standard disclaimers apply
A/N: So it seems I just need to accept that I am going to be the only person who likes this fic, much as that thought saddens me haha. Oh well. Not exactly the end of the world, I'll keep plugging away at it to amuse myself. But if you ARE enjoying this story, I would really love to hear from you in the comments! In fact, to be totally honest, I'd really love to hear from you in the comments even if you're not enjoying the story, too - do you hate the characterizations? Find the story really boring? I can't promise to fix anything that's not to your liking, but I would still really like to know what's up. Don't be shy - I promise I won't bite! :)
II
Lying in bed the next morning, Dorothy watched as Quatre puttered around the room getting dressed and ready for the day. She made no effort to rise, herself. She had too much still on her mind. Absently, she told Quatre, "You shouldn't leave the house with wet hair - it looks unprofessional."
"That may be true," Quatre replied, "but I can't get it to lie right when I try to use a hairdryer. It just goes all fluffy. I look like a child."
"Here; I'll do it." Getting up at last, she fetched a hairdryer from the bathroom and sat Quatre down in front of the vanity. Deftly, she stood over him and combed through his hair as she blew it dry. There was nothing to say over the noise of the dryer, but as she finished their eyes met in the vanity mirror.
Dorothy looked away. She switched off the hairdryer, but let her hand linger briefly, stroking gently through Quatre's hair before dropping to rest on his shoulder. "Thanks," Quatre told her, "that looks great."
He ruined the effect almost immediately, of course, by picking up a bicycle helmet and depositing it onto his head. "Oh, Quatre," she snapped in irritation, "you're not going to cycle to work are you? You look absurd."
"So?" he retorted laughingly, "It's no more than twenty minutes' ride away, not even that, and then this way the car is available for you or Trowa if you want it."
For a moment, Dorothy was put in mind of her first car, her trusty yellow Rolls, and the freedom she'd felt speeding recklessly along the coastal road to Cinq or through the dark pine forests outside of Bremen. The freedom of not knowing quite where the road might take you. Here, it wouldn't matter how long she drove: she could drive for hours without stop, but she would only end up right back where she started, a hamster running around a tiny, useless wheel. It wasn't the same thing, not at all.
She turned her back, making to return the hairdryer to the bathroom, but Quatre caught her hand and stopped her. "Thank you for making me presentable," he repeated with an affectionate smile, despite the idiotic helmet on his head. And squeezing her hand, he repeated meaningfully, "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Dorothy said. She found herself suddenly short of breath and stood hesitating. "Your friend Trowa Barton," she said at last. "He wants to know what you see in me."
Quatre chuckled. "I'm going to take him out for a long overdue drink tonight, after I get back from work and Wufei and Relena have been by. I'll be sure to fill him in then."
Dorothy forced a tight lipped smile and wondered why she felt this way. She removed her fingers from Quatre's grasp and clutched the hairdryer tightly in both hands. Quatre glanced at himself one final time in the mirror and stood to go. Lightly grasping her by the shoulders, he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers. She stood placid, accepting the kiss without reciprocating. He drew back, cocked his head at her inquisitively. "I don't know why I'm like this," she said. Her voice fluttered slightly, on the edges of hysteria. "I can't seem to control myself."
"Dorothy…" Quatre murmured. With careful tenderness, he leaned in and kissed her again. Something warm unrolled deep inside her belly and she found herself relaxing forwards before she stepped suddenly back, away. Quatre sighed ever so softly and gently squeezed her shoulders before he let her go. "I'll see you this afternoon," he promised. "You should eat something. You'll feel better."
"I will," she said. "I do."
She walked into the bathroom, and Quatre walked out the door.
She deposited the hairdryer back in its place and stood shivering. Wrapping her arms around herself, she bent forward to press her face against the cool tile of the wall. Tell me about your father, Quatre had said to her those months ago. And she had, before he, in turn, had told her about his. She thought about the things she had told him, wondered at the intimacy of what she had shared so easily, wrapped the memories of her father around her like a cloak.
General Catalonia, with his dark hair and his stiff uniform jacket, bending down to swing her up into his arms. Sitting her on his knee, showing her his antique dueling pistols. They were his prize, then. They were her prize, now. She could see them, cradled in his hands so carefully. He'd had such big hands, her father. They'd dwarfed the pistols. He'd had thick fingers, with hair growing on his knuckles, but they were so careful with those guns. She'd been able to see the expertise in his grip even as a child, the delicate certainty of his touch as he'd run his fingers over the fine filigree and taught her every piece and mechanism. He had never taught her how to shoot, but she had watched him at his target practice and with his clay pigeons every day he was at home.
There were tears in her eyes, she realized, and pressed her fingers to them to blot away the wetness. This was enough, now. The General was dead.
Still, she lingered, preparing herself; arranging her clothes, her hair, her face until she was satisfied that everything presented the picture she wanted to be seen. She hadn't taken such care in the mornings since the time she'd spent at school in Cinq. It was tiring. Invigorating, but tiring, too, picking out and smoothing away all one's vulnerabilities.
She had taught herself to shoot, after her father died.
When she was ready, she went downstairs and found breakfast laid out for her. The other places had already been cleared away, as she had hoped they'd be. She sat down and ate alone, and as Quatre had promised her, she felt better afterwards.
