could just release them, collapse on Quatre's shoulder and cry myself into an exhaustive sleep from which this weak body would die and a new Dorothy emerge. But I know I can't do that. It's against the rules. There is no phoenix from these ashes. There is no peace for me.

Ch'. It's funny. The war is over, and yet, there is still no peace for me. It would have been better if that boy, what was his name, Trowa, had left me on Libra to plunge to a fiery glorious death. So much easier on everybody. But then, Quatre had told him to take care of me, to keep me safe. And Trowa had looked at me and just like everyone else, he saw a lost cause. What was it he said to me? 'That's so sad…a woman who can't weep.' Someone to be pitied and put out of her misery. But Quatre wasn't fooled. He saw me, beneath all my layers of filth and weakness, saw me struggling, underwater, drowning in my own hate and anger. And he tried, lord knows he tried to rescue me. But it's too late. I'm too far gone now. I know I'm not worth his time, his effort, but I can't seem to pull myself away from him, not yet. I'm still drowning, but I've got a tight hold on him. I wonder how I will ever forgive myself if I manage to pull him down with me?

//I have a face I cannot show

I make the rules up as I go

It's try and love me if you can

Are you strong enough to be my man?//

A knock on the door startles me out of my reverie. I hide the locket in my jewellery box and walk slowly to the door. I know who it is on the other side. I also know what he has come to do. Very predictable, my Quatre is. Or maybe I just know him too well? Certainly our souls have connected more than once, though I'm afraid that mine is tangling and ripping his dreadfully. But it's only what he deserves. After all, his soul has done worse to me. He's binded me to him quite securely. I can't do a thing without him now. I'm just glad he's oblivious to that fact.

"Miss Dorothy? May I come in?"

His voice is concerned, hesitant. He thinks I'm mad at him. That thought makes me smile though I quickly erase it from my face before opening the door.

He is standing there, one hand raised to knock on the door once more, the ends of his loose slacks pooling around his ankles, making him look like a child who wanted to dress up in his father's clothes. His hair is tousled and stray wisps fall into his eyes. He looks adorable. I find myself staring at him and quickly turn my eyes away, mentally berating myself. It was those damn eyes of his. One more second of staring in to them and he would have broken down my walls completely. Having him around was proving more and more dangerous and yet, I know in my heart that I can't bear to leave him now.

"Of course you may," I state coolly. "This is your house."

I move aside and he walks into the room, pretending to look at the wallpaper as if he'd never seen it before, even though he had personally selected it. After a few moments of awkward silence I grow tired of this charade.

"What is it that you want Mr. Winner?"

He stumbles around for an answer, looking up at the ceiling as if all the answers are there if only he could see them.

"Well?" I snap, wincing as my voice comes out harsher than I had expected.

He looks at me then, and his eyes are dark and unreadable. I swallow the lump in my throat and sit down once more on the bed, feeling suddenly tired. My eyes burn and I rub at them blearily.

"Miss Dorothy…" he comes and sits beside me on the bed. I can feel his weight beside me and I tell myself not to look up. "Why did you get so upset at dinner? What is bothering you? And don't tell me it's nothing. I'm an empath. I can tell that you're in pain. I can feel it, Dorothy."

His voice wraps itself around my body and I shiver uncontrollably. How does he have this power over me? Does it even matter anymore? I am already in so deep…what's one more fall? But I know I cannot afford to fall again. I reach down inside myself and find my anger, hot and comforting against these confusing feelings of hope and love. I grab it and bring it forth, flinging it at him cruelly.

"That's just the problem," I hiss, glaring at him coldly. "Did you ever think that I might not want you rooting around in my head, eavesdropping on my emotions? Did you ever think that I might have wanted a private thought to myself for once? No, you didn't think. You never think of me! You're just an interfering busybody that can't mind his own business. You make me sick Quatre! Do you hear me? Sick!"

