St. Peter's Asylum discussion

Elin found the tease amusing, and she laughed and shook her head, tapping her finger on Lenore's nose with a grin on her face. "Ah ah ah, I don't think it's very fair to act like that, my dear. You yourself said that you were horribly ignorant, and now you expect me to just tell you what I want? Well where's the fun in that?" Elin waited a few moments, as if expecting a response, even though she clearly wasn't. Elin sat up a little straighter, and now kicked her right leg over her left, and then rested her elbow upon her thigh and her chin on her elbow, so that she faced Lenore, and Elin gave her a rather sultry smile in return. "I'll tell you what would entertain me if you can guess it. So please. Go ahead and begin." Again, a wink, and a little twitter of laughter, and Elin seemed quite relaxed as she arched her brows and gave Lenore a rather expectant expression.

"Guess!" Lenore cried dramatically, dark eyes widening with horror. Behind her, Happiness had tears in her eyes she was trying so hard not to burst out laughing, but the Emotion did not offer any words that would break her concentration and ruin the façade; she was being kind, for Lenore's sake, as was her nature. "Ay, me! Elin, you are cruel to us! We cannot hope to guess what you have in mind, so far are your fancies above ours." And as she spoke she herself had to fight not to smile, not to giggle. But she managed quite well, keeping her mannerisms on par with their little acting game as she lolled her head back as if in great thought. She closed her eyes, raised her hands and put them together to create a diamond shape, and placed it delicately over her forehead, the supposed resting spot of the mythical third eye some people were held to possess. She doubted she was one of them, but she figured pretending it couldn't hurt considering the part she was playing. "We see...many things," she said softly, her voice low and strained as though she were in deep concentration. "You desire...company, we think, we see...you are lonely, Elin. Bored. You wish only for us to satisfy your thirst for wit today, it is"--And she opened her eyes, brought her head up with a sly smile--"it is word games you would play. Yes? You are trying to be clever, to see if you are outmatched? Well! If this is true, we will not disappoint you. Unless, of course, we are wrong." The smile remained, looking somehow crafty upon Lenore's pale, delicate features. "Unless, of course, we are wrong," she repeated. "Are we wrong, our dearest one?"

Had Lenore been wrong, Elin would not have had the heart to tell her no, with her large dark eyes and her sly and almost flirtatious smile and her low and sultry voice. No, at that moment, Elin would have said anything to please Lenore, done anything to please Lenore, and she would most certainly not tell her she was wrong. But Lenore wasn't wrong, at least, not fully. The thing was, Elin was indeed bored, and she had had no intentions when she entered the library. Perhaps to find a good book, and find something to do, but now Lenore was here, and she was much more fun than an old book. No, Elin had no wish for games or wit (mostly because she knew she would lose most every game and she was not the wittiest of people), but, as stated before, Elin was not about to tell Lenore no. And so Elin smiled, and placed a hand over her heart, and her expression became a sickeningly overdone version of flattered. "My, my, my dear, you know me so well! I won't question how you could have guessed that." And Elin laughed, and then she arched one brow and allowed a sly little grin to cross her features. "Although, I am hurt that you would think anything would disappoint me, my dear. You may know me well, but apparently not well enough to know that nothing you could do would disappoint me." And Elin smiled, a softer, gentler smile, and, almost as a challenge to Lenore's acting skills, she took Lenore's pale hand in her own and gave a little laugh. "Now, that lack of knowledge disappoints me, my dear."

"But our dearest one, we cannot see all things," Lenore said softly, to keep up with their little theatre game if nothing else. "You cannot expect us to read your mind. You cannot expect us to have even thought about such things as that, it is--it was unheard of." And though her words were sound with the persona she was playing, the sheer weight of what Elin had said was enough to break almost every physical part Lenore's façade. Her eyes widened, and her hand fluttered a little in Elin's own.