Abandoning her empty dishes, Dorothy picked her way to the back of the house and the French doors, the covered cloister around the inner garden. She spied Trowa Barton through the glass and let herself out. Hands tucked casually in his back pockets, he was strolling the length of the cloister; she waited for him to complete his circuit and pass her way.
"Good morning, Mr Barton," she greeted him.
"Good morning," he answered, coolly.
"I wonder, would you be so kind as to do me a favor this morning?" she asked him, smiling sweetly.
"What do you need?" he asked in response, a kind of weary patience in his voice.
"I want to clear some rubbish from Quatre's old nursery. He doesn't need those things anymore. We can put that room to much better use, and the clutter can go off to the attic."
He didn't look at her, instead gazing out over the garden, but a tiny grin twitched at the corners of his mouth. "The lady of the house wishes to dirty her hands with such work?"
Dorothy smirked at that herself. "I can be very hands on when I have a mind to be," she told him.
"So why don't you want Berta handling this? It's exactly the sort of thing that falls under her job description."
"Oh, Berta will certainly help - but under the appropriate supervision. I'm surprised you ask: you don't seem like the sort of man to rely on servants doing something you could just as easily do yourself." Trowa rolled his eyes and Dorothy smiled. "Why don't you ask him to help as well?" she added, pointing.
"That's the gardener," Trowa told her.
"Yes - I can see that. So, let him do some work indoors today."
"I don't think you understand. He's not a laborer."
Dorothy did not need Trowa's pointed reminder; she was perfectly aware of the elevated status gardeners held in outer space. Man made structures with no insect life, no natural pollinators, the colonies had to rely very heavily on their fleets of well trained - well paid - and industrious gardeners to care for and manually pollinate any crops they wished to have a hope of producing for themselves. The Winner family having a gardener in its private employ was yet another mark of its wealth and power here.
"I don't see that it makes a difference," she said simply. "Quatre will be paying him either way; we simply require his services elsewhere for the morning."
Trowa let out a long breath as he glared at her with irritation. "I'll ask him," he said finally. "You'd best steer clear. If he says no, don't push it."
Dorothy craned her neck back slightly to meet Trowa's eyes. "I wouldn't dream of it."
"I'll bet," Trowa muttered. She watched him go over and stop by the man's step ladder, where he was standing in amongst the branches of the orange trees. She watched the two men converse; Trowa pointed in her direction, pulled an exaggerated apologetic grimace. When the other man glanced over, she put on her most charming smile and waved with a neat flick of her wrist. The man smiled affably back, nodded at Trowa, and climbed down off his ladder to help them. Simple as, really. Dorothy smiled to herself as they came back over.
"Thank you so much," she crooned to the man when they arrived, and took him by the arm to lead him inside. "I'm sure we simply wouldn't be able to do this without you."
"Oh, well." The man ducked his head. "It's no problem. Happy to help. An old nursery, you say?"
"That's right."
They chatted back and forth on their way upstairs. Trowa trailed behind them, an obtrusively silent presence. He was right, she reflected, in that she would not normally occupy herself with household tasks that could as well be managed by anyone else, but she was restless. Quatre belonged here. He came and went freely - a freedom she envied. She could imagine the look on his face if she tried to explain it - the concerned bewilderment, the struggle to understand, and then to intervene and fix things. It was not possible. And damn him if he tried. Dorothy was as fiercely possessive of her troubles as she was of her father's pistols. She had known it would be like this at first, of course; she wasn't a fool. She was here attempting to slot herself into someone else's already fully-formed life. It was necessary, certainly: how else to escape the Catalonia bondage? And who better to release her than Quatre? But it galled her all the same. A mere twenty-four hours spent in this house, in this colony, and already she felt confined and stifled. Patience was not one of her virtues. Instead of waiting, insinuating herself slowly, as she'd intended to, here she was. She needed one room on which to make her mark. One room which could be hers. She needed it urgently. On Earth she'd been on more even footing with Quatre. They may have been moving in his circles, visiting his associates, but she'd been on her own planet and she had been under no watchful eyes. There had been no Berta, no Trowa; she'd had room to breathe. So let her claim this territory now, and by God, let her enemies help her.
"Ah, Berta!" Dorothy cried as they reached the top of the stairs; the maid was backing out of the master suite with an armful of laundry. "We're just about to clear all that rubbish out of Quatre's old nursery. Make yourself useful and open up the attic for us, won't you?"
"My lady?" Berta stammered, "You…?"
"Yes, Berta - us. Now, if you please."
"But - my lady," she protested, setting down the laundry basket and chasing after them down the corridor leading to the nursery. "There's no need for you to - Antoine is just downstairs. I can fetch him to do your moving."
"No need," said Dorothy sweetly, "we have all the manpower here that we require, I think." Berta looked at them all, her eyes wide with distress. "The attic, please," Dorothy prompted her once more. Shutting her mouth with an audible click, Berta straightened her spine and spun on her heel. Fetching out a hooked pole from one of the spare bedrooms she used it to pull down a panel in the hall's ceiling which contained the foldaway staircase up to the attic. "Thank you so much," Dorothy purred.
