By Any Other Name, an orphan black fanfic

You are standing in a garden. There is a rose bush, a single rose bush, and every rose is blood red. Every one.

Here is the first: she is a beautiful thing, a sweet smelling bloom that you have known from bud. You have witnessed the birth of each and every thorn. This flower, the one that is sometimes hard to find amongst all of the nothing in your life. The one that always hides, until one day she can't. This rose, this sorry rose, who needs you.

Here: a rose that never soaks up the heat. A cold rose. A lonely one, look, though she calls herself wife, calls herself mother; look how far away she sits. How cynical. How unromantic for a rose. Teach this one, if you can, how beautiful she must be to have so much love. So much red. Teach this one how not to poison herself, how not to hide her shame anymore. Teach this one how to soak up sun instead of chemicals. How to make happy from inside of herself. This rose, a surprise friend. A reluctant bud: opening.

If you must, study this one a little longer. She is not quite the same - though none are, you realise. And yet. This one's stalk is bent. This one holds no thorn. This one is darker, more blood perhaps, more anger? This one has been studying her own petals, hoping to figure out the whole damn bush. Or who planted it in the first place. Or how to keep it thriving. It doesn't matter; truth is, this little rose knows no more than you do. Or rather, she knows more, but understands even less. You want to tell her: You are only a flower. This is only a bush. You will wither come winter, and someone will tug at your roots. But it is only spring. It is only just warm.

Another. Hidden, at the back. There. Look, see? This one is weak and withered. Starved of sunlight, only shown the shadows, only darkness shaped like - like promises. Disguised as truths. But now: sestra. Look how it whimpers in the breeze and snaps in the wind. How the red is deep, like blades in a jugular. This one that is all thorn and no quiet. Tell this one to breathe. Look down. There are buds coming in, fresh flowers of spring. Wait for them, sweet rose, to bloom.

And here, the problem: this one, for you. Almost as if grown for just you, this boy rose with his don't-trust-me stem, his hidden thorns. This one with its pick me pick me (prick me). Do you dare? To pluck one is to pluck all in some way. A rose by any other name - no, no, a rose with any other face. Remember this boy-rose, and his summer-breath kiss. He is blooming towards you. Waiting.

You, dear Felix, are an honorary rose. But you are not this red - not this thorn - not this, this flower. You are all stinger. All buzz buzz buzz. Always drawn to the garden, always drawn to the roses, always taking and giving back and taking and giving back and -

You are in a lonely garden. There is a rose bush, a single rose bush, and every rose is blood, blood red. Every one.

Everyone.