[ChallengeFic] The Forever War
Title: The Forever War
Author: Terra aka conniferous
Pairing: 4xD
Warning/Rating: angst, T
Status: Complete
Summary: Quatre and Dorothy are locked in a forever war.
The Forever War
He never makes a sound when he comes. He won’t give her the satisfaction. But she always moans wantonly. Sometimes, she screams to show him she doesn’t care what he thinks of her. Whenever he’s planetside, she comes without warning, without appointment, without a care for anything but her own pleasure. It is four years and sixteen days since the Eve Wars ended. One year and twenty-seven days since that first knock on his door.
Quatre is waiting - just as he always is - when she opens the door he leaves ajar. He looks at her cashmere sweater and wool skirt and white headband and she is so soft and homely that for a moment, he doesn’t believe it’s her. Standing primly in the doorway of his penthouse suite, he can imagine that she is a young mother, maybe even a young wife returning home. Dorothy ruins the fantasy by stripping.
He is never allowed to undress her or touch her until she is ready. She reaches for her headband and Quatre hears himself saying: “No. Leave that on.”
She glances at him sideways, her eyes glowing gray in the dimness of room, sweeping his face, dissecting his reasons. She smiles, amused. “I’m not innocent. No matter how much you crave the illusion.”
But she keeps it on, so he says nothing. She pulls off her sweater, and when she catches him watching, she is careful not to sweep the headband off as she lifts it over her head and tosses it on the ground. He is surprised to see that she isn’t wearing a bra. His eyes travel downwards, tracing her too-visible ribs, her protruding hipbones. She unbuttons her skirt and he sees that she has come to meet him without any underwear. “Don’t,” he says suddenly.
“What?” Her eyes flutter open, too innocent, coy. “You don’t want me?”
“That’s a stupid question,” he replies curtly, struggling to feign disinterest. “Put your clothes back on.”
“Why?” Dorothy cocks her head to the side.
“I don’t want you. Not like this.”
“Not good enough,” she responds, dropping the skirt, letting it slip down her long legs. Dorothy walks to him and pushes him down against the bed, her signal that she’s ready - that she’ll allow him to touch her now. “Not good enough,” she repeats before pressing her lips against his, swallowing the words he wants to say.
The next time he sees her, she is wearing the headband again. She’s clothed in stockings and a pleated skirt and a silk blouse that make her look like the sultriest schoolgirl he has ever seen. He is on her as soon as she sheds the last stitch. Afterwards, he feels sated for the first time in months. He doesn’t want to admit that it is because he enjoys desecrating innocence. It disgusts him, the man he’s become. Quatre vows to stay away from her.
When they meet again a year later, they’re both guests at the annual Christmas Ball, celebrating the fifth anniversary of the Eve Wars. Quatre is standing on the balcony ignoring the noisy festivities behind him when he hears her voice pronouncing, “Good evening, Mr. Winner,” in the precise dulcet tones that still haunt him. He doesn’t turn around but he answers politely: “Good evening, Lady Catalonia.”
“So formal,” she mocks.
He says defiantly, “I’m a gentleman.”
“Quite.” Dorothy laughs gaily. She slides her gloved hand along his arm pausing at his shoulder, looping her other arm around his neck; she turns him to face her, cradling him. She rests her head against his chest. “You’re trembling,” she murmurs.
That night when he falls away from her, his hands finally steady again, his body heavy and limbs lethargic, he closes his eyes, expecting her to stand up and coolly dress. She always leaves him after, acting as if nothing happened and nothing was shared. But this time, she doesn’t. Several tense minutes later, he feels Dorothy shifting beside him, leaning closer, her movements hesitant. She whispers in his ear: “What does it feel like to kill someone?”
“What?” he asks, startled.
“I’ve never killed anyone. Not really,” she confesses. “Mobile Dolls are so impersonal.”
Quatre is silent for a long time. Finally, he answers: “You don’t feel anything. Not at first. You’re surprised - because it’s so easy. You think it shouldn’t be so easy.”
“And then?”
“You feel guilt.”
“How cliché.”
