when I was a child running in the night

[mouthbreathing]

Who: Warsman (mouthbreathing) and YOU
When: At night from the 27th to the 30th
Where: Out and around the city
Summary: Warsman is out on one of his nightly patrols. Things happen.
Warnings: Violence.

[It’s turning into a regular routine now: during the day he works and trains in whatever free time he has, and come the evening, if he’s not scheduled for an appearance at the Knot-A Fight Club, Warsman readies his bear claws to head out under cloudy night skies. There may not be much he can do on a larger scale- the Darkness is a hydra of danger, and for every monster he slays it feels as though three more spring up the very next night- but every person he catches just in time makes it worth it. And who else is going to help them in this part of the city- the homeless, the poor, the people with no other choice? He’s gotten so used to the white noise of indifference around here that the rare wail of a police siren or ambulance comes as a decided shock.

It’s the little things, though. He’s doing what he can, even casting his net a little wider some nights and getting to know the rest of the city around him. It's not so quiet beyond his usual sectors and there are usually more people around, but it still pays off on occasion if he catches a straggler or two abandoned to the elements.

Leftover rain spots his poncho from higher ledges as he scales an apartment block, bracing his feet on broken guttering and greasy window catches. Higher ground may make him more obvious, and it may be so dark that he won’t be able to see further than a block or so, but any precaution is a precaution worth taking out here. Warsman heaves himself up onto the rooftop and surveys the area with dimly glowing eyes.]

[ooc: I'm up for just about any scenario! Rescuing someone, being rescued, working together, getting into a fight, etc... just start a scene or drop a suggestion and I'm good. I also don't mind starting things off!]

Comments

[mouthbreathing]

"I know," Warsman replies simply, and he punctuates his response with a soft, metallic sigh. The fact that he doesn't have to think all that far back to sync his thoughts to Eponine's is both frightening and a comfort; he doesn't want to be Nikolai Volkoff anymore, it's true, but he also can't let himself forget his roots. Not while there are so many people still living that life.

He's surprised out of his thoughts, though, by the sudden touch of Eponine's hand- for a moment he starts away on instinct, as if expecting her to twist his arm back into a lock, but then he catches himself and tries to relax. He's not at all used to any sort of physical contact outside of the ring, and he finds himself incredibly self-conscious. She feels, he realises, very small next to him. Very small and very fragile, like a doll.

It gives him the strange feeling of being wholly in charge, and it's feeling enough to prompt a sad little laugh out of him. "Maybe we're both better than we think we are, even if no one else seems to think so." Funny because it's true, or sad because even being the one to suggest it won't make him believe it? Regardless, he can't blame Eponine when she pulls away a little.

"I can't believe you," he says, his voice still edged with a sort of sad humour, "because I know I wouldn't have taken them back when I was in your position. Though I usually stole my shoes from other people rather than stores." He shakes his head at the memory, as if to scatter it. "... I'd offer you my boots, if I thought for one moment they'd even begin to fit you."

[makeflowersgrow]

It's a good think Eponine's hidden power isn't mind reading, because she'd be annoyed if he thought she was doll-like or fragile. She doesn't try to sidle closer again; he apparently doesn't like it. She hadn't thought he was disgusted with her, but maybe he is.He wouldn't be the first.

She shrugs and asnwers with her own laugh. Her upbeat tone perhaps sounds odd in the darkness of the night, in the midst of their sorrowful conversation but Eponine's mood is prone to fluctuations. She hates to be sad.Her whole life is sad. She has to find sunshine in the darkness.

"Perhaps we are, M'sieur. It is funny, is it not, that we care what other people think of us. Perhaps we should stop. It is hard, though."

In the darkness, she bites her lip. Fidgets, even. But then her face hardens and she sticks her chin up.

"I don't care what you think. I don't care about what you - what?"

Is Warsman actually sympathising her? Actually admitting to be a thief? Offering her his own shoes?