{See how highly she thinks of you!} Happiness trilled, whirling to her feet and all but skipping over to the two, so eager was she to watch what unfolded next. Her brown eyes were shining, her smile wide. {You are her gem, Lenore! She adores you!} And indeed, the mere thought was dizzying. Lenore had never been on the receiving end of such a compliment before, and the fact that it had come from Elin of all people made it even more important to her. She wanted to stop their game here, to ask her friend if she really meant it or if she was just saying it as part of her own mask, to thank her and return it in kind. But in the end, she decided it was not her call to make. She would wait, let Elin take her own comments as she pleased, let her decide where the conversation would go from here. She had never, after all, brushed up on what to do when a person made you feel like you were absolutely floating.

And Elin's smile grew even wider; she could all but feel the emotions radiating off of Lenore, and seeing Lenore smile like that, almost breathlessly, was absolutely astounding to Elin. Not even Zachary would smile at her like that; and she was certain she had never smiled at him like that. Elin gave a little twitter of laughter, and gently wove her finger's through Lenore's, and Elin looked at Lenore, really looked at her, with her honeydew gaze meeting the dark one of Lenore. Elin's eyes made it very clear that she was not playing games, and that every word she had said and would say was true, one hundred percent. "Lenore, darling, I truly do care for you, quite a bit. You're sweet, and kind, and witty, and you're such an amazing person. Do you know that?" Elin leaned a little closer, almost so that her knees touched Lenore's, and she reached up her own free hand to push her own curls out of her eyes before offering another dazzling smile. She then laughed a little, and shook her head. "Really, its quite amazing how much you have become a part of my life so quickly. You're so... genuine, and its fantastic, and--"

And then Elin paused, as she felt the words bubbling up on her lips. She then glanced down at her hand, intertwined with Lenore's, and she wondered if she could dare to do it. She took a moment, feeling the familiar butterflies flying around in her stomach, and then she raised her eyes back to Lenore's once again, and smiled softly, and gently squeezed Lenore's hand.

"And I think I'm in love with you, Lenore."

And then, everything seemed to happen all at once. Happiness shrieked with joy at the announcement, and the suddenness of the sound made Lenore jerk forward to leave very little space between herself and Elin, and instinct took over and there was no space and she was pressing her lips to the pair before her, not thinking, just doing, aware only of the dizzying maelstrom of feelings whirling through her head. She felt like she was floating, no, she felt like she was flying, she felt like--she felt like she was in love.

Finally, she remembered what she was doing and who she was with, and pulled away. Her dark eyes were wide, her expression a caricature of shock and, beneath it, slight fear. What had she just done? For God's sake, she hadn't even asked, she'd just leaned forward and--and--anxiety was quick to overtake her. "We are sorry," she breathed, something like horror in her voice. "We are sorry, Elin, we did not mean to do that. We did not mean to do that without asking. Please, forgive us. Please." And behind her, Happiness was gone, and she was so unsure of what she was feeling that no Emotion came to take her place. Her head, however, was chaos.

{You kissed her! Oh my word, oh my word she's going to hate you now!} Anxiety.

{What if she didn't want you to do that? What if you've overstepped your boundaries?} Concern.

{She loves you! She loves you! She loves you!} Happiness and her sister Joy, yelling in tandem.

But there was one voice that cut through them all, silenced everyone and everything within her with its surety, its gentleness:

{You love her, too. I know that for a fact.}

And that voice belonged to none other than Confidence, who had never been wrong about anything at all, not once in her life.

Elin, truly taken aback by the suddenness of Lenore's action, certainly didn't seem it on the outside. Everything had happened so quickly, and been so spur of the moment, and her heart was pounding in her chest because Lenore felt the same way too, and she felt her own happiness bubbling up inside, and yet on the outside Elin simply laughed, and put one hand on either of Lenore's cheeks, and pressed her forehead to that of the beautiful blonde before her. Head to head, nose to nose, almost eye to eye, Elin smiled, and simply shook her head. "Why are you apologizing? There's nothing to forgive you for, my dear." And Elin seemed to be no longer uncertain about it, and her eyes shone with that truth, and her laughter rang the truth loud and clear, and when she closed the space between Lenore's lips and her own once again, the kiss told that very same truth.

