Author: Becca W

Fic: Starting Over

Chapter: 12

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Disclaimer: GW belongs as much to the rats as it does to me - namely, none of it.

HAVE A WONDERFUL WINTER BREAK - enjoy it all. *Shucks a snowball at someone* G'morning, stranger.....

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Relena waved for a taxi, slightly frantic. She had lost track of time shopping, suddenly having found that it was too close to six o'clock for her not to run to the curb. But a small discovery had been made; she disliked shopping. It was a hassle, or at least seemed to be before a holiday such as Christmas. Shoving and pushing herself through the crowd like a zealot was not the ideal way for her to spend her time.

A cab pulled up and she climbed into the back seat, pulling behind her the things had bought. Quick directions were given; they were off. Relena, in a need of something for her fingers to do, took out the sweater she had gotten and gnawed the tags off. Once finished with this, she set it back inside its bag, pulling out another sweater to de-tag.

By the time the cab came to a halt beside her little house she had finished with the de-tagging and, requesting the driver to give her a moment's time, gotten out to trot up the steps. Having already made the preparations for her return to Cinq, all she did now was place the sweaters on her couch in the living room and grab the suitcase.

Her hand stroked the doorknob once she was outside and had locked the door.

Two weeks and a few odd days. Just two weeks.

In a way, she didn't want to leave. Looking up, she could see Lena's shadow through a lighted window, moving closer to shut the blinds. They had separated at the door frame, becoming two opposite people; the shadow, born of her imagination, waned as she realized she was staring at darkened glass panes.

Turning away, Relena gripped her suitcase in one hand and the key in the other. Stuffing it in the pocket of her coat, she exhaled slowly.

She was going home. As much as one sliver of her being wanted to stay and play pretend - fore that was what she was doing - the rest simply wanted to be where it was needed, where it liked to be.

Stepping away from the door, she slipped back into the cab, giving the man their next destination before falling back into her thoughtful trance. She didn't see any of the buildings lining the street melt into road; her eyes concentrated on the tiny garbage compartment at the base of the driver's seat. How it would be of any use down there she didn't know.

Often she had wondered if she could have become anything but a politician. Of course, she wasn't the only who wondered. But it was a natural thing for any human mind to do; the human mind reasoned, thought out, rebelled against. Her mind put out suggestions as show, yet none seemed befitting of her character.

An odd thing to say; a Politician was universally hated. They were categorized under the same labeling as lawyers, woven into jokes as much as any president.

And yet, the only other position she thought she could hold other than that of a politician was that of a philanthropist; there was truly no reason for her inheritance to rot in a bank - especially now that the war was over.

When her personality was displayed, her faults lined up, her flaws paraded around, and her good points shown, she couldn't channel a likeness of her into the job of another and still pin her face to that form.

A politician she was, when it came down to it; Relena was not entirely sure if this was a good thing. But she knew so many who wouldn't face what others saw in their eyes without trying - rather she cringed while knowing the purporse of her self than not.

And the road didn't end. Moving but not seeing, Relena watched vaguely the cab speed past clumps of uprooted grass and bits of gravel. The road didn't end.

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"Io, please, I have to handle this." Please? Davis never said please.

"Don't beg; it's surprisingly unbecoming." Minister Io said this earnestly, without the least hint of cynicism in his voice. That was his way; honest and straight-forth. A surprising trait for a politician; than again, he was family oriented.

"I can not possibly come to this gala event, I-"

"It is expected of every official of Darlian's cabinet and each member of the Earth Sphere United Nation to come." Now, he had moved from earnest to borderline sterness. Davis' hands fell at her sides, but in exhasperation.

"Darlian pulls off the stunt much better than I can."

"Stunt?"

"Yes, stunt." Io hid his indignancy well.

"What she does is no stunt; everything she says or does there is for a purpose - she doesn't charm without focus." Davis' lips stressed into a thin line and she tipped back, leaning her whole upper body weight against the wall.

"Fine. Fine, I'll come." Grudgingly, of course. The resentment wouldn't shine through - she wouldn't let it - but inner snideness at such fancied-up public events made her feel sour as of that moment.

"Now then," Io straightened his tie and swung around, "I have to meet an official from China; Mister Pyang, I think."

"The old goat?"

"The young one." Davis gave a barking laugh.

"He's worse."

"I know."

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Relena bent down, her knees bumping against the side of the bed as she lowered herself to the ground. The dress, her dress, had been spread in all of its' holy glory over the bed's span so as not to wrinkle the material of the skirt or bodice .

