(A/N: the tone of this chapter is perhaps a little dark...be patient, this really is a D/T shipper story!)

Chapter 2

Quiet Reflection

Paris, France; 18th arrondissement

The early summer days were a quiet, rich experience. She settled into her little budget room at the Timhotel Montmartre, whose entrance opened onto a small, tree-shaded plaza. She loved the view from her fourth floor room; she would throw open the window, her book or magazine on the wide sill, leaning out, thinking.

She quickly took to the Metro, the key that unlocked the City of Light. She quickly learned that avoiding the press of people crowding the elevators at the Abbesses Metro station was a bad idea; it became clear the first time she trudged up a seemingly endless tiled staircase to the streets above. Of all the Metro stops in the city, this one was the deepest, set far below the limestone hill on which Montmartre sat. No wonder the view from the Basilica of Sacré- Coeur was so expansive.

Tonight, she had entered her room, leaving the lights off. She moved the table and the single chair over to the open window and sat, listening to the laughter of couples below, the distant honking of horns, and the clatter of motorbikes on the cobbles. The lights of the cars and the shops below were reflected in the windows of the building across the narrow Montmartre street, and with the glow of the night skies of the city it was light enough to see as she unwrapped her simple, cliché meal of bread, fruit, a few grams of smoked meat and cheese. She smiled at the plastic cup, covered with a bit of saran, filled with a generous portion of red table wine.

The old woman at the little shop had watched her considering a bottle of wine, which she put back. It would be a pity to waste, and she had no one to share it with. After her items had been paid for, the woman had nodded at her and poured her the wine as a gift from her own table. She smiled, a twinkle in her eye as she passed the cup across the counter to the polite young American woman. Returning the already opened bottle to its place next to a framed photograph on the table, she returned to her own solitary meal.

"Merci beaucoup, Madame," Daria said sincerely, "Vous avez fait ma soirée!"

"You are most welcome, my dear," came the heavily accented reply.

Tonight, as she too ate alone, she thought of Jane.

A few years ago, she would have never imagined that she would be spending time in Paris without Jane. Their friendship had centered her, but life in its indifference had laid out a parting of ways. She had continued with her studies, while Jane, upon graduating from BFAC had plunged headfirst into her passions. The rarest of opportunities had presented itself, and Jane had moved to Manhattan, into a loft with her still-current lover and fellow artist Matt.

Of course Daria had been truly happy for her; she herself had chosen a path that had a clearly defined goal even as she found her personal life drifting from entanglements first with Stephen, and then with Will.

Why was she so difficult to live with? It must be her; both men had adored her, and yet she eventually grew to resent the way each saw her, a woman she could not be.

Jane didn't help matters; she wasn't much better at this relationship thing but simply chose not to let it bother her. She wasn't one to fret about attachment, and in her own projection had seen Daria as simply going through a phase of learning who she was. She hadn't meant anything by it, but she had emailed Daria a photo of a cardboard box full of available kittens, with the words Crazy Cat Lady Starter Kit written on one of the box flaps. It was funny, of course, but Daria had deleted it without comment the next day.

What was wrong with her?

The night before, dining alone at the little café across the plaza from her hotel, she found herself listening to a street musician playing a creditable Django Reinhardt cover on a battered guitar in the little plaza. It made her smile, thinking of Trent.

After Jane had graduated, he had declared his task of supporting her complete and had quit his day job. Having gone on indefinite hiatus from Mystik Spiral was a good thing; he found himself applying himself with far greater discipline as a solo singer-songwriter. He would succeed or fail on his own.

And he had done well. His new songs were amazing, drawing from a well that ran deeper than Daria had ever suspected. She would listen to the music he would send her, songs that spoke of lost dreams, longing, and of love given, expecting nothing in return. The strange thing about it was that even when his music turned to joy, that same longing somehow was always there, the happiness tempered by the realization that the heart still thirsted for something it could not have.

It was as though he understood something fundamental about her, something that they shared. But then, judging from the public response, it was something universal, something that seemed to be a sharing of what it meant to be human.

Both Jane and Trent had been there for her when she graduated, and still she found herself alone.