"No trouble," Berta replied, her voice tightly controlled. "I'll help you move those things as well."
"As you wish," Dorothy replied, swinging the door to the nursery wide open and stepping through. Hands on her hips, she surveyed the room whilst the others entered behind her. Trowa cast a quick sideways glance in her direction before moving around her to go directly to the large antique crib which dominated the room.
"We'll start with this, shall we? Michel?"
"With you," the gardener replied, going to take the other end.
"Oh, Mr Duchamps - no please, let me," Berta cried, hurrying to cut him off.
"He's agreed to help, Berta," Trowa said softly. Dorothy turned from them, went back to the dresser and opened the drawers, plunging her hands inside to run them over the soft wool of the baby blankets, keeping only half an ear on what was unfolding behind her. "This will be heavy. Why don't you help Mrs Winner empty that chest of drawers?"
Michel pitched in, "Miss - Berta, is it? It's fine, really. I'm happy to help out." From the corner of her eye, Dorothy could see him offering the maid a winning smile while Berta blushed deeply red.
"It's - it's just not proper," she whispered in defeat.
"We'll be done in no time and get out of your hair," Michel promised her.
"Oh, sir, it's not that -"
"No, I know, I was just teasing. Sorry. But really, it won't take long."
Resigned and coming over to her, Berta said with her typical crispness, "It will be lighter if we take out all the drawers and remove the contents."
"Yes, I know," Dorothy replied, equally tart. Taking her hands off the blankets she took out the drawer and set it aside. The two men began to shift the crib out of the room.
Berta continued to speak to her once they were alone. Her tone was humbled and apologetic, but Dorothy paid little attention to what she was saying; her mind was elsewhere, on the voices of the men in the hallway as they attempted to navigate the crib up the narrow attic steps, and on what might be waiting for them up there. Cutting Berta off, she suggested the maid concentrate instead on emptying the bookcase while she dealt with the dresser herself. She then unloaded the drawers, and stacking two in her arms, carried them upstairs just as Michel and Trowa reappeared to come back down. "You can bring up that chest next," she informed them as they stood aside to let her pass. She could almost hear Trowa roll his eyes as she sailed past.
The attic was cleaner than she'd imagined, though as cluttered as one might expect given the house's long - by colonial standards, at least - history. It was again the lack of natural life, she realized as she peered around her and found a place to set down the drawers she carried. There were no spiders, no cobwebs, only a light coating of dust - and that, too, lighter than what one would likely see on Earth, presumably thanks to the various air filtration systems in place across the colony.
Delighted to be momentarily alone again, Dorothy waded into the jumble. There was a wardrobe which, when she opened it, proved to be full of women's clothing. She took out a dress and held it up to herself. A faint whiff of perfume rose up from the fabric; no hint of mothballs, no need of them. It was not quite her style, the dress, though near her size. She put it back and moved on.
A desk caught her eye next. It was actually rather lovely; the wood was a rich golden hue, with polished ivory insets. She approached and seated herself experimentally behind it. It was a man's desk; Quatre's father's, perhaps, or even his grandfather's. She opened one of the drawers. It contained nothing but a few pens and an antique letter opener, serrated along one side. The next was empty, and the next - locked. Trying the remaining two drawers, they both opened smoothly and held nothing of interest. There was no sign of any key. Dorothy sat for a moment, thoughtfully tapping her chin, then took the letter opener and jammed it into the narrow gap of the locked drawer's opening, moving it back and forth until she felt it catch on something. Wedging it tight, she stood and pulled with all her might, until at last, something inside snapped and gave, and the drawer flew open. She staggered and caught herself, then sat down again to peer inside. It was papers, mostly, a mess of them. Dorothy riffled through, and examined one or two, handwritten notes and figures with no context and which meant nothing to her, receipts - and then, a photograph.
She picked it up with care by its edges to examine it. A man and a woman. The man was Quatre's father, she recognized him at once. The woman bore a striking resemblance to Quatre himself, and it was easy to infer from their postures, their attitudes towards each other, that they were man and wife. This was, clearly, the mysterious, prematurely-deceased previous Mrs Winner. But the other thing that was plainly visible in the photo, and what was easily the most remarkable thing about it, was that this woman was pregnant. Here, now, was a side of the story that you never got to hear.
She turned the photo over. It was inscribed. "With Quatrine; Feb 180".
She turned it over again. The woman appeared somewhat unwell, that was plain to see. She was pale, somewhat haggard looking around the eyes. But her smile was unmistakably genuine.
"Well, well," she murmured to herself. "Well, well."
"What have you got there?"
She started at the voice, and looked up with annoyance. It was Trowa, of course. His head was just poking up beyond the level of the attic floor. Her instinct was to crush the photograph into her hand, or shove it back into the desk drawer, to hide it. But she knew that would be useless. Trowa would be like a dog with a bone once he got started. So she answered him honestly, "An old family photo."
Trowa finished his ascent into the attic, his feet loud on the steps now that he had caught her out. He discarded the remaining dresser drawers he had brought up and continued towards her. "Let's see." He held out his hand expectantly.
Simmering with resentment, she handed it over. There was, however, some small pleasure to be found in watching his face as he looked at what she'd given him and came to the same realization that she had. She thought perhaps he even went a little pale. "We must phone Quatre," he said. "He needs to hear about this immediately."