Stroking it with her palm, her other hand keeping the top flaps of her bathrobe closed, she wondered how the evening would go. Would she be able to shake hands and at least attempt a two minute conversation per person there? Would anyone want to simply talk with her, even if it were about weather?

Would she be able to change some minds? Make allies?

It was such an odd thing to have race through one's mind, how such an evening could possibly mean so much. Christmas Eve had found her mind on other things than good cheer.

A knock on the door brought her to her feet again. She flipped some wet, heavy hair over her shoulder, feeling it soak slowly through to her back in warm moistness.

"Come in." Inside came two maids, too busy jotting things in their mind to pay much anxious attention to the young girl standing there; immediately, but with tact, they gathered her into their capable hands, pulling at her wet hair and setting her jewelry on the vanity.

Hair was dried, piled up, gently formed into a tucked and pinned mass on the crown of her head. Through a full-view mirror she was able to see them busily work at her appearance, pins clenched between no-nonsense teeth. Nothing unnecessary, no frills; she was to strike a business-like, yet pleasant countenance that night and anything overdone would ruin the effect she was to have.

On slid the dress, sinking in to her waist, folding around her legs, pressing lightly againt her shoulders. (Winter, and she had somehow gotten a sleeveless dress). It fell straight to the floor, elongating her entire person with its' length.

Licking the corners of her mouth, she tasted the rather murky waxiness of lipstick coating her lips, all the while watching the maids now leaving, having done what they had needed to do. They were indeed quick, talented.

What did this remind her of? Ah yes. Might as well not travel through time to that evening; left alone in front of the full-length mirror, the only thing keeping her from falling into a trance, making her own reflection a stranger to her eyes, she gripped her hands tightly, crushing the soft skin webbing between each finger.

After a time she caved in to a shudder; how did it seem, to her inner mind, that she was acting so cold?

Another, if more whimsical, question floated through; how could one be cold to their own person mirrored back to them through glass? A small mystery for a time-logged mind. And time was what she didn't have; admitting to herself that she was needed downstairs, Relena stood up, the stool pushed from her by the backs' of her knees.

At least they hadn't needed to rent a ballroom for this year's Christmas event; last year, the preparations had been made weeks too late, rushing decorations, food, service, and stressing money sources. Being practical would serve well for later, though; at the moment, she needed to make her rounds among the important officials and significants weaving their way along the perimeter of the hall.

On such a jovial evening, serious faces with business mouths met her. But she joined them in their game - some acting as if this were a game, some not. Waiters threaded through the crowd to each group, a platter balanced on one arm with edibles arranged on it. They, too, looked just as serious as the guests.

Of course she would notice this.

A blonde head passed among the crowd; a hushed whisper followed by a languid response made their way to her ears.

Dorothy.

She hadn't been here last year; most likely she now was for the Preventers, although Lady Une's responsibilities included this event in her list of duties. Perhaps both were here; that might make the evening smoother to pass.

On her way to her old companion's side, Dorothy turned sharply, catching Relena's eye before she could give her greetings.

"Miss Relena," Dorothy's eyes steadily searched her face, "You look ill."

Yet Relena only felt relief; no intention of business, none at all. From Dorothy, that was best.

Dorothy, at finding herself nearly sandwiched between two large men, nearly snorted on pushing her way through, one hand grabbing the long train of her dress to keep it from being trapped under a mislead foot or heel. Her hair warming her bare back, she gave Relena a stiff, cynical bow - if such a thing could be done.

Her smile, though distant, was one of dry humor.

"I am glad you came." Relena tilted her head to the side warmly. "Did Lady Une come as well?"

"Yes, she did." Dorothy leaned in, her eyes taking on a rare, impish tone to them, "I have to say, Miss Relena, that you're parties are extremely dull."

"Politics aren't a ballet." Relena replied, expression grave, but her eyes shining.

"And yet politicians are ballerinas, constantly on uneven ground they have to tiptoe around." Dorothy waved her palm in the air carelessly, nearly upsetting the tray of a passing waiter. "Don't even try at fooling me with riddles; you know as well as I that I can deliver an answer to each."

She wasn't one to argue the logic; from a landing, from a certain point of view, Dorothy had hit a truth.

And her unyielding arrogance made Relena shake her head.

Silence occupied the space between them as they watched the ever-changing courses each person took across the floor. Finally, Relena turned to her once again.

"I am sorry not to have visited you at the Preventers' headquarters; how is the new position for you?"

"I am enjoying it more than I should." Dorothy's mouth split into a grin.

"Then I am glad to hear this." Dorothy's eyes strayed to the briefly aloof expression of Relena, instant, if vague interest taking hold.

"And how have recent twists and turns been with you?"

"Better than I thought they would be." Relena murmured half-heartedly.

