"I think that this is unhealthy, Wendy..." Wendy stared at her fingers, picking at the nails and leaning on the table just a little as her mother sat across from her, her own hands folded calmly and her voice full of concern. This wasn't the first time that she'd come over here for bandages after a fight and it wasnt going to be the last time she'd told herself that it was the last.

It was a routine at this point, predetermined, she knew how this was going to end. It had started with a number, some girl that had hit on him while he was out with his friends; first it was her snapping, then him yelling, then her screaming, then he'd slapped her. She'd leaped on him then and the fight had just escalated from there. When it was all over, she had stomped out, bloody and bruised, still pissed at him as she made her way to her mother's house to bandage herself up. More than once they'd had the cops called on them for domestic disturbance.

Now it was the waiting game. In a few hours, maybe a day or two he'd show up (knowing exactly where to find her) with white, yellow and pink tulips. White for forgiveness, yellow for being hopelessly in love and pink for caring; the only reason he knew what they meant was because the first time they'd fought he'd gone to a flourist and told them exactly what he'd wanted to say with the flowers and they'd arranged it for him. She would take them, knowing that he meant them even though they both knew that eventually the cycle would repeat and they would go home together.

"Wendy are you listening to me?" Looking up from her fingers but only to her mother's hands and not her face, the dark haired girl nodded. She didn't have to look at her mother's face to know that she didn't believe her, "he's not good for you..."

"He didn't mean it..." she said softly, not wanting to listen; her mother's hand reached and grabbed her own.

"You say that every time! And within a week or two you're back at my house even more banged up than you were the last time you were here. Don't you think it's time you two go your separate ways?" Wendy shook her head, pulling her hands back; knowing her mom liked to think that she was abused. She wasn't, the fights were just as much her fault as they were his, she left just as many marks on him as he did on her. She just didn't see that. Maybe she didn't want to.

"Wendy this is headed for disaster! One day you're going to end up dead because of this, do you really think I want to see that happen? Last time you had to have stitches because he slammed you into a wall!" the dark haired girl immediately jumped to his defense.

"And I thew a mug and hit him in the head with it! He had to get stitches because of that!" Her mother shook her head and sighed, standing and circling around the table.

"That's not the point..." she said softly, resting her hands on her daughters shoulders, Wendy instinctively shrugged away, "I don't want to see you stick with it for the wrong reasons, you can't fix him like you want to." The younger woman opened her mouth but the doorbell stopped whatever she was going to say before it's sounding.

"I'll get it..." she muttered softly, pushing back from the table and heading down the hall, hearing her mother's sigh as she went.

And when she opened the door, he was there (just as she had predicted) with a bouquet of tulips (pink, white and yellow) and an apologetic look on his face. She smiled, and calling down the hall to bid her mother goodbye, she stepped into the cool air of February evening and accepted the bouquet; closing the door behind her. Starting another cycle of their routine; he was her drug and she could not leave him any more than she could stop breathing. The fights, the pain, the sickly romantic make up that her mother and all of their friends seemed to shake their heads at; all of it satisfied her.

As they walked, she wrapped her arms around one of his and smiled.

"Happy Valentines Day, Eric..."