Elin was absolutely in love with Lenore. She was in love with her hair, and her eyes, and her smiles, and her laughs, and even the houseful of emotions that the girl held within her. Every part of Lenore Morgenstern Elin loved, and wanted to embrace and kiss and never let go. Elin was truly in love with this Lenore, this beauty before her, and finally Elin seemed happy, really and honestly happy.

((*literally the most adorable thing* Awwww! Shall we fade?))

There were a lot of things Charlotte would never admit. Charlotte would never admit to that one time in the seventh grade when she slept with some nobody loser kid. Charlotte would never admit that sometimes she was saddened by the fact that her father abandoned her at the first sign of trouble, and had sent her here instead. And Charlotte would never admit when she was afraid. But it had only been a few short hours since she had her run in with Jason, and though she didn't know the name that terrified her, she knew that he did, and as unscrewed as she was Jason had caused her to grow just a little bit more unwound. Thankfully, however, Charlotte had been moved into her room (which, by the way, was about as dull and boring as it could possibly be), and she had frightened the young male nurse into helping her spruce the place up a little bit, and making feel like as little of a prison cell as possible. She had had the time to change, and dress herself up, and now had been wandering the asylum in tight jeans, a sweater that cut off at her midriff, and some rather strappy silver heels that looked like a death trap that would knock you down if you even looked at them funny.

Charlotte had spent the last hour and a half exploring, and she had learned better than to start conversations with shady figures, but she definitely had to hold herself back a couple of times. Before long, Charlotte found herself in the library, which she thought was rather quaint and, though small compared to the incredible libraries she had seen in the houses of the rich and famous, it was probably the most appealing place she had seen thus far in this hellhole. And so Charlotte pulled up her bra, and ran a hand through her hair, and found herself bending up her eyelashes, simply out of habit, before sitting herself down across the sofa, stretching her lean and sinewy form onto the plush leather and letting out a soft sigh.

"Ay, amiga," said a drawling voice by her feet. "No quieres acostarte aquí. Es peligroso, ¿sabes?" Carlos was leaning against the left arm of the couch, his arms crossed at his chest and one eyebrow raised. He was eying Charlotte with an expression that was not condescending, not quite, but definitely close. A cousin of some kind. Like his voice, his eyes held some strange amusement in them, as if what he'd really wanted to tell her was something along the lines of "no offense, but you're kind of obviously new and being awfully stupid" (not that he expected her to know Spanish in the first place, of course). Indeed, today the young Hispanic's thoughts were running darker paths than usual; he hadn't been feeling his best lately. Something--in the air, about the weather, in the food, hell, he didn't know--had been taxing his nerves more often than not, and as a result he'd become rather withdrawn, almost snappish. Of course, he spent most of his time trying to wait the spell out, in his room with his marbles and stock of Jolly Ranchers, but he'd run out of the latter a few days prior and that, if nothing else, was enough to drive him back out into public. In fact, he'd only come to the library to seek a nurse and see about getting more--but then he had seen Charlotte, in her flashy heels and cropped top and tight jeans, and curiosity had overtaken him. He didn't recognize her, that was for sure. There was no way he wouldn't have committed someone like this to memory. Their types tended to make trouble, and he wanted to stay out of trouble as often as possible...except when he felt like he did now, and everything was too sharp if not outright agitating. If he could find some relief from that by chatting up a flashy pretty girl, well, why not? At this point, Carlos didn't think he had anything to lose.

((A translation for the curious: "Hey, friend. You don't want to fall asleep here. It's dangerous, you know?"))

Charlotte blinked a couple of times, and glanced at Carlos with a brow raised to mirror his own expression. She hadn't exactly noticed him when she walked in and sat down, then again, she hadn't been paying much attention anyways, and the sight of him gave her a slight start. As snotty and awful as Charlotte could be, and was almost guaranteed to be, something about the foreign language and her inability to understand what he said to her made her slightly squirmish, and she found herself sitting up and ruffling through her hair. Charlotte dangled one leg off of the edge of the couch, and bent the other underneath her, and then proceeded to cock her head to the side.

