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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

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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?"

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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."

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"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?"

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"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?"

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"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."

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"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."

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"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.

[markedformore]

"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?"

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"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."

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"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.