Summary: Even the most independent soul feels the interplay between how others define her and how she defines herself. Set few weeks after "Follow My Footsteps".
Standard Disclaimer: I'm just a fanfiction writer. All hail the rightful owners.
Author's Note: This story is based on the song Dirait-On from Les Chansons Des Roses composed by Morten Lauridsen. The music is a popular part of the choral repertoire, especially for college and high school groups.
Moe looked hesitantly around the corner into his employer's territory. Though he knew he shouldn't be near her room halfway through the night, he'd been drawn by the musical sounds in the corridor, and by simple curiosity.
Two unusual features redefined the witching-hour office space, choral music emanating from a small tape player, and, in a diaphanous vase, a rose the color of polished garnets.
His boss stood behind her carved desk, one hand spraying the dried plant, with the gesture of a graffitist but the affect of a painter. The other arm stretched out towards her subject, with a casual yet reaching curve, like the image of Adam on the Sistine chapel ceiling. The synthetic chemical smell contrasted brightly with the artistic and beautiful notes of the song. Strains blended together in a polyphony that was at once longing and fulfilled, stark and rich. He didn't understand, and he was overwhelmed with the emotions in the scene. A small squeaking sound came from his throat.
The figure looked up, and stepped back, as the single small lamp on the desk blanched her uncovered face. "Yes?"
"It's err… pretty music boss…"
Blandly, the shadow whispered. "For a heist."
"About roses?" Moe asked, curious.
The turn of her head was minuscule, but sharp. "What?"
"Well… the tape case says this is 'songs of the roses…" and" He gestured awkwardly. "You have a rose." One that shimmered as the fresh lacquer dried, preserving it in time like a crown gem.
She considered him for a moment, and then a small shake of her head made her hair flow like liquid obsidian. "No such theme. Though perhaps adding a little Robert Burns wouldn't go amiss." Her musing, though light, betrayed a small agitation.
"What is the heist about then?" He asked, with the curiosity of a small child, mesmerized by the pretty harmonies and gliding light patterns, strangely entranced by the preserved petals.
She chose her words as though English were abruptly a foreign language. "It's about… the sweetness of being secure with one's heart. And it's about how the world, misunderstanding, corrupts that…sometimes." She frowned, as though she had not explained it quite right.
"So, about you?"
Carmen corrected gently. "About how I appear."
"Oh… sorry. I'm slow. Well you knew that…" He stammered. "Some sort of inner peace…thing?"
"Was there something you needed Moe?" She asked, a little ice in the room of manufactured fire.
"I just wanted, you know, to see if you're ok…"
Her lips hooked, in a way that was simultaneously scornful and sad, as she turned the rose, letting its planes distort and reflect the ambient incandescent light. "I always am."
END