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Her eyes narrowed as she crouched beneath the desk. There was quite a bit of noise in the museum now, despite it being closed. Floréal kept the accounts—there was no night event at the museum, and yet….
Perhaps she’d have to talk to Director Baptistine or Javert or even R himself about the horrible job he was doing. He was a dear friend, but some things could not be waived by a mere shared history or friendship. She froze as a pair of shoes approached the desk. A light tenor was conversing with someone else and the shoes that stopped in front of her were not R’s shoes. They looked strangely familiar, but then her attention was caught by the pale hand reaching down into the drawer for her stamps.
With a grace provided by years of attacking elder siblings as well as years of gymnastics and a fury of stamps stolen, she coiled her legs and sprung, managing to angle herself in a way that she took out her thief, but also in a way that she didn’t smack her head on the desk.
“You’re going down, sucker!” she screeched in fury, going for the kneecaps. Following that, she paid more attention on reaching up to grasp his arms and immobilize him from further escape. She was aware of R’s voice going “Jesus, Floréal!” and the agonized moaning of the body beneath her, but as she managed to sit up and glare down at the…most gorgeous cheekbones in existence…of a stamp stealer.
“You,” she growled, perched on the chest of a completely unrecognizable man, who looked somewhat familiar. She wound her hand around his and started to pry his fingers from her stamps. “You have my stamps.” The man looked up at her with ice-cold distain. “You’re also an intruder,” she said in a saccharine tone. “A thief. A reckless individual who takes from a not for profit. Do you have anything to say for yourself before I summon the guard?”
“The guard’s already here,” a voice speaks behind her.
“R, thank goodness. Now, I’ve found him! The stamp thief!” Maybe her sentences were simplistic, but she had finally captured her rival.
“I can see that.” His voice is wry. “Mind letting him get up and catch his breath? I promise he won’t get away.” That merits a narrowed gaze towards her prey beneath her.
“If you try to run, I will cripple you,” she says with no trace of false sweetness in her voice. “And I will catch you.” She lets R pull her up and barely restrains herself from stepping or kicking her prone victim.
“R, give me the handcuffs.” She expectantly holds out a hand and cocks her head when he doesn’t and instead blushes bright red. The stamp stealer is brushing down his clothes.
“Yes, R. Why don’t you handcuff me?” he asks and R goes even redder. It takes a second before it clicks.
“Oh my god, Rémi,” she cries. “Are you sneaking that guy you like in for some nookie while you’re on the job?” It’s completely unprofessional and so far from what she’s expected from him that she’s a tad taken aback. After high school, they hadn’t talked that much—R was terrible at keeping in contact—but it stung that she hadn’t noticed the difference in how he acted. He had had her fooled.
“Floréal, it’s really not like that,” he starts, but she’s already whirling around to face the blond stamp thief.
“You,” she starts and then stops. Because looking closer, his familiarity is nagging at her mind. She turns back to glare at R.
“Really?”
“What?” He has the gall to look offended.
“Did you think I wouldn’t even notice? How dumb do you think I am?”
“What?” and now he’s just confused. She grabs a lock of the thief’s hair behind her and pulls it (and him inadvertently) closer so she can intermingle their hair until it’s indistinguishable.
“We’ve got the same eyes and we’re the same height,” she concludes. The thief tries to step back, but she keeps a firm grip on his hair, whirling to face him.
They’re nearly chest to chest now. Planning is not her strong suit, but she glares into his eyes.
“Why are you stealing my stamps, buddy?” she asks.
“I ran out of my own,” he replies.
“Then some yourself.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“Then get a job.”
“Circumstances beyond my control prevent me from that.”
She takes a step back. “So you steal from a non-profit?”
“It’s for the greater good.”
“The greater good my ass,” and then she punches him. When she turns to leave, R is looking like a confused mass of human being.
“R, did you really think you could get away with this?”
“Floréal,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, just like his mother, “please let me explain.”
“There’s nothing to understand.” She clips off every word. “Now get out of my way.” He seems to sink down into himself as he does so and that’s when the metal ostrich runs down the hallway and around the corner.
Everything seems to go slow and silent.
“…was that?” She trails off, unable to fully put the words from mind to mouth.
“Surprise?” R sheepishly rubs his arm. “The museum comes to life at night?” Everything is clicking into place, slowly and then faster, like the flows and calculations of her numbers, everything is finally being put in their place. She turns around to see the stamp thief getting up.
“You’ve been doing this for a while,” she states, not asking—not anymore. “And I was thinking it was Sylvie all this time.” The statue brought to life doesn’t even have the nerve to look sorry.
“It was for The People,” he haughtily replies.
“Oh, I’ll show you the people,” she snarls, before getting dragged back by R.
“Floréal, please?”
She deflates. “For you, R. But only for you. And,” her gaze narrows on the blond, “if my stamps start going missing again without proper apologies, I’ll start taking chips out of your perfect face, statue-boy.”
“My name is Enjolras,” he says, stiffening up in outrage like a puffed out cat.
As R finally lets go of her, she shakes the wrinkles out of her clothing and gives him a shark smile. “Charmed.”