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that," she told Carlos, her tone echoing that of agitation, but nothing quite so severe. "I don't speak Spanish." Charlotte glanced up and down Carlos for nothing more than a second, though she didn't quite know why. She had no idea what a "psychopath" looked like. She didn't know what color hair a person who wanted to kill her would have. But Jason had made her wary, which is not necessarily a word within Charlotte's dictionary. "Do you speak English?" she asked, attempting a delicate tone and not necessarily succeeding. "Because it would really help me out if you did."

"Claro que sí hablo inglés," Carlos replied, the brow still raised. "Pero prefiero español. Es más bonito, y no quiero hablar a otras personas ahora. Tiene nada hacer contigo." Or perhaps it did, Carlos couldn't exactly tell. Still, the look on the stranger's face was amusing, in an odd way--like it bothered her that she couldn't understand, like she was perturbed he'd removed her ability to snap at him because she had no idea what he'd said--and so he decided to rib her, just a little bit. She looked like the kind of person who needed a good ribbing from time to time. "Me llamo Carlos," he said, for politeness's sake (it wouldn't do to be rude, now would it?). "¿Cómo te llamas, chica, eh? ¿Zapatos Bonitos? ¿No Puedo Entenderte, Ayúdame Por Favor?" A chuckle escaped him, and a slight smirk crept onto his lips. He sat on the couch by her feet, crossed his legs, looked at her. Any other day he wouldn't have bothered with such games as these, but as was said, today was a little different. It wasn't often he got to play the upper hand, after all--more often than not, he was the one getting mocked and talked down to. And really, considering his current mood, he'd rather be in the former position than the latter. It wasn't as though he was doing anyone any harm, was it? In the end, being a jerk would only hurt him, once he felt up to regretting past behavior. He'd stop soon, he decided, if the girl got upset. It wasn't in his nature to be too crass, and to rib was only fun if no one had a problem with it.

(("Of course I speak English. But I prefer Spanish. It's prettier, and I don't want to talk to other people right now. It has nothing to do with you."/"My name is Carlos. What's your name, girl, huh? Pretty Shoes? I Can't Understand You, Help Me Please?"))

Charlotte understood bits and pieces; she wasn't entirely dumb, you see, and her online schooling had led her to take one semester of Spanish before she decided she didn't need a foreign language. Unfortunately, Charlotte did not understand enough to comprehend full sentences, but more so words here and there. The one thing she did understand, however, was his introduction. "Carlos, eh?" Charlotte figured any words she said would mean nothing to this boy, because she could not understand when he said he spoke English perfectly, and so Charlotte was rather brash with her words when she continued with "I guess that makes sense." Other than his introduction, Charlotte knew nothing he had said, and she found it incredibly difficult to maintain a conversation. She knit her brows, and her expression read irritation but seethed confusion, and almost frustration. Charlotte did not like the fact that she couldn't talk to this boy, and that this allowed him to have some sort of a hold over her. And so Charlotte rolled her eyes, and pulled on the sleeve of her sweater (though you could hardly call it that because it only covered the top half of her top half), and extended a hand. "Hi, then. My name is Charlotte. I don't know jack shit about what you're saying, but I guess some conversation is better than none, eh?"

"Sí," Carlos said conversationally. "Hay sólo una cosa, sin embargo. Pareces una puta, y no hablo a putas, entonces..." He shrugged, though it was an unkind thing to say, even in Spanish. If he thought Charlotte knew more than a couple words of his favored tongue, he might not have spoken at all. But she didn't--she herself had attested to that--and so he went on, in English now, as if he hadn't been insulting her this whole time. He even put on a little smile. "Red eight of diamonds. That's what you are, I think. Has anybody ever called you a card, Charlotte? You're a card. I like cards." Now this was much closer to something not-a-jerk Carlos would usually say, Carlos thought, and that made up for most of the ribbing. That and the fact that Crop Top Charlotte didn't understand him in the first place. Perhaps now--with some of the malcontent out of his system--they could have a conversation like a couple of civilized people, and he wouldn't have to worry about the half of him that had soured when he put on his nice face, because he still wasn't exactly the happiest of campers and said part had enjoyed insulting the poor unwitting new girl. She deserves it, it even snorted. Look at her rolling her eyes, all high and mighty. She really is a bitch. But Carlos pursed his lips and pressed it down, with some effort. It really wouldn't do to be rude.

