Chapter#7. Dorothy the SnowWoman
Quatre was, once again, freezing in the snow. Boy, this was getting old. He waded through the large mess, his hand beginning to freeze around his gun, when he saw the tail lights of a Ford truck. He discreetly followed behind it into an area that was cleared of trees. Two men climbed out, both of them huddling for warmth, and pulled out two shotguns from the bed of the truck. Quatre's stomach clenched. As the men spoke the wind snatched their words right from their mouths, so they had to yell loudly to be heard above the storm. It was nearly impossible for Quatre to overhear, but he wasn't a Gundam Pilot for nothing.
"I can't wait to get out of this * expletive deleted automatically by Quatre * weather and get home to a bowl of chili," one said, the fatter of the two. He wore a knit cap and darned gloves.
"Yeah, all for a dame who couldn't keep her mouth shut," the taller of the two shook his head bitterly, "man, what I would do for a smoke."
The smaller barked out a laugh, "1. You're quitting. 2. Even if you had some they would just be blown out by the wind. Don't be an idiot."
"I ain't no idiot," he said another expletive that would have been deleted by Quatre, had I tried to write it, "why in the * Deleted * did she have to pick a place like this to hide out at?!"
"Perverse sense of humor, probably. Now shut up and get to work, I don't want to stay out here all night," they grunted and started pulling things from the truck, but Quatre didn't wait to watch. He'd seen enough.
Quatre made his way back to the cabin but some sort of feeling held him back, like something wasn't right. He found out what it was when he suddenly heard a scream rise above the storm in the direction of..the pond! He ran as fast as he could, considering he couldn't really run, to the almost completely frozen over body of water. Dorothy's hand waved barely above the ice, where there was a hole from where she'd fallen in. He had to get to her before she was sucked under and drowned.
"Dorothy! Hold on!" He called out as he skid on his knees toward the hole, careful of other weak patches there might be around it. He called upon all of his strength to pull her out of the water, slowly but surely. Her clothing clung to her and her skin had turned a shade of blue as she became deathly pale, paler than her hair and with a tint the same color as her icy eyes. Quatre, in desperation, sunk his arms into the water to pull her out, laying on his stomach, when finally he succeeded. She lay on the ice, gasping raggedly, as he clutched her to him, knowing she would die if he didn't get her warm soon.
As he made his way through the icy blizzard, carrying Dorothy in his arms, he vaguely saw the Ford leave. Obviously the two men, hearing Dorothy's scream, had thought she'd drowned and were now returning to go back home where they didn't have to worry about things like women with big mouths. Or maybe they had heard Quatre's yell, and were now getting reinforcements. Who knew. All Quatre was worrying about right now was saving Dorothy.
Finally he reached the cabin and shoved open the door with the last of his might. He had to get Dorothy warm. He had to get Dorothy warm. That was the only thought being processed through his mind as he held the shivering girl to himself.
He rushed to the bedroom she'd chosen for herself and lay her down, wrapping all the blankets around her. When she still shivered he rushed to his room, then the others, and brought everything from the coverlets to the afghans with him, placing them all on her. He didn't even noticing his arms and feet freezing, he was so worried about the blonde woman.
Still she shivered. Bits and pieces of a memory reached his brain, from standard Pilot training. Get the wet things off of the victim, dry them off, then wrap them in blankets. So he rushed to the bed and, ignoring his conscience telling him it would not be acceptable for him to do so, removed her clothing, setting it aside. He, of course, left on her underclothing for modesty's sake, then pulled out a blanket and rubbed her dry so that not an inch of her was left wet.
Still she shivered. Finally in desperation he remembered one last thing. Shared body heat. He stifled a groan as he realized what that meant, stripped down to his boxers, and climbed in beside her, holding her as close to him as possible. For her to get warm, he kept telling himself, so she can live. He was not taking advantage of her.
While he was telling himself that, the other part of his brain was mentally cataloging the long white limbs and flawless skin. Her meter long blonde hair he had placed in a turban-like towel but nonetheless some of it escaped, curling along the slim column of her neck. Color was returning to her snow white cheeks as her eyelashes fluttered in true sleep. With a sigh he finally relaxed, she was safe now, he didn't have to worry about her dying. Making sure she was snug against him, in case she went into a relapse he told himself, he slowly drift into sleep. And there a dream came upon him.