Jane, even if she could have scraped together the money to join her, had other, now inescapable responsibilities. And Trent had his second tour, already postponed for her. He had finally done it, and it always made her smile when she thought about it. Fame, fortune, and any woman he could ever want. He deserved someone who could appreciate him for who he was, someone who would treat him right. Success couldn't have happened to a sweeter, more deserving guy.

She had been startled when politely asked by a handsome young man if she minded some company. The café was quite crowded, and there were no other tables available. The company was not unwelcome, and it was not uncommon there for tables to be shared by strangers. At first, she rather enjoyed his company. He was charming, well read, and his rudimentary English was more than a fair match for her barely passable French. He was clearly attracted to her, and she was tempted by his offer of after-dinner drinks and perhaps something more. After all, this was the perfect setting for such a dalliance.

Almost.

She realized that while they had been talking, the guitarist had stopped, and was pocketing his meager earnings. She had wanted to go to him and drop at least a Euro into his case in thanks for the gentle pleasure he had provided her. As she watched, he replaced his instrument into its battered case and stepped away into the darkness. Her opportunity was lost, and it left her with a strange sadness.

She quietly thanked her dinner companion for his company, and left him there, disappointed.

That was so like her.

Finishing tonight's modest meal, she gathered the crumbs, paper wrappers and napkin into a tight twist, and slipped her light sweater back on. Making sure her key was in her pocket; she stepped out into the hallway and made her way down the narrow staircase. She needed the exercise, and besides, the little elevator was a bit too claustrophobic even for someone as small as she was. She deposited the trash in the receptacle near the door and stepped out into the cooling summer evening, wondering if the guitarist was anywhere about.

Paris, and particularly in the Montmartre, never lacked for some kind of music on the street; buskers were everywhere, and it wasn't hard to find something that pleased your ear or suited your mood. Tonight the little plaza in front of the hotel was claimed by an accordionist, who was trying his luck with a medley of Nino Rota's music from Fellini's Amarcord. She listened until the theme came around, leaving him a half-euro coin for his trouble. She was saving a two-euro piece for the guitarist, if she ran across him this evening.

She made her way down the steep hill in front of the plaza, smiling at the sound of a Jazz trio near the entrance to the Abbesses Metro stop. The little cocktail drum kit was easily upstaged by the amazing musicality being coaxed out of a vintage wooden toy piano, and a frighteningly frail looking upright bass kept the tune moving along. She stayed for three numbers, and thought about stopping for a decaf latte, disregarding the pairings around her.

She thought about how she had adapted, mastering the art of being a single woman in a city of legendary romance. She wasn't trying to be noticed; that was something that had never interested her. Instead, she seemed to have a purpose being wherever she happened to be; independent and self-confident. She didn't look out of place; she was atypical for an American tourist. She was keenly observant and had a minimal impact on her surroundings. She was experiencing Paris on her own terms, and that was why she was there.

Two hours later, she found herself returning to the little plaza, the leaves of the trees overhead gleaming a shadowed malachite green under the streetlight near the café. The guitarist had moved on and was nowhere to be found.

She climbed the stairs to her room, pulled out her journal, and opened the little electronic safe in the tiny closet. Inside were the two things she did not want to lose, her passport and the lovely black and gold fountain pen that Trent had given her when she graduated. She held the instrument to the light, passing her fingertip across the engraving.

Truth; thus, Beauty.

DM.

She uncapped the pen carefully, and set its golden nib to paper. Her thoughts were unsettled and jumbled; she put them down as quickly as they came to her. It was a cathartic ritual for her; she would reread it all later and then tease out some semblance of structure.

Hours passed; there really was not enough light to work like this. Perhaps she could find a suitable lamp at one of the weekend street markets. If it was weird enough she could take it home and give it to Jane.

She yawned, taking off her glasses and setting them on the windowsill. Rubbing her eyes, she carefully capped the pen and put her head down on the desk, just for a moment. It was time for bed.

Outside, the streets had grown quiet; only the creaking of a solitary, rusty bicycle echoed between the buildings.