His eyes grow impossibly wide and his mouth drops open. For a moment I wonder if he's going to cry, knowing that it would be the last crack that fractures my already damaged walls. But he seems to pull himself together.

"Dorothy, what is this really about?"

His eyes shine with concern, with patience, with something else…that same something I once saw when my mother looked at me. Could it be…does he…no he couldn't, nobody loves me. Nobody. But he looks at me with such tenderness. And I know that he does. He does.

And I start to laugh. At first just quiet chuckles, and then louder, more hysterical laughter, until my sides hurt and I am rocking back and forth, gales and gales of laughter…and then something changes and I'm crying. The burning has finally made its way through and the cool saltiness of the liquid weeping from my eyes soothes the constant ache that has always been there. My vision blurs and I can't see anything except the blinding proof of my weakness. It feels so good to cry. So good that I don't want to stop. I wrap my arms around myself only to find that Quatre has already done so. And I finally hear the words he's been whispering in my ear.

"…okay, it's all right Dorothy, let it out, I'm here, everything's going to be okay, you'll be okay…"

//When I've shown you that I just don't care

When I'm throwing punches in the air

When I'm broken down and I can't stand

Will you be strong enough to be my man?//

And something inside me snaps. I pull back immediately and curl my hand into a fist. I swing fast, connecting hard with his cheek. He never sees it coming.

"How dare you!" I shriek, standing abruptly. "How dare you comfort me! How dare you make me into this…this pathetic creature! I am not weak, do you hear me? I am not weak and I don't need you to comfort me you bastard!"

He stares at me, one hand rubbing his cheek where I struck him, a bewildered look on his face, and I realize what I have just done. And I know I am no better than him, the man who stole my dreams, the one that killed my mother, the one that killed the normal nice girl I always longed and loathed to be. I have hurt the one I love. And nothing will ever be all right again.

I flee from the room, knowing that there are dozens of others to hide myself in on this huge estate. I run, not knowing and not caring where I end up. I run, from his eyes and his hurt and his betrayal. I run from my fear and my pain, and my hate. I fly down the stairs, two, three at a time, dangerously fast. I pause at the door, wondering if I should just leave, go out into the black night, never to return. But I can't. He has chained me to him with his heart and now I can't leave. I can only watch as I destroy him and myself. I head to the basement, knowing that that is where I belong, in the cold bowels of the earth, surrounded by the silence of things long forgotten. I keep the lights off, feeling my way through the rooms until I get to a small one with an old faded couch. Here I collapse, flinging myself on the groaning frame. The dust rises up and covers me, buries me. Here I can almost pretend that I am dead, quietly resting, peaceful at last.

Except that it's not peaceful. I can still see his eyes, his hurt, his betrayal. And knowing that he could not possibly love me now, I close my eyes and cry myself to sleep.

The morning is painful. Even in this dark pit, the sun has managed to find me through the small grated window near the ceiling, and burn it's harsh glare into my eyes. I wake slowly, not wanting to face what I have done, wanting to stay here for the rest of time. But I know that I cannot. My pride will not let me hide like a coward this way. I know that I must apologize to him before he asks me to leave. And he will ask me to leave. He cannot possibly forgive me. And when he does ask me I shall have nothing left to live for, and I will die. Maybe in death, I will finally find the peace I crave.

I emerge from the shadows, aware that my hair is a mess, my clothes are rumpled and smelly, and my eyes are red from last night's weeping. I don't go to my room to change. I must speak to him before this guilt eats me up inside. I must see what I know will be in his eyes when he looks at me. I must know if he hates me now.

He's in the dining room, eating a small breakfast of fruit and bread, sipping a cup of tea. His back is towards me and I walk silently on the carpet so he does not hear my approach. I look at the teacup curiously. It's design is very pretty, roses and golden leaves twisted into a pattern, but there is a chip out of one side. Why would Quatre keep an obviously damaged cup?