“It’s not that kind of guilt. You feel guilty that you aren’t sorrier. That the world isn’t crashing down around you.” Quatre rolls away from her as memories he has long locked away assail him. He is starting to remember why he dislikes her. “Nothing changes…even when an irreplaceable person is gone. Life goes on. You wonder if it’ll be the same for you.”
“That’s very selfish of you.”
“Killing is selfish,” he counters sharply. “You tell yourself it’s necessary, that one day history will vindicate you. But the next time you see a widow, an orphan, grieving parents - you think maybe it’s your fault. But you go out the next day and do it again.”
“Was it hard?”
“Not hard enough. If it were, I wouldn’t be able to at all. It’s too simple to dissociate and see everything as us versus them. Like we’re not all the same kind of selfish.”
“Are they? As selfish as you, I mean. They were following orders. Whereas you…the battles were your personal crusade,” she states, watching him intently; languidly running her fingers along his chest, ignoring the hitches in his breath. “You killed and maimed to inflict your own version of justice on the world. That’s really why you’re hoping history will redeem you, isn’t it?”
He flinches. “Yes.”
“How sad. I don’t know much about killing but I do know surviving. Being abandoned because some zealot with a vendetta thought it would be easier to blow people up than face them across a conference table. But then - you know a great deal about that, too. Don’t you?”
Quatre stiffens. “We are not talking about my father, Dorothy.”
“All right,” she concedes, shrugging. “Then what’s next? After the shock and guilt wear off.”
“Fear. You’re terrified that someone’s going to-”
“Catch you red-handed?” Dorothy’s smile is wide, too wide, indecent.
“Look at you with horror,” he continues grimly, “like you’re a monster. Condemn you for not wanting to punish yourself more. Because you still want to live - you want your heart to beat, your lungs to breathe. To think, to move, to walk, to run, to feel. You can’t help wanting it and you wonder what a man’s last thoughts are. You try to come up with your own - what you’ll think before dying. You imagine it, draw up a script and try to cram in only good, charitable, merciful thoughts.”
“Does it work?”
“No. When the time comes, the only thing you’re thinking is: Goddammit, I don’t want to die.”
“Not very courageous or noble, Mr. Gundam pilot. It seems like the public has got you war heroes pegged all wrong,” observes Dorothy.
“There’s no such thing as a war hero. And nothing noble about it. Everybody loses in war.”
“A touching sentiment, Quatre. But there’s always a winner. People eventually do choose the lesser of two evils.”
“The lesser of two evils?” he probes, his brow creased.
“A forever war…or having to live under the thumb of the winner of the moment.”
“Which one would you choose?”
“Me? I'd prefer the forever war. There’s no difference, you know, between peace and an eternal war,” declares Dorothy. “It eventually becomes such an entrenched part of us that it fades into the background, becomes something normal. There’s a kind of stability in that. And not nearly as much hypocrisy.”
“War is peace?”
“Precisely,” she says, pleased.
“You’re wrong. That’s an impossible dream.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Someone will break. Someone always breaks.”
Since that night, whenever Quatre catches a glimpse of her, she is always wearing a white headband and it makes him hard just seeing it. He forces himself to be gentle; he must be gentle; he can’t give her what she wants. If he does - even once - he is certain she’ll leave. Their silent escalation continues for months. Then one night, he opens the door to see her dressed in a white chemise, lace and cotton, covering every inch of skin, and buttoned all the way up to her throat.
Her face is clean of scorn, disdain, gaiety; she is unblemished and naked - no cosmetics, no icy stare, no insincere smile twisting red lips. Dorothy fidgets under his scrutiny, a blush on her cheeks. She looks like a virgin. And Quatre can’t help himself anymore. He surrenders. He breaks. He rips her nightgown apart before he can think. He throws her on the bed, ignoring her gasps of surprise and cries of protest, and doesn’t stop - can’t stop, won’t stop - until he collapses, shivering, on top of her.
When he finally meets her eyes, she is smiling. Dorothy tells him: “You always make love to me. And I just wanted you to fuck me.”
“I know.”
“I thought I would have to come in a wedding dress next.”
Quatre laughs. “What now?”