Dorothy, with a shrug, took a step back to critizingly scrutinize her clothing.

"I never thought gray would befit a Pacifist." Her jibe made its' way clear to Relena's brain; Relena crossed her arms loosely across her chest.

"I will discuss this with you later; right now, some of the members are gathered over there and I need to see them." Dorothy nodded, Relena left.

She contended herself to move to the shadows near the walls and watch the packed crowd shift; soon, the dances would start up. Perhaps he would come; she doubted, though their honors were high, many assembled here could dance.

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Lady Une's eyes glinted keenly as she answered a question, one hand lighly holding a glass of wine. Though snow fell in thick blurs, everyone was warmed in the bright glow given off chandeliers, hung overhead in twinkling glory.

"The music is starting." A hand was held up, waiting for hers. "Would you care to dance?"

She held an arm out, a a grin stealing over her reserved face.

"Of course, Mister Winner." Craning her neck over the heads of the crowd, she gave a short laugh. "Most are watching; they take their pride too seriously."

Once on the outskirts of the dancing arena, Quatre cleared his throat kindly.

"May I ask another question?"

"Yes."

"Is Heero Yuy really still at the Preventers?"

"With no obvious intention of leaving, as well. I am hoping he might join, but he does not seem all that eager."

Quatra licked his bottom lip in thought.

"Would you call it confusion?"

"Perhaps. But I would center it on feelings he admits to; maybe he is now wondering what else to do." Lady Une shrugged. "After all, he is doing nothing at the moment; something needs to keep him preoccupied, and he has not found it yet."

Quatre's shoulders slumped.

"That does not sound much different from what he was before."

"Where you expecting a great change?" Lady Une asked with wonder.

"In a way..."

"If you don't mind me saying this," Lady Une said quietly, "You are quite the dreamer."

Quatre only smiled at this, no offense having been taken on his part. They're conversation dulled then as the dancers churned around them, shoes clapping on the marble floor, the sounds muffled under the hems of dresses. Lady Une's eyes darted around for a quick moment, something registering in them as she took notice of some newly-found detail. Pressing her lips toegether quickly, she bent forward a little in order to whisper to Quatre.

"I am so sorry, but I think I am needed. Would you excuse me?" Quatre, keeping himself from asking any questions, nodded kindly.

"Of course. I hope we can keep pick this up later."

"So do I, Mister Winner; thank you." He ushered her to the ring of the dance floor, squeezing her hand in farewell. Now stranded, he turned around and started walking aimlessly, greeting familiar people with a warm cordiality that was individually his; everyone smiled at the young boy, not looking to be old enough for them to call a young man yet, with friendliness.

As he turned into a corner of the room where the crowd was thinner, now holding a wine glass in one hand, he nearly faltered in his trek. Standing rigidly was someone he knew all too well, and he was not entirely sure if what he felt at seeing this person was joy or not; shrugging the uncertainty of his feelings off, he moved closer.

"Good evening." He said cheerfully. She flinched at the sudden sound of a voice when she had expected no one to come up behind her. Turning from the gathering, she faced Quatra and gave him a quick, bittersweet smile, bowing her head in a short curtsy as well.

"Mister Winner, what a pleasure." Straightening, she eyed him with playful interest. "And-"

A tall, gangly man was shoved back, making him topple over and into Dorothy, causing her to reel forward onto Quatre. He suddenly found his arms around her upper arms to keep her from falling while the man righted himself. The man immediately burst out worry.

"I'm so sorry, a dancing couple tripped and bumped into me! Ma'am, are you alright?"

Dorothy held a hand up in case the man wanted to say anything else, her attention quickly being diverted to something else while a pained expression slipped over her face.

"I am fine, thank you for your concern." She said curtly. The man glanced at Quatre, mumbled another apology and moved on. Dorothy looked down at the train of her dress unhappily, still stiffly leaning on Quatre for support.

He took hold of her arms, one hand on her shoulder. Her head snapped up to meet his kind gaze stubbornly.

"Would you like to sit down?" He asked. Dorothy's mouth quavered, she glanced back down at her feet, and nodded. Quatre, after a short look around, led her to a few fold-out chairs on a balcony, gently lowering her onto one of them.

She bent over and, pulling up the hem of her dress, scowled at her reddening ankle. Slipping the shoe off, she began to rub it roughly, her face working with differing expressions according to each passing emotion she felt. Quatre, after a moment of waiting, kneeled in front of her.

Without looking at her, his eyes actually lowered, he brushed her hands off and took her ankle in his own, feeling it for anything serious with gentle proddings made with the tips of his fingers - although he doubted it was anything more than a small twist.