"I don't want to steal. Honest, I try not to, M'sieur." She laughs again.
"There is an idea, believing me! But I try not to, M'sieur. I want to be good, but... I have to live. And I owe so much now to other people. In Paris, I had my Papa's old shoes for church, but otherwise, I went barefoot - even in the snow. You cannot imagine the cold. At least here, it is not cold.
I would sell a dress if I had time before I am due at Hattie's - but I am to be there for eight. I would not take your boots, though, M'sieur. You need them. And Hattie would surely accuse me of stealing them from you and give more trouble. Though - I am sorry. I should not talk of your friend in such a manner."

[mouthbreathing]

It does sound odd. Light, fluted laughter doesn't seem to fit out here; hearing it is jarring, and Warsman finds himself inclined to read something else into it just to make it cohere. Sadness? A little hysteria? Maybe nerves, after that encounter. The situation is funny in the same way that their caring is funny.

Glancing sideways at her he sees her expression change- harden, then soften again- and then she laughs again. That little flash speaks volumes even to him. He's never been able to put up a positive front, he's too naturally inclined to be melancholic, but he can imagine that Eponine is what it might look and sound like. The thought catches unpleasantly, tugs, but at the same time he can't help but feel privileged to hear her share her past, even in little snippets.

"I can imagine something like it. In Leningrad it's bitterly cold in the winter; I didn't really have a home, so I mostly slept rough. My body manages heat better than a human's, though." Than a human's. She's almost certainly worked out that he isn't human by now, but even so... "If it's money you need, I might have something. And it's fine about Hattie, by the way. I have a bad feeling she'd do exactly that," he added with a short sigh. He does like her- he does- but that doesn't mean he has to like everything she does.

[makeflowersgrow]

It does sound odd, saying 'not human'. Of course, Eponine had realised - and she wondered what exactly he was. But was it her place to ask? Did she want to hear the answer? Would she even understand?
Sometimes, it was best to assume things and not think too much about them.

"You know, I like sleeping rough. Just lying in a ditch, looking up at the stars. And nobody knowing where you are. I used to wander for hours and hours, until I was so tired I could go no further, and then I would sleep in a ditch or under a bridge or so. It was cold... but cold is better than a beating sometimes."

She laughs again, and mutters 'What the hell?". None of it is said for sympathy. It is just how life is. She knows that - and Warsman should know that. She doesn't want sympathy. Sympathy makes her think how bad life was - is and she would rather not dwell on it.

"I don't want your money, M'sieur. It is only shoes; it is not like I am starving. And I am in enough debt here; I do not want to owe more people money or favours or promises."

She sighs too at the mention of Hattie.

"She is not so bad...sometimes. My Lady is just... I wish she thought of me as an equal and not as child or a fool and a servant."

[mouthbreathing]

A beating.... that says everything he needs to know, doesn't it? Warsman was considering asking about her family- she mentioned a father- or her home, or... but he should have guessed that it wouldn't be a happy picture, shouldn't he? What sort of family has their daughter sleeping rough?

Part of him would like to put a hand on her shoulder as a gesture- of what he's not sure, solidarity maybe?- but he's too worried about seeing patronising to follow through. The very last thing he wants is for her to think he's talking down to her. God only knows she must get enough of that from other people.

"That's why I learned to fight," he says quietly. "So that I wouldn't have to be beaten. I felt so helpless by myself- I guess I just wanted something I could be in control of."

The question of money is still lingering in his mind when he finally speaks again. "I don't mind. Really," he insists. "Think of it as an apology for getting you in trouble at Hattie's the other day." He's already going for his (new) wallet before she can object, checking what he has. Not a lot, but enough for a favour. "I wouldn't be able to sleep right if I didn't try to help you stay out of her bad book. She means well, I know she does, but..." He trails off, but his meaning is fairly evident in their experiences.

[makeflowersgrow]

"Fight? You are a fighter?" Eponine smiles. She can imagine Warsman as a fighter. He is tall enough, and burly.