Dorothy allowed herself a little laugh. "I'm sure he'll be home quite soon; he's due to leave early anyway, to see Relena and Wufei. You don't think he'd want to cause all that fuss, do you?"
Trowa's face darkened and he scowled at her. "He deserves to hear about this now. I'm phoning him." And without another word, he pocketed the photo and went back down the stairs.
With a sigh, Dorothy stood and followed him. "I'm afraid Mr Barton has had something of a shock," she told the others down in the nursery. "It will be up to us to finish things in here."
"Is he all right?" Michel Duchamps, the gardener, asked her with apparent concern. "What's happened? He doesn't seem like the sort of man who's easy to shock."
"All will be well," said Dorothy with great finality, and so shut down, he let the matter drop.
Dorothy contrived to continue working alongside Berta. For a time, Michel insisted on keeping up a certain amount of friendly patter - it did not seem to make much difference to him whether he spoke to Berta or to her, although Berta clearly found the chatter intimidating, and she, irritating. She supposed he did not often get the chance to speak to anyone during the day, apart from his plants, and so if no one answered when he spoke, that was nothing irregular to him. When at last he left the room to carry up a load of old picture books, Dorothy did not wait to take advantage of the opportunity.
"What do you know about the previous Mrs Winner, Berta?" she asked the maid without preamble, though with a care to keep her tone casual. Still, the question was enough for Berta to momentarily lift her head from her work, a confused frown crossing her face.
She shook her head. "Nothing, my lady. That was before my time."
"Nonsense. I know the way servants talk: you'll have heard something from someone. You've been with the family for many years. It was Quatre's father who hired you, was it not?"
"It was," Berta acknowledged uncomfortably. Still hedging, she said, "Mr Winner - the previous Mr Winner - didn't like her to be spoken of, not even by his children. I was warned off it by the cook on my first day."
"The previous Mr Winner is dead," Dorothy reminded her; then she waited.
Berta shook out a baby blanket with more force than was necessary, making the fabric snap loudly in the air. Coldly, she recited as if from a textbook, "She was the daughter of Thibaut Raberba, the second son of Benoit Raberba, of Earth. Her father emigrated here in the '50s, shortly before the first travel embargo. They were from Rabat; generations before that, somewhere in France."
"Yes, fine," Dorothy interrupted with a wave of her hand; she could extrapolate the rest. "And of Mrs Winner in particular?"
Berta looked to the door, clearly hoping that Michel would reappear and save her from having to answer. He did not. Faced only with Dorothy's implacable stare, she threw up her hands. "What is it you wish to hear?" she cried. "It was an arranged marriage, I understand - is that it?"
Berta misunderstood her agenda, but at least this was something interesting at last. Dorothy smiled. "Is that so?"
Berta sighed, returning to her work with a subdued air. "Master Quatre's grandfather had his heir late in life and was determined his son should wed while he was still alive. The late Mr and Mrs Winner were both quite young at the time, about sixteen."
Michel did return then, and Dorothy let the matter drop, but she was pleased enough with what she had learned. It was well enough for a start, at least. She helped to pack up the remainder of the room with a quick efficiency, and within another hour they had removed everything up to the attic.
Heaving a sigh when they had finally finished, Michel said to her, "I wouldn't mind a glass of something cold out on the balcony after that. Would you care to join me?"
Her hackles rose at once: how dare this man presume to invite her to a drink in her own house? Her disapproving frown must have been obvious, for he hastily added, "Quatre and I often have a cup of tea there together around this time when he's at home."
"Oh?" she said. The familiarity with which he used her husband's name did not escape her notice either. "I suppose there are one or two things we could stand to discuss about the garden."
"Sure, that would be great. I'd love to hear your thoughts."
"Tea, Berta," Dorothy instructed.
"Iced for me - with lemon, please, if you don't mind. Heck, you probably know how I take it." He smiled sheepishly at Berta's hastily departing back.
Dorothy took his arm as they walked together to the library and the balcony everyone here so loved; she leaned her head in intimately close. "You know, Berta blushes every time you speak to her," she noted, "I think she has a little crush on you."
"Oh," Michel scoffed with a gentle laugh, "I'm sure that's not likely." He reddened somewhat, and removed his arm from hers to loosen his collar.
That was more like it, Dorothy thought. To underline her point, after they had seated themselves outside, and as Berta was bringing out the tea, she continued, "Perhaps you should take her on a date. I'm sure Quatre would just love it, to think that he helped to introduce you. Would you like that, Berta? To go on a date with Monsieur Duchamps?"
"I beg your pardon, my lady?" She almost spilled the tea, Dorothy thought.
"She's just teasing you, Berta," Michel interjected hurriedly, "pay her no mind." Clearing his throat and reaching for his tea he asked her in businesslike tones, "What were your thoughts for the garden?"
"Roses, I think," Dorothy told him. "My cousin, Treize -" She glanced at him, checking for recognition of the name, but Michel betrayed none. "- had a great fondness for red roses. Myself, I prefer white. It's more of a challenge, I think, and roses should be challenging. Red can hide all manner of sins." She sipped her tea, and smiled.
