moritat | Victorian weenie au

"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."

That smile hardens, he could almost forget where they are, and how this conversation started, because he has to observe her carefully. "He is cruel?" That does explain some parts of this situation, why she is here without her husband so late at night, but not why she's here in the first place. Is it much the same reason as his? Or perhaps the reverse. That would call upon even more guilt on his part.

She's said too much already.

"He is a danger," Paloma tries to explain without explaining, "and, ah, cómo se dice ... not a trifle. It is unwell of me to speak badly."

Splinters in her fingers. Startled, she releases the table and studies them with mild horror. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid girl, he is right, know when to keep silent! "All I meant is that meeting you is not a mistake, and it brings me joy even if I cannot guess who I may or may not see again."

He worries all the more for it. A danger doesn't bode well at all. "Paloma-" Jekyll breaks off for the splinters, taking up her hand to pluck them out as best he can with only his fingers to do it. He continues, "I need not remind you what transpired only some moments ago. Nor is it my place to speak of your marriage. However, it seems to me you must keep poor male company."

The silly girl gets lost looking up at his face, not at his deft work. She doesn't notice the pinpricks beyond faraway pain.

"I do."

Please find ten more splinters than there are. And perhaps ten more after that.

"As I said, every night is a maze to find goodness. In me, in others."

"Your first instinct was the wiser one." To berate evil men for the things they do, or try to. "Some hint of goodness is not enough, if there is also inherent evil, when you are dealing with others." Don't trust men, mostly. He's proved it himself, had she been someone else, they would not be having a conversation, and the fact that it would change the situation is telling. "Do not go seeking God in Hell, you will only find more of it."

A chilling thought. Damning, too, although he hasn't the faintest idea what creature he's tending to.

Paloma's lashes lower. "This is no Hell. I taste the devil whenever I eat, Harry." Sounds like a metaphor, doesn't it? Surely nothing literal. Licentious maybe, but ...

God help her, his hand feels hot against the coolness of her own.

No, of course not literal, it's quite the grand metaphor, but one he can certainly understand. Or so he thinks. And surely those cold hands only signal that she has indeed been ill lately, and that she's cold - naturally, without a coat. He says nothing, not wanting to think on his proximity to the devil or speak his thoughts on his nature in any more depth than he already has. So, as much as he wants to keep his face hidden, now all the more, Jekyll slips off his coat to drape over Paloma, and sit at the table in silence.

That damnable bird in her heart won't be silent. Splinter-free, Paloma guiltily takes a different comfort from his coat than he perhaps intends. She buries her nose into its collar and remembers to breathe.

Her eyes slip shut against the awful tavern inn and its puttering light. "Thank you." Lord. What now? She doesn't want to fill the air between them with talk that means nothing.

Smoothing out his waistcoat, he offers a small smile in return, shy as the first moment he was discovered. "Don't let me keep you, of course." But that doesn't mean he doesn't want her company, either, even if he's struggling to find anything to be said. Though he's sure she's had enough of this disgusting man sitting beside her.

Vapid conversation, small consolations aimed at bettering their image in the eyes of God? Paloma has already learned her lesson about projecting an ideal onto a man she may never know, and could not expect to.

She may be alone and under his coat, but if she tried to disappear again, in London--

Not opening her eyes, "It is quieter up the stairs."

"I suppose it must be." How does he respond to that. It's clear what she's suggesting, but how can he do it. On the other hand, he also can't quite say no. If he's being honest, he desperately wants to, but he shouldn't. She's married, and he must have restraint and stop this tendency before it becomes a habit, before he truly becomes this sort of man who goes sneaking around sinning in the night. But he already is that kind of man, and she seems to be set on her own quest for the night...

Discouraging.

If she stands (and she does, drawing his coat more firmly around to ward off the rattle of nerves and their chill) Paloma has some options. The dark of the night outside holds fewer terrors than it ever did. She could thank him for his kindness. Warn him against chivalry and leave.

Or she could drift past Jekyll with a light touch to his arm, moving like molasses toward the inn's stairwell.

Do not look. But Paloma steals a look behind her, wondering if she will be aching and isolated in this foolishness too.

It sends a shiver down his spine, a lump in his throat, and seems to squeeze his heart. What should he do - he should stay where he is, or leave, but he refuses to, for he has promised to escort her. But he should still stay in that chair. There's no need to make this worse, the attempt was bad enough, but to be seen in the very act-

And yet his legs seem to carry him forward without permission, following after her.

Paloma is strangely unafraid of losing face or virtue when the latter isn't in the cards anymore. Living with a man pretending she is his wife, surviving off the blood and suffering of others, to think of virtue is to play make-believe.

His footsteps weigh more heavily on the wood in her shadow. She's glad, isn't she?

Is this not playing pretend? Pretending she still has virtue to lose? Her hand slips out from the cover of his fine coat, opening tentatively to take him by the hand when they're a floor up. Paloma stares up at Jekyll. "A secret."

"A secret," he agrees, placing his other hand overtop of hers as he offers a small smile and bends down to kiss her. He still doesn't know what compels him to carry on with this, but she has a lovely smile and eyes that draw him in, and perhaps he wishes to seek comfort for his sin in them.

This is different, she realizes, becoming increasingly wrapped up in him and the kiss. This is different than letting a stranger corner her and think he's found a feast, found prey, a tender cunt to fuck.

When did she last feel like her kiss has value? That she is precious?

Searching along the wall-- fresh paint, shocking, and black streaks along her knuckles-- Paloma bumps into the cool metal of a doorknob. "This, this way."

It does a good job of calming him, giving in to his baser self that he so wishes did not exist. But now he forgets to feel shame, only what is natural, following Paloma into the room.

And he does a good job of fully committing to this part of him, until he's sitting on the edge of the bed, weeping and uttering apologies upon apologies. In the nude, shivering either from his sobs or the cold. "How can you ever forgive me."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject