Disclaimer: I own Chrno, yes I do! I'm a liar, how 'bout you!
Author's Note: Please see chapter one for note.
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Ticks of the Clock
Polish
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"What are you doing?"
"Polishing the pocket watch."
The answer comes so easily, so bluntly, so simply, that I am taken aback. Blinking once, I allow my eyes to roam over her body; following the path of her arms, the flow of her fingers, the wave of her hair as she pours over the small clock, tongue between her teeth. The bed beneath her creaks when she shifts. I take my place on the floor before her.
". . . How come?" I continue, staring up at her; arms wrapped loosely around my crossed legs.
"Because it's dirty."
"Oh."
Silence blankets us for a moment, Rosette still working her dirty rag feverishly over the watch; never tiring. The dull gleam of the brass surface begins to brighten under her care.
"Do you clean it often?"
"Sometimes." She glances towards the doorway I had just walked through, the one which I had left slightly ajar. I take the hint, stand, and shut it tightly again. Her casual "thanks" is my reward.
"No problem."
I sit again, this time on the mattress beside her; leaning curiously closer. My unbound locks cascade over both my shoulders and her own. She says nothing of it.
"Have you always cleaned it?"
"Of course."
A pause. I frown, resting my chin in the nape of her neck. The action surprises her and she stiffens, but doesn't ask me to move. Good. I don't feel like moving anyway.
Our quietness continues. The early birds outside the window sing. I think. Then I speak.
". . . Why?"
Her rapidly moving cloth slowing somewhat, Rosette turns her head inquisitively towards me. "Huh?"
"Why?" I repeat, our eyes locking. I tilt my head, cheek rubbing against the coarse cloth of her habit. "Why do you clean it? What does it matter if it's dirty? Why do you care?" It's nothing more than a Seal of your Death, Rosette. . . Why take the time to love it so?
She stares at me, stunned. Then embarrassed. And finally annoyed. The bump on the head I had expected since the beginning is presented to me post-haste. Only after that does she reply.
"Idiot. Because you gave it to me. That makes it special. And special things need to be kept clean, be cared for, have their hair done, and. . . stuff."
". . ." A fresh red hue stains my cheeks, then paints her own. ". . . Oh."
Again, silence.
She allows the pocket watch to fall back onto her chest with a soft 'clack'; setting the rag aside. "Would you like me to braid your hair?"
"Please."
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Ending Note: I realize Rosette's a little OOC here, but she's really not all THAT abusive. . . Sometimes. . . Well, she can be nice once in a while. XD Anyway, I hope you all noticed the rather obvious metaphor I was trying to make here. . . If not, I'll explain later. :)