(("Sure. There's just one thing, though. You look like a bitch, and I don't talk to bitches, so..."))

And instantly brows were knit, red brows forming angles over brown eyes, and a look of genuine shock, as well as confusion, graced the face of Charlotte O'Neal. Her eyes narrowed ever slightly, and to say that Charlotte didn't entirely understand what Carlos had said, even in English, was an understatement. Perhaps his meaning was too profound for her, or perhaps she was so caught up in the sudden language shift that she had ignored his words, subconsciously, but Charlotte found herself leaning forward nonetheless, and cupping a hand to her ear for looks. "Sorry? What was that? I didn't exactly expect you to speak English, Carlos, was it?" Knit brows became arched, almost skeptical, as Charlotte asked, "What the hell do you mean, I'm like a card? What does that even mean?"

See? burst the sour voice, louder now. Bitch! But again, Carlos shook his head and ignored it. As annoying as it was to be the victim of skin-based assumptions once again (obviously all Hispanics were foreign and unilingual, everybody knew that!) he didn't necessarily think this Charlotte was doing it on purpose. He could see it in her eyes: a kind of haughty confusion, the sort that always claimed the faces of the well-to-do when someone they considered beneath them did something unexpected--in this case, speak coherent English. He couldn't exactly blame her for behaving as she'd been taught, and until he knew that she hadn't picked this up on her own, he had no reason to, did he? And so Carlos did not scowl at her, or snap, or smack her hand harshly away from her ear, which was obviously in perfect working order. No, instead he just smiled a little wider, tilted his head, and let out a laugh. "You're a card!" he repeated. "You know, like the expression? It's English, so I assume you'd know it. You're a card? Funny? All that?" And with some amusement he watched the expression on her face go from confused to absolutely bewildered, and then to a little creeped out. As he'd thought, she was new. As he'd thought, she had not spent a lot of time around those with a tendency to ramble, like himself. And as he'd thought, this Charlotte O'Neal was, in fact, both funny and something of a bitch.

In this, Carlos was utterly correct. Charlotte was indeed funny (whether she wanted to be or not, the redhead was entirely out of her element, and her almost bewilderment at these people's reactions to her was quite humorous), and that can entirely be blamed upon her. There are indeed better ways to behave in an insane asylum than the way Miss Charlotte O'Neal was. On the other spectrum, yes, Charlotte was a bitch, and a brat, and every other possible "b" word you could think of, but, as Carlos had thought, that could not exactly be considered her fault. But if anything, Charlotte was not exactly one to admit to these things, and so despite the apprehension in her eyes and her arches brow, Charlotte remained... well, really the only appropriate word is haughty. And so Charlotte simply let out a little laugh that just seethed pretentiousness. "Of course I am. That's a pretty rough first impression, Carlos, if I've said only a few words and you already began to debate my humor."

"It's not just your words," Carlos said cheerfully. "It's everything about you. The way you're sighing and huffing and rolling your eyes all the time and the way you're dressed like una puta cara in the middle of winter"--he laughed, as if he'd given her a compliment, and gestured at her clothes--"and the way you laugh. Your laugh is funny, amiga. Has anybody ever told you that? You have a very strange laugh. Muy irritante. You know?" She didn't. Carlos could see it on her face. As he spoke, Charlotte's expression again went more and more bemused, and her eyebrows rose higher and the apprehension in her eyes grew brighter. He could practically hear her exclaiming already: What in God's name are you going on about you absolute nut? And to be perfectly honest, that was just fine with him. When he couldn't be rude (and he didn't want to be rude) being strange often worked just as well, and it seemed to be working like an absolute charm now. Whoever this poor Charlotte was, with her stereotypical assumptions and her exaggerated gestures and her haughty laughter, she was in for quite a rude awakening at the asylum. Carlos figured that he would let her down much more gently than almost anyone else, with or without his usual amiable enthusiasm, and besides, he would rather he give a high-and-mighty rich girl a bad impression than anyone he actually knew.