Quatre was, once again, freezing in the snow. Boy, this was getting old. He waded through the large mess, his hand beginning to freeze around his gun, when he saw the tail lights of a Ford truck. He discreetly followed behind it into an area that was cleared of trees. Two men climbed out, both of them huddling for warmth, and pulled out two shotguns from the bed of the truck. Quatre's stomach clenched. As the men spoke the wind snatched their words right from their mouths, so they had to yell loudly to be heard above the storm. It was nearly impossible for Quatre to overhear, but he wasn't a Gundam Pilot for nothing.
"I can't wait to get out of this * expletive deleted automatically by Quatre * weather and get home to a bowl of chili," one said, the fatter of the two. He wore a knit cap and darned gloves.
"Yeah, all for a dame who couldn't keep her mouth shut," the taller of the two shook his head bitterly, "man, what I would do for a smoke."
The smaller barked out a laugh, "1. You're quitting. 2. Even if you had some they would just be blown out by the wind. Don't be an idiot."
"I ain't no idiot," he said another expletive that would have been deleted by Quatre, had I tried to write it, "why in the * Deleted * did she have to pick a place like this to hide out at?!"
"Perverse sense of humor, probably. Now shut up and get to work, I don't want to stay out here all night," they grunted and started pulling things from the truck, but Quatre didn't wait to watch. He'd seen enough.
Quatre made his way back to the cabin but some sort of feeling held him back, like something wasn't right. He found out what it was when he suddenly heard a scream rise above the storm in the direction of..the pond! He ran as fast as he could, considering he couldn't really run, to the almost completely frozen over body of water. Dorothy's hand waved barely above the ice, where there was a hole from where she'd fallen in. He had to get to her before she was sucked under and drowned.
"Dorothy! Hold on!" He called out as he skid on his knees toward the hole, careful of other weak patches there might be around it. He called upon all of his strength to pull her out of the water, slowly but surely. Her clothing clung to her and her skin had turned a shade of blue as she became deathly pale, paler than her hair and with a tint the same color as her icy eyes. Quatre, in desperation, sunk his arms into the water to pull her out, laying on his stomach, when finally he succeeded. She lay on the ice, gasping raggedly, as he clutched her to him, knowing she would die if he didn't get her warm soon.
As he made his way through the icy blizzard, carrying Dorothy in his arms, he vaguely saw the Ford leave. Obviously the two men, hearing Dorothy's scream, had thought she'd drowned and were now returning to go back home where they didn't have to worry about things like women with big mouths. Or maybe they had heard Quatre's yell, and were now getting reinforcements. Who knew. All Quatre was worrying about right now was saving Dorothy.
Finally he reached the cabin and shoved open the door with the last of his might. He had to get Dorothy warm. He had to get Dorothy warm. That was the only thought being processed through his mind as he held the shivering girl to himself.
He rushed to the bedroom she'd chosen for herself and lay her down, wrapping all the blankets around her. When she still shivered he rushed to his room, then the others, and brought everything from the coverlets to the afghans with him, placing them all on her. He didn't even noticing his arms and feet freezing, he was so worried about the blonde woman.
Still she shivered. Bits and pieces of a memory reached his brain, from standard Pilot training. Get the wet things off of the victim, dry them off, then wrap them in blankets. So he rushed to the bed and, ignoring his conscience telling him it would not be acceptable for him to do so, removed her clothing, setting it aside. He, of course, left on her underclothing for modesty's sake, then pulled out a blanket and rubbed her dry so that not an inch of her was left wet.
Still she shivered. Finally in desperation he remembered one last thing. Shared body heat. He stifled a groan as he realized what that meant, stripped down to his boxers, and climbed in beside her, holding her as close to him as possible. For her to get warm, he kept telling himself, so she can live. He was not taking advantage of her.
While he was telling himself that, the other part of his brain was mentally cataloging the long white limbs and flawless skin. Her meter long blonde hair he had placed in a turban-like towel but nonetheless some of it escaped, curling along the slim column of her neck. Color was returning to her snow white cheeks as her eyelashes fluttered in true sleep. With a sigh he finally relaxed, she was safe now, he didn't have to worry about her dying. Making sure she was snug against him, in case she went into a relapse he told himself, he slowly drift into sleep. And there a dream came upon him.