Disclaimer: I still don't own Gundam Wing, and I never will. Unless, of course, through some strange circumstance, I'm a distant relative of whoever does own it, and by some disaster the rest of the family dies, in which case, I would inherit it.
Author's Notes: This is the idea that first infected my brain while I was reading Anna Karenina. I think that I might end up boring the crap out of everyone with this chapter, so just bare with me; it's all Tolstoy's fault. Well, not all Tolstoy. If you wanted to find the original party at fault, you'd probably have to pin it on John Locke…oops, getting boring already. Sorry, I had my World Studies exam today. Anywho, on with the fic, and don't forget to review. I'm getting very disappointed with the lack of feed-back lately, but then again y'all must be very disappointed with my lack of writing lately.
Dorothy and Quatre made a quiet entrance. The only people who even noticed were the members of the restaurant staff. After a brief conversation with the maitre d' in fluent Spanish, Dorothy obtained the table behind a huge potted plant, as she had promised Quatre earlier. While taking a round about route to said table (so as to keep a low profile and make eavesdropping easier), Dorothy began speaking to Quatre in perfect French. "I know your Spanish is atrocious, but we can't speak English. We're going to be sitting near Julia Rothschild, and if we speak English, she'll be able to understand us."
Quatre responded in equally perfect French, "won't she understand us even if we speak French?"
Dorothy let loose her charming, bell-like laugh. "You must be joking! That ill-bred cow couldn't even identify a foreign language if she heard it, let alone understand it. That's the most hilarious thing about her: she walks around calling everyone she doesn't like uncultured, when she only speaks one language. English. Not even the Queen's English, but whatever it is they speak on Long Island. It's perfectly laughable," she ranted in her musical French accent.
Quatre rolled his eyes at how perfectly snobby his companion sounded, but he had to smile at the truth of her words. While he tried to think of a way to change the subject tactfully, the waiter seated them behind a very large potted plant indeed. From their table, he noticed that several, presumably private conversations were perfectly audible.
Again, Dorothy's voicing turned from French to flowing Spanish. She ordered wine and soup before dismissing the waiter. Quatre opened his mouth to speak, but Dorothy raised a single finger to silence him. She then cocked her head and listened, as if she were a singer trying to find her pitch after a tuning fork had been struck. Almost imperceptibly she turned her head taking in the gist of each audible conversation, one at a time. Then her eyes sparked wickedly, and she grinned broadly. She had struck gold, and Quatre kissed any chance of a meaningful conversation good-bye.
Saying nothing, she pointed to the plant, indicating to Quatre that he should listen to the conversation, which was taking place on the other side. Quatre obeyed the silent command and was rewarded with a very interesting conversation indeed. "Well, sure she's aristocracy, but she's so ill-mannered. I mean really, going of to war at, what, sixteen. How uncivilized! And the way she throws herself at an eligible bachelor handy. Her mother and father must be spinning in their graves!"
"To be sure. Especially now that she's trying to catch that Winner boy." Quatre began to recognize the voices. The first was unmistakably Julia Rothschild, with her Long Island accent, and the second was one of her indistinct friends.
"Really, the two of them don't belong together. She is a shrew, and you can just tell she wants him for his money."
"What does she need more money for? She has two estates: the one near here and the one outside of Frankfurt. If I didn't know any better, I'd think she killed off her family just for the money!"
"Now, you really shouldn't say that," Julia replied. Quatre felt relieved, thinking that she would stand up for his…what was Dorothy to him? He didn't have time to ponder that point before the gossip continued. "But she is just the kind who would marry new money and a non-Christian for the sake of her own bank account. Those are his only two faults, but I'm going to overlook them just to save the poor boy."
"And how are you planning on doing that," the friend giggled.
"Naturally, I shall simply find him some one more suitable. Now, really, I feel so sorry for the poor dear, I'm going to play match-maker. My daughter Kitty would be just perfect, don't you think?"
"Oh, yes! They would have such lovely children…," and so the conversation wagged on.
Quatre was fuming, smoke practically pouring of his cute little ears. He looked over at Dorothy, expecting to see an equally indignant face. Instead, he was met with a deviously delighted Dorothy. Confused, he began to question her in rapid French, "how can you be laughing at this?"
Giggling, she replied, "how can you not be laughing at this?" She continued to laugh with one hand pressed against her heaving chest and the other against her smiling lips. "I'm just so wicked that I'm going to further corrupt your pagan little soul, and Kitty Rothschild is your only hope for salvation." Quatre began to see the ludicrous humor inherent in that sentence, and he, too, laughed.