"It was a family heirloom. It's very special to me, you know. My mother used to drink from it, or at least, that's what my sisters tell me. I never knew that I had a mother until recently. I thought I was a test tube baby like all the rest of my siblings. But after my father's death my sisters felt that I had a right to know…"

He turns to look at me and I stare at him, wide-eyed. His cheek is swollen and bruised and I fight the urge to run away again.

"I'm sorry," he says.

I am confused. What has he to be sorry for?

"Why are you apologizing?" I ask.

"Because I've looked into your thoughts without your permission again. I am sorry but it is so hard not to. Your mind has always been so open to me. It's like our souls are connected somehow. But I will try not to use my abilities if it makes you uncomfortable."

I moved closer to him, looking deep into his eyes. I can't see it, the hate, why isn't it there? I certainly deserve it.

I open my mouth, then close it, then open it again.

"Quatre I-"

"Excuse me for interrupting Master Quatre, but your ride is waiting."

We both turn to the anxious looking Maguanac standing by the door, suitcase in hand. I feel tears prickle the back of my eyes and a flutter of fear and sadness in my heart. So he is leaving. I knew that he would, but the pain of reality still chokes me.

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for hitting you. It was wrong and I shouldn't have done it. I don't expect your forgiveness but I hope you will accept my apology," I say, quickly, trying to get past the lump in my throat.

I close my eyes and wait for his reply. I wish he would forgive me. I need to hear him say the words, even if it is a lie. I need for him to rescue me once more...

//Lie to me

I promise I'll believe

Lie to me

But please don't leave//

I feel something soft brush against my cheek. My eyes fly open and I see that Quatre is standing a lot closer to me, his hand gently caressing my cheek. And then I feel something else, a moisture running down over my face, over his hands, my tears, my tears. I look into his eyes and I see love, not hate, tenderness, not disgust. I see my mother in him and for the first time, I allow myself to forgive her. Her watches my tears trickle down, and then ever so slowly, he brushes them away.

"Of course I forgive you," he whispers. "How could I not?"

I stare at him, wide-eyed, until he leans his head down and brushes his lips against mine. It is barely a kiss, too brief and light to be considered anything more than a mere touch of the lips, and I do not kiss him back. I cannot. It is too soon and I am feeling too much. But I don't pull away, letting him take from me what no one else has dared or even wanted to take. I give him my tears. I give him my soul. I give him myself. I fear that he is offended that I did not respond in any way but when he draws back I see his eyes again and in their sea-blue depths I find understanding. He understands the gift I have given him and he accepts it for what it is; a part of myself.

"Master Quatre…"

The anxious Maguanac fidgets and I find myself wanting to throw something at him. But it brings me back to reality in a hurry. Quatre is leaving. Quatre is going far away from me, never to return. I may have earned his forgiveness but it isn't enough to keep him by my side. I step back, biting my lip.

"You're better go," I say, not wanting to prolong this torture any more.

"All right," he says, taking his suitcase from the servant. "I'll see you in four days, Dorothy."

My head snaps up.

"Y-you're not leaving for good?"

He looks at me strangely.

"Now, why on earth would I do that? I'm certainly not going to leave on account of some disagreement. Besides, I've gotten used to having you around. I'll be back in four days when this conference is done. And I expect you to be here when I get back, understand?"

Any other time, I would have yelled at him for giving me orders. But right now I am just so happy that my voice shuts down and all I can do is gape at him.

His eyes soften and he bows gracefully to me.

"Goodbye Dorothy."

I nod back at him, letting my face relax into a small smile.

"Goodbye…Quatre. Take care."

As he leaves I watch him out the window, already missing him. I've underestimated him again, but this is the last time, I think. Now I know he is strong enough to put up with me. And I've also learned that I am strong too. It's a very small step, but it's a start.

And maybe…it's enough for me to finally find peace.

Take care, Quatre. I'll be waiting here for you.

End.

Please review or e-mail at chibicherryb@hotmail.com with your comments and criticism.