((Carlos calls her "an expensive slut". Irritante is a cognate. XD))

"Excuse me?" Charlotte may not have been able to speak a single word of Spanish, but she was smart enough to figure out what muy irritante meant, and Charlotte disliked the idea of this psychopath calling her irritating. Frankly, Charlotte didn't like the idea of anybody calling her irritating, nor the idea of any of the people in this asylum doing so, but something about the sheer smugness of Carlos' words, as if he knew so much more than she did, really put her off. And in an instant, her expression went from haughty to incredulous. She leaned forward, resting her elbow on her knee and her head on her hand, and knit her brows together, shaking her head. "Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like you're so much fucking better than me?"

Carlos winced theatrically and hissed in a breath through his teeth, the way people did when they witnessed someone take a particularly nasty fall or belly-flop in the middle of a stagnate pool. "Ooh, amiga, easy on the curse words!" he chided, tsking disapprovingly. "There's no need for that. I don't think I'm better than you, yo prometo." Even though I probably am. "It's just that I've been here longer, you know? So I know more about how the place works and, like, accepted Asylum Social Etiquette. Really, I'm doing you a favor." He leaned in, lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Some of the others probably would have smacked you by now. Or cut you up with a knife. That happens sometimes. Not often anymore, but people still come up with scratches now and again. You gotta learn to watch your step, you know? Keep on everybody's good side." Now, of course he was exaggerating--though only slightly--and of course what he said was rather two-sided: his words were one part true advice and one part ghost story, the kind of tale new people anywhere always got told by their elders. He still hadn't lost the premonition that Charlotte could use a little talking-down, as both a blueblood and a brat. But he did not know about her previous encounter with Jason just a few hours before; he did not know that she had been given near the exact same speech, but with real threats embedded into it. If he had, he just might have lightened up a little.

And because of the speech she had heard from Jason, this was old news to Charlotte. And hearing it for the second time wasn't nearly as perplexing and, daresay, intimidating, as it was the first time. Had Charlotte happened upon Carlos first, she may have reacted a little differently, given Carlos the reaction he may have been expecting. But Charlotte had already been graced by the presence of Jason, and his harsher words that were backed up by a real threat, or at least a threat she had perceived to be real. And so instead of widened eyes, a quickened heartbeat, and that white-hot fear in the pit of her stomach, Charlotte presented Carlos with rolled eyes and a little shake of her head. "Seriously? Is this all you people spout here? This favor you're doing me is old news, amigo--" oh, and Charlotte thought she was so clever to use this word! "-- and, to be honest, it's not holding as much... substance as it did the first time." And, almost to spite him, Charlotte leaned back and stretched her arms above her head, which caused her already exposed midriff to become even more exposed, and she then smirked, and accompanied that cocksure expression with a shrug. "You're ghost stories aren't scaring me very much, Carlos. Whatever are you going to do now?"

As if it wasn't obvious! "Ask you curiously exactly who told it to you the first time," Carlos replied, grinning again. Because he hadn't meant to scare Charlotte, or even upset her, and now that he saw he had done neither but in fact made her more cocky had just spiked his curiosity. She looked--and acted, and sounded--awfully sure of herself for a girl who had already received a similar dressing-down (from someone who was apparently much more intimidating than he, no less) and Carlos would be lying if he said his interest hadn't been reigned right in. "Whose buttons did you press, amiga?" he asked her, cocking his head to one side and leaning forward to poke her exposed midriff, just above her naval, as if to show her exactly what he meant. "And how? And why? Why would you want to do that in a crazyhouse, huh? That's a very stupid life decision. In case you didn't know." And there was strategy to his words. Perhaps, if he egged the haughty girl enough, and made her angry enough, she would favor him with an indignant story just to prove that she was a big girl and could take care of herself, thank you very much. He was, quite frankly, very interested in finding out.

