markedformore | (no subject)

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carla jean

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After the assault at the party -- deserved, needed, desperate -- Erik had shrugged off any help before making his way through the cold and dark streets. His lip bleeds sluggishly with no need for attention and the bruises on his face will fade. If anything, the cold weather is a balm to the pain and so he takes his time.

That and he's fairly sure he's managed to get lost in the process. The Boarding House is usually down these same streets, but Erik's been wandering aimlessly and the scarf and coat he's wearing do nothing to keep out the chill. As well, it's allowed his thoughts to run rampant and he curls the coat tighter about his thin frame as he walks.

One more turn and he's going to need to ask for help, but for now, he settles for swearing under his breath in German, an angry and quiet litany that he sees no point in stopping.

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Walking home was a bad idea. Carla Jean recognizes that now, with the sun gone down and the streets mostly quiet, and while it's always true that hindsight is twenty-twenty, in the moment, she hates herself a little for it. She's usually more careful than this, especially since she found out about what happened when her husband was here, knowing full well that she's possibly less safe on the island or in London or whatever this is than she was back home, and she wound up dead there. To be out here alone now, it's just an invitation for trouble, and she should know better when this is the last chance she's got.

More than that, though, she hates that she has to be afraid at all, that her life got upended so fully that it's practically become part of her state of being now, the need to look back over her shoulder and make sure there's no one waiting for her in a shadow. A lot of the time, she can manage, but on a night like this, it's impossible.

She pulls her coat a little tighter around her and wishes to God (not for the first time) that she were armed. At least then she'd have some measure of security, something to provide reassurance, especially when she spots a figure up ahead. "Hello?" she calls, peering through the darkness to try to make out a face, unspeakably relieved when she realizes it's someone she's met, though it doesn't last long. Erik was kind to her when she arrived and needed it most, one of few people she might find it in her to trust, but the way he looks sets her worried for an entirely different reason, frowning as she makes her way to him. "Good Lord, what happened? Are you alright?"

Erik tries to keep walking, but soon realizes that the comment is meant for him. It seems odd, really, for someone beyond Charles or Nina to even care that he's fine. He knows that there are others here who care about him, but he worries that his future is bound to cause a severe prejudice, no matter what he does. "I was in a fight." Which is a kind way to say that he allowed himself to be the victim. "I can easily say it was the worst holiday party I've been to." Especially given that he only went to keep an eye on Charles.

"What are you doing out here?" he asks critically. "It's cold, you'll catch flu."

"There're worse things," Carla Jean says pointedly, shoulders lifting in a shrug. Coming down sick would be unpleasant, but she could deal with it; she's more concerned about who else might be wandering these streets. "Besides, I could say the same to you," she adds, though she relents after just a moment, teeth pressing to her lip before she answers. It's not like she has a reason not to tell him, even if she's mostly distracted now by the idea of this fight he was apparently in. If it was at a party, it's probably not anything for anyone else to be worried about, but it still happened and he's still hurt. When he was there for her before, she might as well return the favor now. "I was headin' back to my own place, but I'm in no hurry to get there. Why don't you let me go with you?"

"I'm not sure we'll ever make it," he admits, a pained look of frustration coming over wounded features. "I've lost my way," he gets out, wishing more than anything that he had a source upon which to take out his anger, but the only people who deserve it are all still at that accursed party and Erik refuses to give in and play on their level. "Do you know where the boarding house has got to?"

"Not the first idea," Carla Jean answers, mouth twisting into a distinctly rueful expression. It's entirely too easy to get lost around here, she knows that far too well, and this seems like a particularly bad time for it, and not just because she would really prefer not to wander aimlessly down dark and still relatively unfamiliar streets. At least now, though, she won't be doing it alone. "Come on. Either we find it or you can stay at my place, I ain't just gonna leave you out here."

"No, it's a bit cold for that," he muses. Mostly, he wants to be back at his in order to pour something strong to drink, sit by the fire, and nurse his wounds (so to speak). Company is difficult to entertain at the moment, but Carla Jean seems a sweet enough girl -- harmless, if nothing else. "Maybe I should just ask directions."

"It can't be far," Carla Jean says with a shrug, a noncommittal sort of agreement. Better that than walking around in the dark without a clue as to where they were going, even if they were bound to have wound up somewhere familiar sooner or later. "Or we could find a carriage to wave down. It'd probably take us right there." If he finds his way, her presence probably won't be necessary, but she's too involved to walk away now. It makes her feel good, anyway, to be something like useful, and it's genuine concern she feels, not as inclined to shrug off his injuries as he apparently is.

"Anywhere that's warm," he says, stepping out into the street in order to hail the nearest carriage. He's cold, but more than that, he feels a great hollowness ringing through his bones. He wonders, not for the first time, if there is a point to fighting against the people's perception of him. Perhaps it would simply be easier to embrace it. "What are you doing out here?"

"I don't really know," Carla Jean admits after a moment's thought, shoulders lifting in a shrug as she follows him forward, keeping out of the way but making clear her intention to join him. She should have taken her own advice and done this from the first anyway, but perhaps it's for the best that she didn't; if the alternative is that he'd have been wandering around hurt in the cold on his own for God knows how much longer, then it's worth having stayed out herself. "Guess I thought I'd be alright walkin'. Not my best idea."

"Then, come inside," he says sharply. It's half an order because she doesn't belong in a place with such icy cold, but also because she's been kind to him in the past and he doesn't want her to freeze because of him. "We've a fireplace in the manour or whatever you'll call the place we're staying." The changes have been rather mad and instant. Erik still isn't sure what to make of them or whether to think they're permanent.

Carla Jean nearly scowls at his first comment, but she doesn't say anything about it, not seeing the need. She's grateful for the invitation, which is what matters more. Trust isn't exactly her strongest suit these days, but she gets the feeling he means well, anyway, and that's what really counts. Besides, if nothing else, at least it's probably genuine; she has so little patience for how unwarrantedly nice everyone here seems to be that it's nice to be around someone who's not pretending. Following him into the carriage, she almost, but not quite, smiles. "Thanks," she says, because it wouldn't be right not to. "At least these places came with that."

"Yes, it's a small mercy," Erik confirms, but his mind has already gravitated to other thoughts. After all, he can't stop thinking of Jessica and the things she accused him of. He can't stop thinking 'what if I deserve that'. It's a heavy cross to bear and he's never been good at letting things go. "What were you doing out?"

"I went to get food," Carla Jean explains, "didn't think it'd be dark by the time I went to head back." It probably shouldn't make that much difference whether it's dark or not, especially with all these still mostly unfamiliar streets, but paying attention to that is just about the only way she's got to protect herself. She might as well use it as best she can. Fingers twisting absently in her long skirt, she exhales slowly. "You gonna tell me more about that fight you were in?"

"No, I don't think I should." After all, what is he meant to say? People assume that he is a terrible man capable of great evil and that Erik isn't so sure, yet, whether he should correct them or if such a thing isn't a mistaken assumption at all. "Let's leave it in the past, I think that would be best."

Carla Jean casts him a sidelong look, but she doesn't say anything, not seeing the need. The past is the past, and while her own may have followed her here, that doesn't mean everyone else's should have to be dragged around with them, even if this is a hell of a lot more immediate than that. Tempted to reach out or something, not knowing how that would go over, she bites her lip. "Well, I'm glad you're not more badly hurt."

"My pride is far more wounded than my body," he assures her, but the disgruntled look on his face guarantees that his body isn't in any wonderful state, either. "You're kind to walk me to my home, though -- far kinder than I've experienced tonight."

"You were kind to me the day I showed up here," Carla Jean says, shoulders lifting in a shrug like that means a lot less than it actually does, though the look she shoots him, thoughtful, probably says enough on its own. It isn't something that can be overstated, how much that kindness meant to her after she'd lost the last thing she had left — her life — even if she didn't much act like it. "An' it's not like I have anythin' to be gettin' back to besides an empty apartment."

He doesn't say that it had been lucky, then, that he had been kind. Though, he does think it. He's not sure he can reconcile himself as a kind man, no matter how much it's insisted that he can be more. Still, he won't call her a liar and she's offering company when he thinks he needs it most. "Maybe we should ice my bruises, at the very least. You can tell me if you think they need further treatment."

"I can do that," Carla Jean says with a short, decisive nod, admittedly a little relieved. At least this way, she feels a little useful, rather than like she's just sticking around with him for no good reason. She'd have worried, anyway, no matter what he said about none of the damage being severe. "Someone ought to take a look at them."

"I'm sure Charles will fuss over them eventually," Erik dismisses with a wave of his hand. That, or Billy might insist he see someone. He'll put it off until then, though. "I've been through far worse. This is nothing."

Carla Jean doesn't know who Charles is, but she supposes that isn't what matters anyway. As long as he has someone, that's the important part. Not wanting to think about his having apparently been through worse, she bites her lip through a frown, thoughtful. "Still," she says, "better to be careful. Shouldn't be far now, right?"

"Not at all," he agrees, thinking that he can see it in the distance. He presses his palm gently to his jaw as they walk, allowing the cold to soothe him. "Do you believe that someone can change what they were made into when they were younger?"

Carla Jean falls silent for a moment, thinking about that, but it doesn't take long at all before she nods, a little confused, but not the least bit uncertain. "I do," she says, thinking back briefly to the conversation that preceded her arrival here and shivering a little for it. "There's no reason why anythin' should be set in stone. People can make their own choices, an' if someone wants to change, they should be able to."

It sounds so simple when she says it like that and Erik wishes that he could believe it. It sounds as though a fairytale, however, and Erik's been partial to the pragmatism of the real world for far too long. "Come inside," he says, choosing to dismiss the topic -- for now. "Before we both catch our death of cold."

If there's anything dismissive about his response, Carla Jean doesn't pay it any mind. He'll tell her why he asked if he wants to; she has no reason to press the subject (though she has to wonder if it has something to do with the bruises darkening his face). Instead, she just shoots him a thin smile as she steps inside. "Thanks," she says, though she thinks she's said it already. "Lord, will it be nice to be out of that weather."