Michel ceased to trouble her with small talk; when they finished discussing the garden he excused himself and said he would return to the work which had been interrupted earlier that morning. Dorothy gave him a sweet smile and saw him off before returning to the main house. It was only just after noon, and as she let herself in by the French doors she saw Quatre by the front door, just home, still with his awful bicycle helmet on his head, the strap dangling down by his chin. Taking it off, he called out, "I'm home!" Then Trowa was there, too, and Quatre was looking up at him with concern and asking, "What is it you have to tell me that's so urgent? Is everything all right?"
"Come sit down," Trowa said. He took Quatre by the arm with gentle solicitousness and led him towards the sitting room as if he were an invalid. Dorothy looked on with amusement, following a few paces behind and taking up a discreet position by the window.
"Trowa, what is it?" Quatre asked again, his voice becoming slightly more persistent as his concern grew. "What on earth is the matter?"
For all his hurry to phone Quatre immediately after they had found the photograph, he would not be rushed now. Trowa waited until he had nestled Quatre into an armchair, then knelt down at its side. His fingers, Dorothy noted, remained protectively encircled around Quatre's wrist. "Dorothy found this this morning," he finally said, and produced the photo for Quatre's examination.
"Oh," Quatre said. And then again, much more softly, "oh."
There was a strained silence which stretched on for some minutes; Trowa and Dorothy's eyes were on Quatre, whose eyes were on the picture he held in his hand. Finally, he looked up. "I must phone my sister," he announced. He perfunctorily extricated himself from Trowa's grasp and left the room.
Dorothy laughed and turned back to the view; Michel could still be seen standing on his ladder fussing with the orange trees. "How anticlimactic," she remarked. Trowa took Quatre's vacated seat and didn't answer.
Dorothy knew Quatre well enough by then to know, when he referred to 'my sister,' which one that was. He was only really close to one of them: the eldest, Iria. In fact there were still three or four, he had confided to her, whom he hadn't even met, scattered around the various resource satellites as they were.
As the minutes ticked interminably by with Quatre out of the room the silence began to grow unbearable. It took all her willpower to remain as she was, unmoving. At last he returned, stopping just inside the doorway. "It's true," he said; "she's confirmed it." His face was ashen.
"How are you?" Trowa asked him, going once more to his side.
"I… I'm not sure," Quatre replied. He sounded peculiar: strained.
"Tell me." Trowa's voice was soft, the command enticing. Dorothy kept her face hidden at the window, determined not to look. She heard movements behind her, the clink of glassware and caught a faint whiff of brandy. "Here, drink this."
"This woman," Quatre murmured, "I always knew that she existed, but do you know, it never occurred to me to think what that might mean? She was just…my father's wife, from long ago. I never even thought of her, or if I did, it was in the same way I thought of my grandparents, as of people from another era, before me. What a stupid, selfish child I was. I know nothing about her. My…my mother. I… I didn't care to know. I suppose I assumed that she was just like my father. But then I didn't really know him, either. You never think, when you're young, that there might be more to someone than what's in front of you. It's excusable as a child, perhaps, but not now, not as an adult."
Dorothy roused herself, turned. Quatre was gazing mutely at the floor, looking lost and forlorn, while Trowa stood behind him, a comforting hand on his shoulder. She said, "I can't say I see what the big deal is."
Trowa shot her a warning look, but Quatre glanced up questioningly.
She shrugged. "Nothing's changed, has it? You still have your job, your home. And it's not as if this woman is still out there somewhere for you to have a relationship with. Really, what difference does it make?" She sat down on the chaise, bringing her feet up underneath her in a single, smooth motion, and turned her attention to her fingernails.
Trowa's glare burned white hot. "Quatre," he said, but then fell silent - Quatre was nodding his head at her words. Dorothy allowed herself a tiny smile. There were not many people in the world, she reflected, who would take comfort from being told that their feelings were worthy only of dismissal, but by some chance her husband was just such a person; a rare breed indeed.
"That's true," Quatre said. His voice was stronger again; no longer broken, merely thoughtful. "Nevertheless, I'm curious. I have a mother. A mother! I'd like to know who she was." He shook his head. "It seems so disrespectful that I wasn't interested in her sooner."
"It's not," Trowa told him; he seemed relieved to be in a position to offer some concrete comfort at last. "Kids never are interested in their parents until they've grown up themselves. And think what your life has been up til now. Staying focused on the present was exactly what was needed of you. You've been so involved in world affairs you haven't had any time for your own."
Affectionately, Quatre reached up and patted Trowa's hand; he even laughed a little. "You're far too kind to me, Trowa, but I take your point. Thank you."
Trowa withdrew to his own chair. "I'm sure your sisters will be able to tell you more; they will have known her, won't they?"
"I expect so… I'll phone Iria again, in a while. We'll have to have a proper conversation this time."
"She seems a simple enough woman," Dorothy murmured. "A colonizer turned colonist. The family history is readily available if you go looking."
"You looked?"
"Well, naturally."
"Dorothy, you're simply extraordinary," Quatre said, beaming at her. "Please, I'd love to hear what you've found out." But before she could say a word in response, the doorbell rang.