“Nothing,” she says. “Everything.”
Author: Terra aka conniferous
Pairing: 4xD
Warning/Rating: angst, T
Status: Complete
Summary: Quatre and Dorothy are locked in a forever war.
The Forever War
He never makes a sound when he comes. He won’t give her the satisfaction. But she always moans wantonly. Sometimes, she screams to show him she doesn’t care what he thinks of her. Whenever he’s planetside, she comes without warning, without appointment, without a care for anything but her own pleasure. It is four years and sixteen days since the Eve Wars ended. One year and twenty-seven days since that first knock on his door.
Quatre is waiting - just as he always is - when she opens the door he leaves ajar. He looks at her cashmere sweater and wool skirt and white headband and she is so soft and homely that for a moment, he doesn’t believe it’s her. Standing primly in the doorway of his penthouse suite, he can imagine that she is a young mother, maybe even a young wife returning home. Dorothy ruins the fantasy by stripping.
He is never allowed to undress her or touch her until she is ready. She reaches for her headband and Quatre hears himself saying: “No. Leave that on.”
She glances at him sideways, her eyes glowing gray in the dimness of room, sweeping his face, dissecting his reasons. She smiles, amused. “I’m not innocent. No matter how much you crave the illusion.”
But she keeps it on, so he says nothing. She pulls off her sweater, and when she catches him watching, she is careful not to sweep the headband off as she lifts it over her head and tosses it on the ground. He is surprised to see that she isn’t wearing a bra. His eyes travel downwards, tracing her too-visible ribs, her protruding hipbones. She unbuttons her skirt and he sees that she has come to meet him without any underwear. “Don’t,” he says suddenly.
“What?” Her eyes flutter open, too innocent, coy. “You don’t want me?”
“That’s a stupid question,” he replies curtly, struggling to feign disinterest. “Put your clothes back on.”
“Why?” Dorothy cocks her head to the side.
“I don’t want you. Not like this.”
“Not good enough,” she responds, dropping the skirt, letting it slip down her long legs. Dorothy walks to him and pushes him down against the bed, her signal that she’s ready - that she’ll allow him to touch her now. “Not good enough,” she repeats before pressing her lips against his, swallowing the words he wants to say.
The next time he sees her, she is wearing the headband again. She’s clothed in stockings and a pleated skirt and a silk blouse that make her look like the sultriest schoolgirl he has ever seen. He is on her as soon as she sheds the last stitch. Afterwards, he feels sated for the first time in months. He doesn’t want to admit that it is because he enjoys desecrating innocence. It disgusts him, the man he’s become. Quatre vows to stay away from her.
When they meet again a year later, they’re both guests at the annual Christmas Ball, celebrating the fifth anniversary of the Eve Wars. Quatre is standing on the balcony ignoring the noisy festivities behind him when he hears her voice pronouncing, “Good evening, Mr. Winner,” in the precise dulcet tones that still haunt him. He doesn’t turn around but he answers politely: “Good evening, Lady Catalonia.”
“So formal,” she mocks.
He says defiantly, “I’m a gentleman.”
“Quite.” Dorothy laughs gaily. She slides her gloved hand along his arm pausing at his shoulder, looping her other arm around his neck; she turns him to face her, cradling him. She rests her head against his chest. “You’re trembling,” she murmurs.
That night when he falls away from her, his hands finally steady again, his body heavy and limbs lethargic, he closes his eyes, expecting her to stand up and coolly dress. She always leaves him after, acting as if nothing happened and nothing was shared. But this time, she doesn’t. Several tense minutes later, he feels Dorothy shifting beside him, leaning closer, her movements hesitant. She whispers in his ear: “What does it feel like to kill someone?”
“What?” he asks, startled.
“I’ve never killed anyone. Not really,” she confesses. “Mobile Dolls are so impersonal.”
Quatre is silent for a long time. Finally, he answers: “You don’t feel anything. Not at first. You’re surprised - because it’s so easy. You think it shouldn’t be so easy.”
“And then?”
“You feel guilt.”
“How cliché.”
