The boarding house was gone--he only knew that because he'd gone to steal food. And the key in his hand didn't fit the house in which he had been squatting, and which was now locked. He could break in, he supposed. But there was only so much a curious man could do, in an abandoned rural town, and Erik had, perhaps, been strengthened by his experience with Cordelia. However harrowing some of it had been.
Martha Jones, he thought, should not be made to see him like this. But he was curious about her, about why she, too, had a key in her hand. He managed to find a way around her, so that when he spoke, it was from around a corner.
When she heard someone call her name, Martha was no longer surprised. She turned toward the sound of the voice, because it was incredibly familiar. She only knew of one frenchman in town, and even more, she knew his voice. There was a grin on her face, because she had quite liked Erik when they'd ended up together in the tent during the first time that the boarding house had disappeared.
When she spoke, it was soft, but warm; at least her French was better than her German was. "Bon après-midi, Monsieur Erik. How are you today? I hope you're well."
The casual tone of her conversation confused him, as if she were out for a stroll in her own neighborhood, and not stuck in a strange place talking to someone behind a wall. Erik did not think she was stupid, per se, but other explanations escaped him.
"I am as well as can be expected," he said. "But is not your housing vanished, as well?"
Martha was looking for her new home, and she was tired and upset and she was doing her best not to be angry and upset about this. It wouldn't do her any good to be upset with him when he hadn't done anything.
"Yeah, the boarding house is gone, and we've got keys for new homes. Have you got one as well?"
"A novel? What sort of novel?" The question was asked, though it was already known. If she'd received DVDs along with half the town, then she could bet that it was a copy of 'The Phantom of the Opera.'
"I'm sorry, Erik, we all got those sort of things as well. Well, movies."
"Movies," Erik repeated, not really understanding how one could receive movies. "The novel is a cheap paperback melodrama purporting to be... Erik's life."
The style was lurid, and the mingled horror/pity of the author's viewpoint offended him. Even if he had not been able to stop reading.
"Yeah, like on a disc. It's a bit hard to explain." Martha took a deep breath and she looked around for a moment. She knew the story of course; it was more hard pressed to find someone from her time who didn't know the story, really. Funny how things worked out.
"I'm sorry about that, I know it can be a bit weird to see your life spelled out in front of you like that." if things had been different, Martha would have told him to talk to Snape, but right now she didn't think that would go too well at all.
"The writer's style is lurid and his attitude condescending," Erik continued. "It is a quite inaccurate portrayal." He paused. "Though, perhaps, preferable to the cinema."
"Well, he does shove himself in there rather harshly, doesn't he?" It was true, the author had made himself a character and that was rather beyond the pale.
"I can't imagine it'd be easy to see on the screen." She paused and remembered when she'd run to the movie theatre after everything with the magic. "...Does that ever happen to you, Erik?"
The boarding house was gone--he only knew that because he'd gone to steal food. And the key in his hand didn't fit the house in which he had been squatting, and which was now locked. He could break in, he supposed. But there was only so much a curious man could do, in an abandoned rural town, and Erik had, perhaps, been strengthened by his experience with Cordelia. However harrowing some of it had been.
Martha Jones, he thought, should not be made to see him like this. But he was curious about her, about why she, too, had a key in her hand. He managed to find a way around her, so that when he spoke, it was from around a corner.
"Mademoiselle Jones?" he murmured.
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When she spoke, it was soft, but warm; at least her French was better than her German was. "Bon après-midi, Monsieur Erik. How are you today? I hope you're well."
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"I am as well as can be expected," he said. "But is not your housing vanished, as well?"
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"Yeah, the boarding house is gone, and we've got keys for new homes. Have you got one as well?"
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He was fingering it, turning it over and over in his hand.
"I also received a... novel." He said the word with a hint of distaste, or disbelief.
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"I'm sorry, Erik, we all got those sort of things as well. Well, movies."
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The style was lurid, and the mingled horror/pity of the author's viewpoint offended him. Even if he had not been able to stop reading.
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"I'm sorry about that, I know it can be a bit weird to see your life spelled out in front of you like that." if things had been different, Martha would have told him to talk to Snape, but right now she didn't think that would go too well at all.
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"I can't imagine it'd be easy to see on the screen." She paused and remembered when she'd run to the movie theatre after everything with the magic. "...Does that ever happen to you, Erik?"
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