"Perhaps later," Dorothy told him. "Your duty calls."
"Yes," Quatre said with a sigh, "I suppose it does."
"The Vice Foreign Minister," Berta announced, then discreetly withdrawing after making sure nothing further was required.
"Relena," Quatre greeted her with delight, going up and taking her hand, "what a pleasure to see you again. You're well?"
"Very well, thanks," she replied, allowing her host to lead her to a seat. "Trowa, Dorothy, hello."
They returned the greeting and then Dorothy asked, all innocence, "Wufei isn't with you?"
"No," Relena told them. "I had other meetings this morning and it didn't make sense for me to return to the hotel before coming here. I hope I'm not too early?"
"Not at all," Quatre assured her, "it's always good to see you."
Relena smiled, but it was somewhat brittle round the edges. "I just wish it was under better circumstances."
"Yes," Quatre replied, frowning apologetically. "I understand things are rather difficult just now, but I haven't yet heard the details. I hope I can help, whatever it is."
"I appreciate your even taking the time to see us like this." Quatre waved this aside, and Relena's smile warmed. It lasted just a moment; becoming serious again, Relena conspicuously cleared her throat and said, "There is one other thing, actually, before Wufei gets here."
"Oh?" said Quatre.
Trowa made to stand up. "I'll make myself scarce if you'd like to talk privately."
"No, no, please," Relena hastened to assure him. "I just wanted to say, while I have you both here… Wufei's been sober for the last year, while he's been working on this investigation. I can't tell you how encouraging that's been. Granted, I didn't know him very well until after his troubles started - but it's been like watching him come back to life. So, you see, it's not just Heero I'm worried about. Working like this again, it's given Wufei his strength of resolve back. These last few weeks have been frustrating for him, I know that. He's seen me as standing in his way, and I'm concerned it's taking a toll. I'm concerned about him, that if things don't turn out the way he wants them to he may fall back into…bad habits. I just wanted to ask you both to help me look out for him. I know you consider him your friend, even though you may not see much of each other these days. I think he needs friends around him right now. I just hope you'll - do what's right." Concluding her speech, Relena glanced quickly around the room to gauge its effect, then down at her hands, seemingly embarrassed.
"Of course!" Quatre exclaimed without hesitation. She smiled up at him.
"Thank you, Quatre. It's such a relief to me, knowing that."
Dorothy's eyes stayed fixed on Trowa, who had made no response to Relena's request, but merely sat looking thoughtful and somewhat troubled.
For a few nervy moments nobody said anything. Small talk was of course impossible, but eventually Quatre made the effort and asked, "What other business is it that brings you to the colonies?"
"Oh - it's the homelessness summit next month; it's being hosted here on L4. I've been meeting with the colonial delegates to help finalize the program."
"Yes, of course; I remember reading about your involvement in that. I didn't realize it was coming up so soon. Are the plans going well? It's a bit of a passion project for you, isn't it?"
"I suppose you could say that; others have. I don't think of it that way myself - it just seems a problem long overdue a rational solution, especially six years on from a war that displaced so many people. In any case, yes, I think the plans are going well. I have high hopes for it. Do you have any delegates attending? We've been trying to engage with local businesses, and given WE's interests in construction and philanthropy you'd be one of our key stakeholders."
"A couple of the vice presidents are attending," Quatre assured her.
"I'm pleased to hear it, although it's a shame you won't be able to support us in person. I think it really has the potential to make a world of difference."
"Do you?" Quatre leaned forward in his chair, listening attentively; it was all the prompting Relena needed. Dorothy sat back as Relena spoke and discreetly continued to examine Trowa Barton, who was of much more interest to her than any of Relena's grand plans for fixing humanity's persistent troubles. If he felt her watching him he gave no sign; he flicked his gaze to Relena every now and again in polite acknowledgment, but otherwise occupied himself solely with looking out the window. Dorothy had no trouble imagining his boredom matched her own, but any number of thoughts could be hidden behind that passive facade; how she longed to tease them out.
"Forgive me, Relena," Quatre interjected suddenly, cutting Relena off mid-sentence. "You seem to be focusing on the problem in the colonies, but surely Earth would be your main concern: the homeless population here in outer space is negligible."
In her polite but implacable way, Relena contradicted him, saying, "Actually, two and a half percent of the population across the five colony clusters is currently classed as homeless, which is twice as high as the average rate from Earth's capital cities."
Quatre frowned, his face thoughtful but skeptical. "Is that a fair comparison? What are the numbers going into those sums? The wider context? It's easy to manipulate the statistics to present dramatic figures, but you can end up with something quite meaningless if you're not careful."
"I can send you the detailed analysis if you're interested. And I assure you we've taken great care to ensure the the report's accuracy. We're not out to mislead anyone; quite the contrary. To be honest, I was as surprised as you seem to be by the findings. It's fascinating reading, if disturbing. It's not like the early days of space settlement anymore, when everyone on the colonies was allocated housing. Society has moved on since then; it's not just maintenance workers and critical personnel living out here anymore. The colonies have become much more like the urban centers on Earth, which includes the problems Earth faces, but the strategies for dealing with those troubles don't seem to have caught up. Homeless rates have been consistently climbing for the last fifty years across every colony cluster except L2, where the figures have markedly improved since the end of the war."