"I can imagine that. I bet you win every fight you do... But it is not something I can do. If I fought my father, he would hit me the harder and he'd let his gang at me. Or he would have Montparnasse slit my throat. It would take no persuasion. Even you know, the last thing he said to me in Paris was that he would make me scream when he caught him. It is one of the few times I have disobeyed... Which is why I do not. With Hattie, it is okay. She will throw dirty water on me and call me a whore. But that is not far from the truth and it is not the worst insult I have heard. She makes me laugh, Hattie."

Eponine stays his hand when she realises what Warsman is about.
"Please, M'sieur. I would rather your company than your money if you please. I will find shoes for the morrow - or let Hattie herself give me some. It is unseemly for a servant to have bare feet after all. Please - may I not stay on your wanderings awhile?"

Eponine realises now that it is company that she wants, craves. Her little trips down memory lane have left her with a peculiar feeling of isolation, and she knows if she goes back to her dingy room, she'll be reminded of Paris and her papa and of thoughts she tried not to dwell upon. To be with another living creature loosened the grip of dread on her stomach. Made her feel... Safe, almost. Better.

[mouthbreathing]

The smile and the compliment are sweet and he's ready to take it with an embarrassed duck of the head before Eponine continues- and then all he can do is tense. Beating a child- a defenseless young woman-- her own family, even-- it's too much for Warsman to hear without reaction, an untimely reminder of just how many bullies there are in this world and any other. Wherever there are people, it seems, there are men without compassion.

Eponine's hand over his own draws him back from his silent fury, at least. He stops, momentarily thrown, and then the wave of tension subsides. Rather his company than... his eyes soften. It's been a long while since he's heard someone actively ask for his presence in quite this way, and it's... it's touching. And, more than anything, he wants for her to feel safe.

"... of course." Then, on a whim, he adds, "I'd like that a lot."

He puts his wallet away, eyes moving uncertainly to Eponine's face to try and work out how to proceed; he already feels as though he's played his emotional hand too early, as it were, but he trusts her enough that it doesn't feel quite so awkward as it might. "I'm a wrestler," he continues eventually. "I'm ranked number one in Russia in my world, but as far as I'm concerned I'm just one in a team of incredible fighters from all over." And the product of an even more incredible teacher. The thought stays with him, and a second later he finds himself asking a very tentative question. "Has anyone ever taught you self-defense? You might feel safer if you could fight back."

[makeflowersgrow]

Eponine smiles, and at once, the melancholy that had greyed her face lifts. He could have so easily told her to go away; Eponine can barely believe that she even asked him if she could stay. But Warsman hasn't sent her away. And maybe, just maybe, he really wants her company. It's difficult for Eponine to understand but she decides to smile through it and worry later.

"That is impressive, M'sieur. And you enjoy it? I have seen wrestling, of course. They show it at the theatre, on occasion, and my brother, Gavroche, he knows - well, he knows everyone, but the theatre staff like him, and he sometimes gives me a ticket to see the shows. It looks violent - do you like fighting then?"

His question catches her off guard and she pauses in her awkward chatter to actually think about it. She shakes her head, and adds with a laugh.
"Mama taught me letters and Papa taught me to steal. But that is all. I can fight back, though, M'sieur. I have fought 'Parnasse by himself - I think he let me win that time though. And he has taught me how to slit throats and stab, but I don't like doing that.If I HAD to, I could... but it is no use against my Papa anyway. He will confront me only when he has his gang there - and no matter how good a fighter I am, I could not beat six men or more with weapons with just me by myself."

She shrugs. What else is there to stay. To those who are stations higher than her in life, Eponine is as rough and ready as they come, and more than capable of fighting off a man's unwanted advances. But against people of her own kind... well, her Papa would make sure that she is completely outnumbered.

"It is okay, though, you know. None of them are here, so it is best not to think on what might happen at home."