moritat | Victorian weenie au

Crying is the last thing he expected, and when he returns up the stairs with a dress in hand, he is quickly crouched down by her side, hesitating but finally placing a hand on her shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Luckily, it's a weaker cry, not long for this world. Her face isn't twisted in agony or terror like before, and she turns very abruptly-- the blanket slides-- and locks around Jekyll in a horribly needful embrace.

"I wanted to be good."

The dress lies on the floor beside them, while the blanket is brought back to her shoulders. Of course that does nothing to cover her front, still. His heart races, cheeks seem to burn, but he tries to ignore it to simply hold her without worrying over anything else, placing a hand in her hair to hold her close. "You are."

Lie, a lie, how could he believe that with what she's shown him?

But she wants to hear it. She wants pretty words and his hand tangled in her hair, like so, wants the closeness of his wild heartbeat. Paloma's greedy, and selfish, and frightened of what's waiting if she leaves. "Am I? Am I? How can you know?"

"I think that you are." And that's what matters. If she sincerely wishes to be, then why shouldn't she, that wish in itself and trying to fulfill it, even if she fails at times, is enough. "It's alright." He kisses her crown, and refuses to let go until she's okay.

She wants the kissing, too.

Duplicitous and a self-professed bad man he might be, but Jekyll wins her trust with offering this gift of comfort, with respecting her boundaries and fragility. Paloma knows his sincerity now, in this moment.

They move like a rocking cradle and she takes forever to even muster the thought of separating, let alone bearing it. She was careful not to hurt him with the strength of her grip before, she's careful now in slipping her arms down off his back.

Her hands bunch into his sleeves. "I think you are more than what you have done, too."

That's a dangerous thing to tell him, because he thinks so too. And that allows him not to take ownership of the bad things he does. Especially with Hyde. He smiles, careful to look only at her face. "Thank you. Now, here is a dress, I suppose you will want a nightgown as well, and perhaps more immediately."

They'll understand the complications of responsibility and ownership of wickedness, but Paloma struggles too much with this to teach him better.

"Ah," she says, with the tone of someone who'd like to intervene. "Ah ..." Without a leg to stand on.

Then her mouth forms a wide 'O' as a visibly devastating thought occurs. "Lord, no, I cannot go back in a new dress! Everyone knows something then!"

"I thought not. But you may stay here as long as you would like. -I know it is rather outdated, and used, I will send for something more suitable in the morning!" But it was his mom's and he thinks she was pretty in it so???

Shifting serves her up a reminder of the blanket's new positioning. Paloma ducks, propping her forehead against the center of his chest. Her shoulders quiver--

--for giggling desperately.

"Harry, whatever you give me will be beautiful."

"E-even so, it must be as old as I am!" SORRY FOR INADEQUATE DRESS PRESENT.

He almost wraps his arms around her again, thinking she's about to weep, but...no he feels the laughter, and can only stare in surprise.

He could do that, though. The thing with the arms. Specifically the thing where they go around her.

She's talking to his lap, mostly: "Tomorrow night I wear it with pride. Perhaps the gown for now."

He'd like to. But that would be improper, wouldn't it? He nods. "Of course." It will have to be one of his then, but that should be okay, right? It isn't a women's style, but in these circumstances a night gown is a night gown. He doesn't want to displace her, but- "Shall I get it...?"

Paloma realizes the necessity. Lets go, retreats into a seat on the floor. Not very concerned with the blanket and carelessly allowing her legs to remain sinfully uncovered!

She looks at him like he might hold up the stars. "Please."

It may take some effort, but he is absolutely certain not to look at all, no accidental glances while looking somewhere else. Not in his peripheral vision. But being allowed to go, he does, and is once again glad for that moment of respite. This time he returns with both a nightgown and a long velvet robe.

"I imagine you must be tired after all this, shall I show you to a room?"

Not remotely, she thinks.

But Paloma says, "I would be so grateful to you," and at last remembers to keep the blanket decent as she stands tall.

Well, as she can.

Darting her eyes away, two of her fingers tap, then curl into his palm. It's a request-- a knock at his door.

He looks down at their hands in surprise, but is easily persuaded to take it. He so badly wants to kiss her, but he can't do that, so he can at least accept her hand in his. That's much better, if still questionable. And that's how he leads her to a spare bedroom, hand in hand with a small blush and a smile that he thinks are private to himself. "Here you are. If there is anything you need, do tell me. My sleep is always so varied that you would not be disturbing me. ...He will be dealt with later, have no fear of that."

The blush misses her, but she notices the particular curve of his cheek, and finds hers to be following the same curve.

Holding and being held should suffice. Should satisfy. It's a far sight better than the terror after her kill and imagining a short lifespan spent on the run. He's warmer than she'll ever be on her own.

"I do not have fear of that," Paloma promises quietly. "You have made me very less afraid."

"I am more glad for it than you can know." With another smile, Jekyll kisses her hand and bids her goodnight, before heading back down the hall to his bedroom. Safe from his shameful feelings surrounding her.

When she's very sure he has gone, Paloma presses her lips to the spot he'd kissed and marvels at her foolishness.

To give her credit, she tries. The problem doesn't lie with the bed in the room he graciously afforded her. Its blankets are above standard. The cushions should be comfortable.

Embroidered patterns distract her. She discards the outer robe, leaves it in a heap. In an hour's frustration her blankets, gown, and all but one cushion join it until Paloma's naked and restlessly turning above foreign sheets. This gives her oodles of time to acknowledge and accept the root of the problem; out of bed she slithers, takes up his robe to wrap in haphazardly, and exits.

Once again she darkens his doorway. Her curls seem longer, like black tendrils down the length of her neck, but then it hasn't dried. She wavers. Knocks on the wooden frame twice, thrice.

Out of bed he climbs, only half asleep, and pulls on a robe to answer the door. He'd said to come to him for anything, but he hadn't really expected that there would be anything. One of the first things he notices is her single layer. The one that's meant only to go over another, not to stand alone. Oh. Maybe it's a foreign thing...?

"Yes...?"

He's half-right.

Somehow, in the brief interlude between him giving her the robe and her wearing it and only it to his bedroom, it's become hideously wrinkled. That and the nervous shifting she does, switching the weight on her feet at random, betray her restlessness.

"Hello," she starts tentatively.

"Hello," he echos. "Is everything all right?" With those wrinkles, he can at least see she was likely tossing and turning quite a bit.

Paloma looks down at her bare feet.

"I cannot sleep at night, but it has been ... long years since I go to bed alone."

"Oh." Of course, that makes sense, since she's been 'married', it must be strange especially somewhere strange. "How can I help?"

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