He heard a grumpy sigh being let out above, all the while feeling the piercing stare of Dorothy run him through. Regardless of the uncomfortable silence that now decided to step in, he continued massaging her ankle till he felt it alright to let up.

Releasing the ankle, he looked up at her, still in a kneeling position.

"Better?"

"Yes. Thank you." Quatre struggled up and onto a chair next to her. Dorothy didn't slip back into her shoe.

For a few minutes neither said anything; they did not really know what could be said, and their thoughts interfered with them ever getting anything across to the other verbally. So Dorothy looked to the sky for conversation; it was much more cooperative. Silence was its magnitude, what made it so great. No other silence was greater than that of the sky.

The beating of his heart thudded noisily in his ears and Quatre soon realized something had to be spoken aloud for him not to become irritated with himself, of all things. He cleared his throat.

But Dorothy beat him to it.

"Did you know I visit Mariemaia often?" It was a statement put out in a questioning tone. Dorothy tilted her head to the side, never loosening her stare on the sky. "I myself do not know what pulled me to her so.

"It is not all that amazing, really, but she is different. It is as if I'm drawn to her."

Quatre leaned his elbows on his knees, now caught in the unintentionally-set net of Dorothy's words. He hadn't known her to be moved into speaking of herself so much - of anything personal, even if it touched base with nothing more than a friend, a dry topic.

Dorothy's voice swung back towards him, directly addressing him.

"Have you ever seen us talking?" He shook his head and she shrugged listlessly; his answer was not all that important.

"She reminds me so much of myself. At that age." Quatre noticed with some concern that Dorothy's hands now clenched each other tightly. They hadn't a moment before, and he uneasily turned his eyes back at her distant ones. "It does surprise me how much I understand her; but much about her life resembles mine. Her childhood was spent with one parent, her mother. Mine, my father."

She paused, exasperated, trying to find the correct wording for what she wanted to say.

"I was brought up in the face of war and grew to understand it. That girl, given a few more years, would have, too. Our opinions of basic things are not that much different from the other, and she understands me surprisingly well." Dorothy grinded her teeth together once, sending a vulnerable glance over the edge of the balcony then back at the sky. 'Surprisingly well' did not quite cover her shock at the likeness she found in the comparison of herself and the girl.

"But she has a future; she is smart. And even while I find things in which we are remarkably alike," Her voice turned flat, "She is naive in ways I can't describe.

"She is given the chance to be a bit of a child, even though this child understands the currents of politics. She is allowed the misunderstandings, little mistakes made...I was not. And now, I do not know how..."

She took in a quick draw of breath, eyes slipping into a traditionally cold stare.

Dorothy's body suddenly vaulted upward as she shot to her feet, dress flapping around her legs, hands free, one clutching a shoe. Eyes a harsh steel gray in the dark, her mouth set in a grim line, jaw clenched, she threw that shoe over the balcony edge. It bounced off the banister roughly before springing down into the lawn below without a sound.

Dorothy's arm then fell against her side, and her shoulders slumped.

Quatre, during this time, had stayed in his seat, hands gripping the rail-thin armrests. But when Dorothy had jerked up to stand, if shakily, he had immediately stood up behind her. Eyebrows pulled in, he regarded the unmoving form with surprise.

As an individual, he saw things in her he was not sure were open for viewing; she was an altogether confusing, sometimes belittling person, yet he could not help but like Dorothy.

She did not react to his moving closer. When he was directly next to her, she didn't even turn away - as he had thought she would.

Risk was involved. But giving a brief glance to her assured him the risk could be taken.

Dorothy was thinking of losing the other shoe as well when a warm hand took hers in its grip, gentle but firm. Fingers clasped her palm, a thumb lay over the back of her hand. Glancing down, she found Quatre to be there, standing at her side. That was all she could think; he was more 'there' than he had been before. Now, they were almost linked at the hip as well; but Quatre did not look at her.

Instead, he chose to gaze at the horizon, were the sun had long since fallen and darkness had already rusted to a stark black. Dorothy, feeling her exasperation melt into perplexed confusion, wrinkled her nose, glancing at Quatre and his hand around hers and back at his face.

She nearly felt something snap inside of her.

A tiny, all-to-familiar voice began shrieking.

"Mister Winner," Her tone had grown unpleasantly crisp, "Please excuse my untimely outburst."

Snapping her hand out of his hold, she lifted her chin a little and settled both arms against her sides, knowing that he had frozen in the position he stood in.

"But your pity or worry does not give you the right to touch me in such a fashion."

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Hehehe. *Rubs hands together happily* She told him off, she told him off....

Please review!