"Well, yes, everyone knows L2 has had more than its share of problems to recover from," Quatre acknowledged, still looking rather unconvinced, "but it's an outlier. You have only to look around on Earth or on a colony to see the difference in the number of people begging on street corners. That doesn't happen here."
For just a moment, Relena looked taken aback; then, she turned and rather slyly asked, "Would you agree with that, Trowa?"
"Hey, don't try and bring me into this," he protested; he said it jokingly, with a smile on his face, but you couldn't miss the underlying note of discomfort. But there was nothing else for it. Quatre was looking at him too, now, his eyes aglow with curiosity about his friend's opinion. Dorothy hid a smile behind her hand; it was obvious her husband had no expectation of Trowa disagreeing with him. And it was equally obvious why Relena had chosen to bring him into it. Trowa was, after all, the only one of them there who did not come from wealth. Somehow, Dorothy supposed, that was supposed to make him more expert on the subject. Had he ever actually been homeless himself? She struggled to remember. He was a nameless orphan, she knew that much. He'd been an itinerant child mercenary, that was it; perhaps, technically, he had been homeless, then, but that didn't seem quite the right word to cover it. Not exactly begging on street corners, as Quatre put it.
"Oh, do tell us your opinion, Mr Barton; we're simply dying to know," she urged, earning herself a glare. She leaned forward, cupping her chin in her hand. "What would you have to say to a poor ignorant fool like me?"
"I'd say consult an expert," he retorted, "it sounds like Relena has a few of those working for her." With an apologetic glance at Quatre he added, "I heard once that when the colonies were first being discussed, theoretically, they were touted as a solution for the growing homeless problem on Earth, where they were experiencing housing shortages and overcrowding. Well, here we are. We're even expanding out to Mars, now. But the problem just grows with us. From what I've seen, homelessness seems to be endemic, wherever people are. It's not a problem that's going to go away because of a political summit."
Relena looked almost hurt at that. It seemed her star witness hadn't performed the way she'd wanted him to. "It's not just an attempt at some…naive parlour trick, you know. The first step on the path to solving a problem, any problem, is coming together to talk about it, and sharing information. Doing nothing certainly isn't going to help anyone."
"There comes a point when people have to be left to help themselves," Trowa pointed out. There was still a hint of apology in his voice, but mostly he sounded as if he was merely observing a sad but universal truth.
"You'll forgive me, but I don't think we're quite at that point yet," replied Relena tartly, her lips pursing with disapproval.
"I won't argue with that," said Quatre, "but I do think ESUN has a duty to target its aid to those most in need. I do appreciate, Relena, that your statistical analysis has pointed you here, but without knowing where your numbers have come from, the evidence of my eyes says otherwise. You mentioned people displaced by the war earlier - the vast majority of those people were on Earth. Indeed, a great many of them would have been from the Cinq Kingdom. And, at the risk of sounding a bit indelicate, quite apart from anything else, there is also the fact that no one out here is in danger of dying from exposure to the elements."
Poor Relena. She really hadn't expected to be set upon from all sides, Dorothy mused. She met the former Queen's eye and cocked her head, arching an eyebrow in challenge. Your move, Miss Relena. Relena shook her head, but a helpless smile tugged the corners of her mouth. Directing her attention back to Quatre, she once again took up her argument, as implacable as she had been at fifteen. "It's true, yes, that the majority of the people displaced by the war were on Earth. But many of those people have since ended up in the colonies. And do you know why they have struggled and in so many cases failed to succeed? Because on Earth, they were largely farmhands and small sharecroppers. There's no farmwork for them here. No one whose business is in asteroid mining or piloting, the big colonial industries, is likely to hire them. Their skills are redundant, and they're struggling to access training that would make them more employable. As to your other point, perhaps no one will be freezing to death on an L4 park bench at night. But that's hardly the only danger. These are vulnerable people. A homeless person is more than twice as likely to be the victim of violent crime. Assault, theft. Murder. The colonies have a reputation for being very safe, but sadly that's not true for everyone."
A discreet cough at the door took them all by surprise and effectively silenced the argument; it was Berta, coming forward to announce Wufei Chang, who stood at her heels. Dorothy had not heard the bell chime; he must have knocked. She sat up more alert at his entrance, peering up at the former pilot with undisguised curiosity.
He looked…weathered, with an addict's wasted features. There were hints of the pilot he used to be in his stiff carriage, and the arrogant way he held his head and looked around the room, familiar to her from when he was one of Preventers' best known faces. But whereas Quatre and Trowa still looked their age, or even younger, Wufei's face was prematurely lined and strands of gray hair stood out at his temples. He was less muscled than he used to be; a little underweight, in fact, she thought: his neck looked slightly too skinny to properly support his head, and the skin of his jaw hung too loose. She saw too that there was a tremor in his hands now which would make him worse than useless with a gun. But he was dressed neatly; his clothes fit and his shoes were polished. His hair was tied back as severely as it ever was. He gave an overall impression of someone who was, if not well, was at least recovering.
Quatre stood. "Wufei," he said warmly. "Welcome."
