Chapter Text
It was kind of like a dance, but kind of not. Amélie would come home, and Lena would be there, or not. Every time Amélie would ask Lena what she was doing in her apartment, sometimes Lena would actually answer. Usually she did not. Eventually Amélie stopped asking. Eventually Lena stopped showing up unannounced. Eventually Lena started showing up other places.
That Amélie, a renowned ballet dancer in Paris, had an apartment in London was something Lena had never questioned. It was something she didn’t want a reason for.
That Lena, a graffiti artist and college drop-out from London, was now sitting on Amélie’s couch in her Paris apartment was something Amélie did question.
“How the hell did you get here?” Amélie was anything but subtle with her shock.
“I took a train.” It was easy to tell that truth, it was easy to leave out that she’d wandered around Paris for a week before finally meeting someone who knew who ‘Amélie the ballet dancer’ or ‘Amélie the swan’ was.
“Why?” Amélie’s concern may or may not have been because of Lena’s penchant for showing up at the absolute worst time for anything ever. There had to be a reason, there was always a reason, something Lena wanted that she wouldn’t always just say.
“Can’t it just be because I missed you?” Lena asked, flashing Amélie a very convincing pouty face at being questioned. “Because I wanted to see you perform?”
“No, no it can’t. How did you even get in here? Do you even speak French?” Amélie started to say something else but stopped when her husband, Gérard, stepped into the front room from the hallway leading to their bedroom.
“You should be more concerned about whether or not your husband knows she’s here, chérie,” he said. “I thought I would never get the chance to meet, how did you say ‘The ruffian who painted a picture of you on the side of a West End theater.' She’s quite charming, I can see why you like her so much.” He flashed Amélie a smile then headed into the kitchen. “Lena, would you like some more cocoa?”
“See, I don’t speak French, Amélie. What have you been telling him about me?” The change in tone of Lena’s voice made it very clear to Amélie that Lena was actually afraid she’d been insulted or something. “Yes, please!”
“You’re a graffiti artist, and you painted a picture of me on the side of a West End theater,” Amélie replied. “Now, again, why are you here?”
“Oh… there was… some trouble, in London. I’m fine now, but it’s best I not be there,” Lena said. Trouble was putting it delicately, her arm still ached, and would for a long time. Fine was also putting it delicately, or maybe just outright lying.
“Lena,” Amélie warned.
“Some arsehole decided my arm is his canvas to put insulting words on so I broke the twat’s nose now if I go back the bobbies are gonna find out I’m Tracer,” Lena said. The conclusions she’d leaped to within this whole issue were hasty, and maybe even wrong. How the police would ascertain that she’s the infamous, and wanted, graffiti artist Tracer from some guy’s broken nose was a bit of a logical nightmare. She wasn’t even what broke his nose, the bus did that.
Amélie furrowed her brow and walked over to Lena and said very calmly, “What do you mean he used your arm as his canvas?” The only time Amélie had ever heard someone refer to skin as canvas was when she was considering getting a tattoo.
“A fucking box cutter,” Lena replied. “Cuts people pretty good too. I have stitches.” Box cutters, dangerous but not illegal.
“What did he write… carve?” Gérard asked as he came back out of the kitchen with a mug of cocoa for Lena.
“It doesn’t matter,” Lena said quickly in a tone that made it clear that it did, in fact, matter. “What matters is I’m the one what’s in trouble for it, not him.” She honestly couldn’t even know if she was actually in trouble, she didn’t stick around long enough to find out why the police were looking for her. She took the mug with a small nod.
“Lena, it does matter,” Amélie said, her voice taking on a much softer tone. “Please tell us.” She caressed Lena’s cheek gently, to show her that she meant no harm, to let her know she only wanted to help.
Lena blushed and mumbled something unintelligible before she said, “Dyke.” When she noticed the shocked and confused look on Amélie’s face, she continued, “The twat saw me kiss you when I was drunk. He attacked me after I left the pub that night.”
“Lena that was two weeks ago,” Amélie gasped. None of this actually explained why Lena had came to Paris of all places. If she wanted to hide out, why not just go to her parents place in the country side?
“I had to convince the doc not to tell the bobbies where I was going,” Lena replied.
“You expect Angela to lie to the police?” Angela, Lena’s doctor, was very adamant about doctor-patient confidentiality but honestly this just sounded like a huge mess of trouble. Amélie might give her a call later, maybe that could help her understand the situation better, something about the way Lena was handling all of it told Amélie that there was more to it than what it appeared.