“It’s not that kind of guilt. You feel guilty that you aren’t sorrier. That the world isn’t crashing down around you.” Quatre rolls away from her as memories he has long locked away assail him. He is starting to remember why he dislikes her. “Nothing changes…even when an irreplaceable person is gone. Life goes on. You wonder if it’ll be the same for you.”
“That’s very selfish of you.”
“Killing is selfish,” he counters sharply. “You tell yourself it’s necessary, that one day history will vindicate you. But the next time you see a widow, an orphan, grieving parents - you think maybe it’s your fault. But you go out the next day and do it again.”
“Was it hard?”
“Not hard enough. If it were, I wouldn’t be able to at all. It’s too simple to dissociate and see everything as us versus them. Like we’re not all the same kind of selfish.”
“Are they? As selfish as you, I mean. They were following orders. Whereas you…the battles were your personal crusade,” she states, watching him intently; languidly running her fingers along his chest, ignoring the hitches in his breath. “You killed and maimed to inflict your own version of justice on the world. That’s really why you’re hoping history will redeem you, isn’t it?”
He flinches. “Yes.”
“How sad. I don’t know much about killing but I do know surviving. Being abandoned because some zealot with a vendetta thought it would be easier to blow people up than face them across a conference table. But then - you know a great deal about that, too. Don’t you?”
Quatre stiffens. “We are not talking about my father, Dorothy.”
“All right,” she concedes, shrugging. “Then what’s next? After the shock and guilt wear off.”
“Fear. You’re terrified that someone’s going to-”
“Catch you red-handed?” Dorothy’s smile is wide, too wide, indecent.
“Look at you with horror,” he continues grimly, “like you’re a monster. Condemn you for not wanting to punish yourself more. Because you still want to live - you want your heart to beat, your lungs to breathe. To think, to move, to walk, to run, to feel. You can’t help wanting it and you wonder what a man’s last thoughts are. You try to come up with your own - what you’ll think before dying. You imagine it, draw up a script and try to cram in only good, charitable, merciful thoughts.”
“Does it work?”
“No. When the time comes, the only thing you’re thinking is: Goddammit, I don’t want to die.”
“Not very courageous or noble, Mr. Gundam pilot. It seems like the public has got you war heroes pegged all wrong,” observes Dorothy.
“There’s no such thing as a war hero. And nothing noble about it. Everybody loses in war.”
“A touching sentiment, Quatre. But there’s always a winner. People eventually do choose the lesser of two evils.”
“The lesser of two evils?” he probes, his brow creased.
“A forever war…or having to live under the thumb of the winner of the moment.”
“Which one would you choose?”
“Me? I'd prefer the forever war. There’s no difference, you know, between peace and an eternal war,” declares Dorothy. “It eventually becomes such an entrenched part of us that it fades into the background, becomes something normal. There’s a kind of stability in that. And not nearly as much hypocrisy.”
“War is peace?”
“Precisely,” she says, pleased.
“You’re wrong. That’s an impossible dream.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Someone will break. Someone always breaks.”
Since that night, whenever Quatre catches a glimpse of her, she is always wearing a white headband and it makes him hard just seeing it. He forces himself to be gentle; he must be gentle; he can’t give her what she wants. If he does - even once - he is certain she’ll leave. Their silent escalation continues for months. Then one night, he opens the door to see her dressed in a white chemise, lace and cotton, covering every inch of skin, and buttoned all the way up to her throat.
Her face is clean of scorn, disdain, gaiety; she is unblemished and naked - no cosmetics, no icy stare, no insincere smile twisting red lips. Dorothy fidgets under his scrutiny, a blush on her cheeks. She looks like a virgin. And Quatre can’t help himself anymore. He surrenders. He breaks. He rips her nightgown apart before he can think. He throws her on the bed, ignoring her gasps of surprise and cries of protest, and doesn’t stop - can’t stop, won’t stop - until he collapses, shivering, on top of her.
When he finally meets her eyes, she is smiling. Dorothy tells him: “You always make love to me. And I just wanted you to fuck me.”
“I know.”
“I thought I would have to come in a wedding dress next.”
Quatre laughs. “What now?”
“Nothing,” she says. “Everything.”