moritat | Victorian weenie au

It is good that she's trusted enough to hunt alone, and she gets a feeling it has everything to do with surviving the soiree without causing her sire to regret letting her out of the house. Paloma feared his disappointment too much to dare.

But under the inn's filth, the smell of these persons' work and disease, something familiar preoccupies her, keeps her rooted to this creaky chair. She adjusted to the dimness of the tavern long ago, but she stares toward nothing at all, lost in trying to place it.

Nearing footsteps remind Paloma that reverie is a luxury, and returning home without indulging her appetite is another kind of failure. Henry Jekyll's beautiful voice, being so uncommon and new in her life, is not promptly identified. But by the time he asks her what she'll be having, she knows. An odd swelling mix of disappointment and gladness grabs at her heart.

Not turning toward him, she pats the table edge closest to an unoccupied chair.

No answer - well, that's alright, although he doesn't want to drive straight to the point without at least offering some chivalry first. Doing this is one thing, withholding all kindness is another. Although as he'll come to realise someday, it may be more for his own peace of mind than anything. He's exploited someone less fortunate, but at least he's been kind to them, right?

Jekyll sits to her right, and offers again. "Are you certain there is nothing I can get for you?" He leans forward, offering a smile.

"A charming offer," Paloma says, every inch the docile maiden in working class rags. "Is this a habit for you?"

She poses the question without accusation, but a man raised in society like him understands the daggers pointed and waiting. Angry at herself for idealizing an image of Jekyll in private thoughts and daydreams mere hours ago, her hands drop into the lap of her skirt where he can't see them twist in agitation.

But even blank-faced, her eyes drip bitterness.

Realisation spreads over him. He can hardly breathe, his chest and throat seem to constrict as he hears that voice and sees her face properly, and knows it to be the same woman he thought to distract himself from. Almost as if woken from some trance, he realises too just what he's doing, and the guilt that would normally be felt upon returning home finds its way in much too early. What sort of terrible man is he, why did he come here, and why can't he just be good.

A hand shoots to cover his mouth, eyes wide with horror. "Good God--"

Mortified beyond repair, shamed for ever more, he's sure he can never show his face again. Not to her, and not to anyone else on the West End. Even if she were somehow so kind as to keep this incident private, the fact that anyone has witnessed his shame is enough. Jekyll keeps his voice down, and collar up. "-Forgive me, no, nothing of the sort!" Can he make an excuse to save it, should he even try? That might just make it worse, but he can't help stammering out, without explaining exactly what he intends it to mean, "M-my work-!"

She is capable of great cruelty while offering sympathy in the same breath. These intertwined impulses provoke her to reach out, gloveless fingers resting in comfort against his shoulder.

Still she could burn, scorch Jekyll and his pride. "Your work, does it need you to speak with a woman from dirty taverns? London is so full of talk."

Yes, Paloma knows well the exoticism that follows by existing in this white devil Hell.

To be fair, at times it might require that, yes. A doctor can be called anywhere! But there's no denying that really she is right, when it would be so simple to see through any lies, with such a guilty conscience.

He presses his lips together, every muscle and limb stiff as he fixes his gaze on the table. "...I am so, incredibly, sorry." He almost says her name, but thinks better of it - better not to out either of them by name here.

What else can he say, how can he begin to explain himself?

His honesty saves Jekyll, quenches any remaining thirst to rake him over the coals.

Paloma hovers. Sighs. Drops hand from him, spares him the weight of her eyes, watches passerby instead. "I do not have fury with you." Chances are she's here to do something a thousand times less forgivable than slaking his lust with the working and willing. Her anger is at a lie larger than what he's told himself.

"... Our paths do cross again. I said I had hope for this."

Somehow, the question of what she's doing here, and in much different clothing, escapes him entirely. Maybe not such a surprising thing when he has this horror to deal with first. That question will come, but not before he's calmed himself. And it could have been worse, he almost wants to tell her, she could have caught him with a man, had he finally given in to that thought. Resting his elbows on the table, Jekyll holds his head in his hands for his shame.

But surely her fury must be with him. "...I led you to believe I was a good man. You should trust in no one's goodness in this city, particularly, perhaps, those of us who most wish to be." It isn't her fault she believed that lie. But then, it isn't really a lie either, what she saw earlier was no less true than this.

Those of us who most wish to be.

"I want to trust in goodness."

A battered songbird stirs in Paloma's heart and warbles, in warning or plea. She touches his elbow lightly as a feather. "It is a guiding star when I feel lost. And every night, I am lost."

They have their shame.

He swallows hard, pushing back anything that threatens to give - he certainly can't allow himself to cry before her, and he feels downright ill with all that shame.

"As am I." There's a twinge of a smile. "...We mustn't remain here, the very least I can do is escort you home. This is not a safe place for a lady on her own at night." As he may have just proved himself a moment ago.

A man, anyone agreeing to take her out of sight where nobody looks askance is the entire reason she's in this den of filth and sin. Paloma thinks of her appetite and studies Jekyll, how handsome and lovely that threat of a smile is, and resolves.

"We have not found what we came to this place for," she says with considerable firmness. "Please, do not go because of your guilt. I am protected. Say nothing of me and know I say nothing to no one. You are my secret."

A little grin flits across the fullness of her mouth. She likes having a secret.

Every word she says seems to be the last one he would expect to hear, and yet each manages to be more surprising than the last. He raises his head from his hands to look at her properly, no more ostritch tactics. Now there's the question of what she is doing in such a place, if there's something in particular she came for. He can't imagine it's the same as his reason. But that isn't even remotely something that can be asked.

