Author's Note: Boredom rears her flaxen-pale skin again. I have engaged the aid of one random internet pairing machine, of the same name, with somewhat of a good result. It is here before you. Please keep in mind, that I do not write NC-17, nor can I write with a prescribed rating, so that alone is violated. Hope you like it anyway. S

I will write a fanfic or drabble with the pairing
Treize/Dorothy
rated
R
and include the following things:
knife, water, colony

The Difference

Dorothy moved one step at a time.

Her left hand trailed along the cold wall, clammy and soft. In her right hand she held a knife, tucked protectively against her body, like a child.

Only her eyes portrayed any hint of anxiety. They and the green, wet pallor that crept along her skin.

She did not have much time.

Lady Une would return, any minute now, with that constant and sickening doting that ruled her entire life.

Dorothy perched on the final step, her curtain of flaxen hair sweeping around her. She heard the murmuring of the military men downstairs. Who were they to suspect? Dorothy Catalonia, with her prim smile, her graceful movements, her angelic hair, and her slanting, conniving eyes?

She moved swiftly down the hallway, like a shadow, came to the door, and slipped through without hesitation. The handle made a soft click as it closed behind her.

The breezy, open room was all white and tile, with a large, rectangular window in the far wall, its curtains undulating deliciously. The ceramic bath was placed directly before it, and his smooth, broad back met her, reclining.

She came forward softly, with an almost tender progression. She leaned over him fully. His head leaned back, his eyes closed, in total relaxation.

He sensed her hovering, because his lids opened gradually, and his face betrayed no hint of surprise at seeing her.

"Dorothy."

His casual statement caused her eyes to flare dangerously.

But she parried back, "So fortunate to have come across you, my dear Treize – all alone, at that. It's so seldom now that one finds you without that militaristic barbarian woman trailing behind you like a Doberman."

He smiled, causing her frown to deepen. His eyes closed once more, and the water lapped around him soothingly.

"Lady Une is my devotee. I only allow her to do what pleases her, no more, no less."

"Yes, and I suppose her transformation into a simpering, bashful politician is no fault of yours, either?"

"Hardly." He looked at her again.

Dorothy smiled this time, slowly, with the corners of her mouth. This displeased him, and he wondered. She concealed something in the folds of her skirt.

Dorothy removed herself from her position leaning over him and began to pace. "Your progress with the last colony has failed miserably, you know. You're losing popularity. Someone will soon dethrone you."

"Popularity is a far different thing than power, my dear," he said smugly, but his face was serious. "I claim to be a dictator, not a monarch. That is the difference."

"The difference," Dorothy said sharply, turning, "is that a people love their monarch, while they only fear a dictator."

"Hm," Treize smirked, pretending to consider this. "Perhaps you're right," he mocked. "I do so enjoy being feared."

She moved toward him again, speaking lowly, "Not everyone fears you."

"No?"

"I do not fear you."

He lifted his arms up over the lip of the tub, and splashes swept around him, then settled again. "Do you not? You hate me, though."

Dorothy did not answer.

"Why is it that you hate me so much?"

She glowered.

"You are quite the aspirer, yourself. You envy me. You want to be me."

She laughed highly. "Don't be a fool. It's a far better thing to be in a place of submission, working behind the scenes, pulling the strings, worming into peoples minds and ears like a maggot, never to be found out, for, after all, you're not the one in charge . . . are you?"

Treize looked at her, and his gaze penetrated. "Poor, Dorothy," he said, thoughtfully, almost sadly. "You could have been such a contented, sweet girl. Like Peacecraft. Only she was raised happily, in the loving shelter of a family, and you, from a tiny infant, exposed to the harshness and impiety of war, to the ferocities of mankind."

Dorothy stared at him, horrified.

"You learned from an early age from those around you what it means to deceive, to twist, to lie. To get what you want."

Her eyes trembled. Hard tears trickled down her white cheeks, un-summoned.

"That is the true difference – between you and me. I make it clear what I want, whether right or wrong, and go after it, respecting my fellow human being along the way. But you – you hide it and let it grow poisonous, wounding those around you, and isolating yourself in your lonely self-righteousness."

But he couldn't finish, for Dorothy screamed and lunged at him.

He jumped up swiftly, and caught her wrist, knife in hand. With his other arm, he grabbed her, and they stood in an all out deadlock.

Dorothy cried, but with despair this time, not rage. She thrashed to free her arm, but he was much stronger and older than she.

They both breathed heavily from their unmoving struggle. Treize's brow creased and his cruel eyes seemed to soften.

"What is it?" he said. "Tell me what you want. I will try to make it better."

Dorothy dropped the dagger. It clattered onto the tile floor, echoing somberly. Her limbs dropped and she collapsed in on herself.

Treize kicked the knife away and wrapped himself in a long, thick blanket, a terrycloth cloak. He moved around her and toward the door, when her soft, strained voice, trickled out to recall him, trembling piteously.

"I want you," she murmured.

Treize closed his eyes, cementing the knowledge. Then he turned and left.