Warnings: Angst, Spouse Abuse, Yaoi in future parts (Heterosexual for now).
Author Notes: I'm not sure what I think of this fic. It's about Dorothy and Quatre and their relationship. I personally think this is what it might really be like, considering Dorothy's tendency to stab things and Quatre's peace-making nature. And I also believe that Quatre belongs with a certain someone else, so I had to stick it in here. ^^ So it's kind of a long, angsty, break-up-and-rebuild-with-someone-new-fic.
*Dedication*: I'd like to dedicate this to Ms. Kell-Chan, Ms. Sara-Neko, and Ms. Kim. *smiles* Thanks to all of you; you've really helped me along with my writing. Your support has kept me going, and you're always very helpful to me. ^_^
Additional Author Notes: I'll try to post the next part as soon as it's written. ^_^ And ... sorry for the long introduction. Ack!
Good Enough
(working title)
by: Burn
***
Dull. Pale, beautiful aqua, but still dull. Flat. Lifeless. Disgusting to his mind.
The blue-green eyes had lost all of their shimmer, all of their innocent sheen, and the healing scrapes and bruises marring the pale skin spoke volumes as to the reason why. It was hard to believe that those eyes had once held anything other than the quiet, smothering melancholy they held now. A tragedy, it was, that the life in those eyes had been lost to something so stupid as it had.
Dorothy.
The melancholy in aqua eyes increased, and mixed emotions arose with the thought of that name. He was hurt, angry, confused, betrayed, sad, untrusting and yet wanting so much to trust. He was in love.
But it hurt to love her.
A sigh escaped the small lips below the dull, beautiful eyes and a slim hand raked through blonde bangs. He watched his reflection in the mirror; soul weary expression, tired eyes, wistful smile. The bangs fell in place nicely, concealing enough bruises and scrapes to change the appearance to his liking. He could always lie about the injuries. Fell down the stairs. Walked into a wall. Met a pissy cat.
A small, sad smile crossed his face; almost laughed. Not quite.
A pissy cat. Dorothy was steadily growing to resemble that more than a human being every time her heart pumped blood through her body, every time she breathed. She was sleek; crafty, with a subtle grace that never failed to move his heart, but she had little self-control, and when something went wrong, everyone was at fault.
The smile, tiny though it was, left his lips. Everyone was always at fault, but not everyone was always around to receive the punishment. He frowned, a bitter light entering his eyes as he touched a particularly painful looking bruise on his forehead.
Dorothy usually took out all her frustrations on him.
He sighed, brushed a hand through his bangs again, took another look in the mirror. Not perfect; not sweet, innocent like he used to be, but good enough. It was about the only thing that could be good enough anymore.
He carefully, timidly opened the bathroom door. The soft even tones of Dorothy's breathing on the bed made it obvious to him that she was asleep, and he was intent on keeping it that way. He didn't need to raise any more suspicions at work; he was already subject to a barrage of questions every morning when he entered the building.
"Oh, Mr. Winner! What happened?"
"Mr. Winner, where'd you get that bruise?"
"How'd you do that, Mr. Winner?"
It was the same thing every day, and was becoming more and more dreaded with each encounter. It gave him headaches.
Remembering this, he swerved and ducked back inside the bathroom. He thought: put off leaving a little longer. He reached into the medicine cabinet, past the anti-depressants and well-used first aid kit to the pain-killers, stuffing them in his shirt pocket. Great. Real inconspicuous.
Sarcasm.
He sighed, letting the stuffy air out of his lungs, and opted to put the bottle in his pants pocket instead. He nodded, satisfied, and patted the bottle underneath the khaki material there. Good enough.
He almost smirked, bitterly. Good enough. Hmph.
Like hell it was.
He turned from the medicine cabinet. What was really good enough anymore? He shook his head, casting another look into the reflection of the small bathroom mirror. Dead eyes. Nothing, really.
Medicine pocketed securely, he left the bathroom again, holding his breath as he slipped past Dorothy, into the hallway. Careful, careful, he reminded himself. Don't want to wake her up. He swept around the corner, into the kitchen and to the back door; suddenly stopped for a moment, looked behind him with shining aqua eyes to the pictures taped to the refrigerator.
He thought: good times. I wonder what ever happened to that? The pictures were a sweet memory to him, but they were depressingly out of reach now.
Dorothy with her head resting against his shoulder, his arms held loosely about her waist. Both of them smiling.
Him on his own, but with a sparkle in his eye foreign to him now. A genuine smile. No bruises.
A date. Dorothy in a lovely black gown, hair loose and billowy around her frame. Smiling. No trace of malevolence detectable in her expression.
The shining in his eyes turned to tears, and a little streak of liquid crystal slid down his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, tearing his eyes from the photographs. Good times, he thought again. Gone, though.
He opened the door, stepping out onto the door mat before heading down the concrete walkway to his car; carefully didn't look back. He pulled open the car door and slid into the driver's seat, ignoring the lurch and grinding gears when he drove away, forgetting the clutch in his eagerness to get away. Didn't look back; never looked back.
He didn't see the pale blue-gray eyes watching him through a white-paned window, angry and burning.
Dorothy.
***