The pair ate their lunch, and planned out Quatre's salvation by the young Miss Rothschild. Kitty, as they both agreed, was really a very nice girl, but that was about all she had going for her. Even if she had had more in her favor, her mother always neglected to recognize one fact, of which the rest of Society was perfectly aware. Kitty was head over heels in love with one of the stable boys at Belmont, back on Long Island. Having completed their lunch and wine, and after much mocking of Julia Rothschild, Quatre and Dorothy decided to make their final move of the afternoon. Quatre actually thought of it. To embarrass Julia, despite how proficiently she was doing so herself, they stood upon completing lunch and began speaking in English, very loudly.
"Well Miss Dorothy, I must say that was a lovely lunch."
"Made all the lovelier by your company Master Winner."
Such small talk continued as they walked around the huge potted plant, arm in arm, for the entire restaurant to see. Turning casually, Dorothy gave Julia and her cohort a malicious grin and said, "oh! Julia how wonderful to see you. I thought I heard you voice, but then my ears started to burn a little and I had a sudden sneezing fit, so I couldn't be sure. I will see you at Master Quatre's party, won't I? I do so look forward to it." Then she added in her perfect French accent, which Julia had not doubt heard from behind the large potted plant, "A Bientôt!" Then she and Quatre hurried out of the restaurant in obviously high spirits.
Meanwhile, Julia Rothschild glared daggers at the retreating couple's backs. She muttered through clenched teeth, "Dorothy Catalonia, you will not get what you want this time…."
"Did you see the look on her face?!" Quatre was fixed in a state of amazed admiration for Dorothy. She had proven herself as bold as he could have hoped. "She was petrified. She probably thought you were going to call in some Mobile Dolls!"
Dorothy smiled to cover her inner pain. "I was seriously considering that proposition," she said in a convincingly amused voice, but then she fell silent. 'How could he think I was kind when I do things like that? I can't help it, but I want to be who he thinks I am. He's just like Father. He thought I was a good little girl, and I wanted to be so badly, just for him. I'm such a disappointment. Why can't I live up to people's expectations of me.'
Quatre noted the silence and turned to look at the girl sitting in the passenger's seat. At first he thought it was the late afternoon light reflecting out of her eyes, and he began to speak, "Dorothy?" She turned to face him. Tears were silently and steadily flowing down her snow white cheeks. Quatre was struck down to the very fiber of his being at this tender sight.
"Don't you say a damned thing. I don't want your sympathy. I just want them to stop." Dorothy spoke softly and without choking, as her tearful orbs remained locked with his shocked eyes.
Quatre broke away from her gaze briefly to look at the road. When he looked back at his weeping angel, her eyes were trained on the road straight ahead of them, and her hands were folded demurely in her lap. He reached over and grabbed the hand nearest to him. Her eyes remained trained on the road straight ahead of her. He raised the white hand to his lips and kissed it gently. Her eyes remained trained on the road straight ahead of her. Quatre diligently watched the road for the rest of their journey, trying to see what Dorothy saw and holding her hand tenderly. Within the last mile of travel, Dorothy stopped her silent crying.
When they arrived at the mansion, Quatre helped Dorothy out of the car. She seemed incredibly weak…not weak, but, rather, tired. She was not the woman whom he had met in the Sank Kingdom; she was not the woman who had stabbed him on Libra; she was not the woman with whom he had just had lunch. He hardly knew this woman, having only sensed her presence within that other Dorothy. Quatre continued to escort Dorothy in silence, all the way up to her room, where she still could not support herself. He continued to escort her into her room and helped her on to the bed, pulling the sheets up over her.
She was suddenly struck with a memory of her father doing just this. They had been at a party when she was very little. She had tripped while dancing, and the other children had laughed at her. She managed through the rest of the evening, but once she was in the car, alone with her father, she began to cry those same silent tears. "I just want them to stop," she had said. Her father held her hand the rest of the way home and helped her to her bed. As Dorothy lay there, looking up at Quatre she remembered her father doing the same thing and what she had said to him. "Please stay. Just until I fall asleep. Please," and the tears began again.
Quatre sighed and kicked of his shoes. He tool off his dark blue jacket and took his suspenders off his shoulders, as he walked to the other side of the bed. The late Catalonia did the same in Dorothy's memory. They pulled the covers back and got into bed the same way: first they sat, then pulled their legs up, then leaned back, then rolled over to face her back. An arm surrounded Dorothy and pulled her back against a strong warm body. She closed her eyes and remembered no more. Not meaning to, Quatre soon joined the girl in his arms in sleeping.
I am wicked sorry it took me so long to get this chapter finished, but y'all love it, right? Now is the time for input. That's right, I'm taking requests (mostly because I don't know where to go from here, but hey)! XOXO and all that stuff.