“I expect her to at best say ‘France’. There’s a whole lot of France, luv, and I’m one person who doesn’t even have a real valid ID,” Lena said. She bit her lip. “I just came to let you know that I’m here, not in London, so like if you see me, you wouldn’t freak out or nothing.” She started to get up but Amélie put a hand on her head and held her in place. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, Amélie was holding her by the hair, not actually holding her hand on her head.
“You are not just going to drop something like that on me and then just leave expecting me not to do anything about it,” Amélie said fiercely.
“Just let me go, luv,” Lena said. “I don’t want to be trouble.” She started to reach up to try and get Amélie’s hand out of her hair, but stopped at the pain that shot up her arm from the stitches. Maybe she should have taken some pain killers before sitting down on the couch.
“Trouble is the time you showed up at my London flat in the middle of a blizzard with the flu,” Amélie said. “’Some asshole carved the word ‘dyke’ into my arm with a box cutter and now I’m wanted by the authorities for breaking his nose in response’ is a bit more than trouble, and you’re not going anywhere.” There was definitely something wrong about this whole situation, and Amélie was for damn sure not going to let Lena slip away until she figured out what it was.
Lena whimpered slightly but stopped trying to move, whether this was because Amélie was scaring her or because it hurt to be held in place by her hair was unclear.
“Chérie, I’m fairly certain threatening your girlfriend isn’t going to make her any less frightened by this whole situation,” Gérard said.
“I am not dating Amélie,” Lena protested. “Am I?”
“No, but it got your attention,” Amélie stated. “You’re frightened, Lena. What’s to say that if you go out there, in Paris, a place where you don’t even speak the language, you’re not just going to get hurt more?”
Lena opened her mouth to reply then closed it. There was nothing to say that. Being unable to speak the language was why she spent a week wandering lost unable to find anything even remotely resembling a place where ballets might be held.
“Do you even have a place to stay here?”
“Is not like I have one of those in London either,” Lena replied without thinking about it. “Besides I’ve already been here a week.”
Amélie released her grip on Lena’s hair. “All those times you showed up at my apartment and didn’t have a reason for being there—“
“Were because I didn’t have anywhere else to go and it was raining, or snowing, or too hot to exist, yes,” Lena replied.
“You were lost for an entire week before we ran into each other,” Gérard gasped from where he had moved to, sitting in his armchair on to the left of the couch that Lena was on.
“That depends on how you define ‘lost’,” Lena replied. Was it lost if she knew vaguely where she was just not how to get anywhere?
Amélie knelt down on the floor in front of Lena, putting a hand gently on her thigh as she did so. “Lena, chérie, you need new clothes.” That wasn’t what she’d wanted to say, but knowing that Lena didn’t actually have a place to stay implied that Lena likely could fit everything she owned into the backpack she carried around with her all the time.
“If it’s cause my clothes are dirty, that’s what laundry is for,” Lena replied.
“Lena, do you even own more than one jacket?” Amélie asked in reply.
“It’s a hoodie,” Lena replied. “And no? Why would I? This one is perfectly fine.”
“Lena, it has holes in it.”
“Well how else am I supposed to wear it if it ain’t got any holes?”
Gérard chuckled from his chair. “Lena, she wants to take you shopping.”
Lena furrowed her brow for a moment then smiled and said, “Well why didn’t she just say so!” Then the smile went away just as quickly as it showed up. “I don’t like shopping. The managers or security guards always follow me around like they think I’m gonna steal from them even though I ain’t never stolen anything.”
“New clothes would solve that problem, Lena,” Amélie said. She wasn’t actually sure, here in Paris Lena was just as likely to be followed around looking nice as she was looking like she’d slept under a bridge—which all things considered, she probably had—just because she couldn’t speak French and would be labeled a ‘tourist’ and tourists were always closely watched.
“You really think so, luv?” Lena asked.
“Yes,” Amélie said. “Absolutely.”
Lena worried with her lip for a moment then said, “You’re not gonna put me in a dress, are you?”
“Chérie, nothing ruins a good look like the person wearing it being uncomfortable, if you don’t want to wear a dress then no dress in the world is going to look good on you,” Amélie said, hoping Lena understood that she wasn’t insulting her.
Lena smiled and then stood up. “Amélie, you’re brilliant.”
“I am?” Amélie asked also standing up.
“Yeah! Let’s go shopping, but you gotta buy me food to make it worth my time,” Lena replied.
“Lena, you are insufferable,” Amélie chuckled.
Lena flashed her a big grin and took her hand for a moment. “You know you love me,” she said before racing off into the kitchen to put her cup away.
“This girl is going to be the death of me,” Amélie said to Gérard.
“She’s not that bad, love, I kind of like her,” Gérard replied with a chuckle.