"No," it's hardly more than a whisper as he averts his eyes again, "I must not indulge this vile behaviour." She's far too kind, but it still makes no difference in his mind. That anyone knows the kind of man he is, is the greatest punishment he could receive. It's more than guilt, it's disgust in himself.

If he's decided on a course for himself then it is dangerous for Paloma to become involved. The last time she was tangled in human lives, they suffered, and she lost what precious few comforts were left for a fledgling and her sire.

(She suspects much would be easier for Carlos if he did not Embrace her. He implies it so often ...)

"What you must and mustn't," Paloma falters, finding the pronunciation a challenge, "is your choice for tonight. I will not interrupt and you are not mine to keep." His arm's warm, though, and she's reluctant to take her hand away.

"And to yourself as well. However, I cannot, in good conscience, leave you. I shall wait until you wish to go." After all this, he has to do the right thing somehow. Even if it's only being sure that she gets home safely, how ever long that might take, what ever she may be doing. It might also have something to do with a similar reluctance to part.

He's making her hunt more difficult than it need be.

Not impossible. There exists between them an imbalance of power, and it isn't what Jekyll believes. Who could blame him for his naivete? She was once so ignorant. And now if she wishes, she can warp his perspective enough to send him running out the door to leave her cold and alone at a drafty table--

No. No, Paloma does a thing she shouldn't. She allows him to stay.

Trying to duck away-- removing her touch at last-- and disguise the tentative smile, "It could be hours and your day has been long. Longer than mine, I promise."

"No matter. Your health must need a watchful eye as well." He forces a smile for her, part of him wishing she hadn't taken her hand away. "Besides which, hours spent waiting will help to clear my head. It is also not uncommon that I should retire to my room well after dawn, or that I am lost to the world for days. It will hold no effect on my household." So there's no reason he shouldn't stay. The servants will have no trouble handling their sometimes eccentric master.

Aware that she'd better be rid of him before dawn or bring very real danger on their heads, she buries those fears. Let Paloma pretend for a short while, let them have this for as long as it lasts. Who can say if they'll ever lay eyes on each other again?

That unhappy thought does embolden her.

"My health is in peak condition!" Paloma assures him, holding onto the table's edge to restrain herself from untowardness. "What else can I do to help your head, d-- doctor?" She nearly comes out with his name, regretting that it would be foolishness to curl her tongue around it.

"Have you not been ill of late? That is far more important than the grief I have brought upon myself." He smiles again, more natural this time than the last. "Neither would I wish to distract you." From whatever it is that she's doing.

He pauses, and practically mumbles for some odd sense of shyness as he adds, "Harry." That's what she can call him. If she wants. It's what people call him. And it's better than 'doctor'.

Edited 2015-08-19 08:41 (UTC)

She's beaming long before Paloma is aware of engaging with any foolishness. Biting the inside of her lips, her voice lowers, too: "I am not ill and you are not a terrible distraction. It is why I say these things. Harry." Feels like a special privilege to call him anything with affection.

It stings to realize she cannot offer the same, not when Carlos has adopted the only variants anyone ever used on her name. This is her quiet one-night rebellion and she wants it to be hidden in a separate corner of her heart under lock and key.

"I like it if you would say Paloma."

"Of course, Paloma." And as he did at the party, Jekyll bows his head to her.

There's a longer pause this time, but it's clear he has something on his mind that he intends to say. She said she had been ill enough until today that she had hardly been out at all, so why out all night now, and alone when her husband seemed to be so watchful, not to mention in such a place. He doesn't know what it means but it does give him worry for her wellbeing one way or another. "I do not intend to ask what it is you are looking for here, nor to dissuade you from it, however..." wait, what is it he's trying to say. "I hope that all is well." That's the best he can do.

Hearing Jekyll-- Harry say her name sparks such happiness in her as to be embarrassing. Paloma hides what she can of the grin behind curling fingers even as her eyes tell the whole story.

"All is well when I am in good company," she confides to him. It is the safest and most she dares explain of the mire her daily life becomes. "And coming here, we hope for company of any kind, yes? When it is good, it is a blessing. A graceful surprise. Ah, tell me, I think you understand?"

The other patrons largely ignore the two fools.

She's absolutely right, he knows what she means, why else do people come to a place like this but for company, even if it isn't of a sexual nature. But that isn't the way he takes it. "Not-- not any sort of company!" It's said with horror at the idea that he might keep company with anyone, woman - or man. Although she would still be correct had that been the way the question was asked. That it's the conclusion he jumps to should suggest as much.

His brow furrows and he presses his lips together tight, but not for any anger with Paloma, only frustration in himself for that defensiveness, and to chase those gay thoughts away. This evening isn't going well for him.

"Oh--"

She's offended him.

Going rigid, fingertips whitening as they clamp tighter onto the table, Paloma laments the difficulty of English specifics. And its limitations. Her smile's vanished and left only worry. "Apologies. I did not mean to insult, Harry."

Irrationally she fears he'll revoke the privileges of using that name, with its undertones of friendship.

"-No, I, I'm sorry, the fault is my own." Pause. "You must forgive me, evidently I am not so well to-night." Evidently. He's done a terrible job of making a good impression on a new acquaintance - who he should have liked to come to call a friend.

"I fear you made a terrible mistake in stepping into my home." He offers a smile, reassuring.

What are you doing, a sensible part of Paloma demands. Why delay the inevitable? Why play pretend? Dollhouses are for the rich and the living.

But--

But--

"And I fear my mistake is the man I wed," she blurts. Oh. Oh, why am I burdening you with this, oh, no. The wood of the table creaks in her distressed grip. "That is why I am alone."

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