Dorothy moved forward as well to take his hand; Quatre supplied the introduction. "Mr Chang," she trilled, "we've not met in person - but I know you by reputation of course."
Wufei dipped his head in precisely the minimal degree of acknowledgment required for politeness, and met her gaze head on, unflinching. He returned, "You were the woman behind the mobile dolls, if I'm not mistaken." Dorothy smiled.
"Would you care for anything? Tea, water?"
"Thank you, no." He made no move to step away from the door even as Berta beat a hasty retreat. The discomfort present in his military-rigid posture was obvious, but the look in his eyes dared anyone to pass comment.
"Well," Quatre offered after a moment's silence, "shall we go into my study? We can talk in there."
In the stillness after the trio withdrew, Trowa heaved himself to his feet and out the door. "I'm going for a walk," he announced as he passed her, and Dorothy was left alone.
The feeling of it sped through her with alarming rapidity. The Vice Foreign Minister was in her home for the second time in as many days, but she was excluded from the decisive meeting. It was not surprising - but… It burned.
Dorothy cast her eye about the room as she silently clenched and unclenched her fists by her sides. Her gaze landed on a half empty teacup. It must have been Trowa's, left over from the morning, before Quatre came home.
With slow deliberation, she walked over to it, picked it up, and tipped the contents out over the carpet. The slow trickle of liquid hitting the floor was like listening to a child piss itself. When the cup was empty, she righted it again and returned it to its saucer on the tea tray, then stepped over the spreading dark stain on her way out.
Her feet carried her upstairs. She paused, briefly, outside the door to Quatre's study, but she could hear nothing of the quiet conversation taking place within. She moved on. Listening outside doors was unbecoming even when it was effective. She collected her father's guns from the bedroom, taking her comfort from their familiar weight as she roamed, restless.
Eventually she found herself back in Quatre's old nursery, the room she had now claimed as her own. She frowned, looking at it. This morning she had wanted nothing more than a place to be alone, in her own territory; but now that she was here she found only that it was, quite literally, empty. She stepped over to the place her bullet had pierced the wall and reached out to pick at it. It was lodged quite deep and she had difficulty grasping it, but eventually with some effort she managed to prize it out with her fingernails. Chunks of plaster and dust fell from around the hole down to the floor. She could see about patching it, later, if she felt like it.
She turned her attention to the bullet she held. It hadn't shattered, but the force of impact had misshapen it. Such a tiny thing to do so much damage, she mused. She closed her hand around it, feeling the metal slowly warm from her touch.
She went to the window next, threw it open, looked out at the small world of the colony. One hundred thousand people lived here. Not quite a small city. Certainly it had none of the charm of a city; no skyscrapers, no landmark buildings of any kind. Nor was there the beauty of the countryside. There was only the neat sameness of bland suburban sprawl: homes and offices built to regulation height, periodically broken up by carefully tended squares of green space. The marvel was what enclosed them all, but the colony walls were featureless, no hint of the black vacuum which lay in wait and could so easily destroy them. It seemed she was looking out at an entire population whose only aspiration was a life of uninterrupted boredom.
As she stared out at the street, Trowa Barton hove back into view, returning already from his walk around the block. She watched him from a distance, recognizing him easily by his mop of hair and easy gait. When he came close enough, she hailed him; he stopped and looked up at her, nodding in acknowledgment.
This man. Her husband's friend. What was he to her? Her…rival? Her…enemy?
Teasingly, she raised her gun. "Shall I shoot you, Mr Barton?" she called down to him. He stared back up at her, a bemused expression on his face. It did not sit well on him, she thought. "Let's find out!"
In a single smooth motion, she leveled the weapon and pulled the trigger. Trowa's body jerked backwards at the bang. His bemused expression vanished, replaced by one of first shock, then anger. He vanished from her sight, and Dorothy fell back against the window sash, weak with helpless laughter.
When Trowa appeared in the doorway of the room several minutes later she stood up and faced him calmly. There was just a hint of a smile remaining on her face, which vanished when Trowa strode across the room and grabbed her roughly by the arms. He shouted in her face, punctuating each word with a violent shake: "Never fire a weapon out in the open on a colony!" Transferring his grip down to her wrists, he twisted them to disarm her, snatching up her pistol by the barrel and brandishing it at her. "What in hell were you thinking?!"
Glaring directly into her eyes, Trowa's face abruptly changed; he seemed to realize how rough he was being. He pressed the side of her pistol to her chest and shoved them both back in apparent disgust. Dorothy caught the gun before it fell, struggling to compose herself. Trowa had, to her own chagrin, succeeded in frightening her.
Then rebellion flared in her. Giving him a pointed look, she rubbed at her wrists. Her hands were shaking slightly - let him see. Instead he looked away, apparently unable to stomach the sight of his own strength. "I would hope," she said, and her voice was calm, "that the colony shielding is capable of standing up to a single bullet strike, or we're all in dire straits. In any case, the gun wasn't loaded with shot. It was a blank."
Trowa let out a long, slow breath and began to walk away. His face, what she could see of it, was inscrutable. From the door he said, offhandedly, "It's a criminal offense to threaten people even with fake weapons."
Sagging back against the wall once more, Dorothy stared after him for some time, feeling quite the same as she had when he had walked away from her on Libra.