Charlotte arched an eyebrow at where Carlos had poked her, and gave him a look that absolutely read watch your hands, amigo (which she decided was her new favored petname for this Carlos here), but she didn't move to pull her shirt down, and instead smirked. "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?" Charlotte laughed a little, and provided Carlos with a little wink as she said, "Sorry, but I didn't manage to catch a name while I was getting my lecture. I'll make sure to let you know when I do though, alright?" Charlotte smiled, sweet, sickening, almost vomit-inducing, and shook her head. "You're still trying to intimidate me, and it isn't exactly working. I think I know how to handle myself, Carlos. But I definitely appreciate the advice, for sure." Sarcasm was enveloping her sickening sweet tone, but still she smiled and rested her head upon her hand, running the opposite hand through her red hair.

Laughter. Loud, bright, bordering on a bit too harsh, a bit too much like a shriek rather than some jovial expression of amusement. Indeed, Carlos would almost say he favored the sound--he could just about call it by will now, so familiar was his mind and muscles with its making--and he didn't shirk on it now. More often than not, it was just as effective as words at letting people knowing they were getting on his nerves, and while Charlotte O'Neal was not exactly aggravating him, the pent-up negative energy and the sharpness which had accented the world had not exactly left him. He wasn't trying to intimidate her, that was pure, honest truth, but if the young rich girl got it into her head to keep pressing and pressing and pressing some more, he would start, and she would definitely see the difference. For now, though, there was no reason for that. Carlos again shoved the his sharp, sour self away, and remained all smiles and shining eyes (slightly fervent though both may have been now). "Amiga!" he cried, not in outrage but cheer. "You're misunderstanding again. I'm not trying to be scary. This is mostly how I usually act. Honesto." Never mind the fact that she had caught him at a bad time, and his words were not entirely as honest as he claimed. Little Miss Puta Cara didn't need to know that. She might find out in time--if she was lucky, and dropped down a few pegs--but at the moment? No. She definitely didn't need to know that.

And yes, Charlotte was suspicious, of course she was. There was no reason for her not to be-- she didn't know this Carlos, she didn't know whether or not she should trust his words or not. But he said another word that translated easily to English, and despite her apprehensions she allowed herself to believe him, even if just for a second. "Okay, amigo, I'm gonna put my life on the line and trust you here, okay? I'm gonna believe that your goal isn't to scare me out of my wits and send me crying to my room or something like that." Charlotte leaned forward a little bit, and her shirt moved down to cover her midriff a little more, and she even gave Carlos a smile and a wink. "You've gotta know, Carlos, this is a pretty big deal for me, alright?" Her words were playful, joking, almost.

Ah, now they were getting somewhere! Carlos grinned again, pleased rather than manic this time. "Got it, amiga," he said with a wink, making sure it was very obviously playful rather than secretive, as the gesture so often was (coming from him or otherwise). "No terror, no crying, life on the limb and big deal all that." When he spoke next, he even put a little hope into his voice, not because he wanted to appeal to her or was trying to be subservient, but because he thought it might improve his odds of getting what he wanted. Charlotte seemed to be cooling down the longer they talked, and if she left the room in good spirits, who knew? Perhaps it would be known that he'd done the impossible once again (he made a habit of it around here, he thought with some amusement) and he would make a new friend. Or, if not friend...contact, at least. Acquaintance. "So, amiga. I get your trust. Do I get that story, too?"

Charlotte smirked, and again she rolled her eyes. "I told you, Carlos, that I didn't catch the name of the kid." Kid probably wasn't a proper word, because the man had been quite a few inches taller than her, and was clearly older than her as well, but that was a common word from Charlotte; what could you expect from, as Carlos had put it, a blueblood and a brat? "And other than that," she said again, a little of the pretentiousness leaving her tone, "There isn't much of a story there. I sat down and he gave me this lecture when I hardly did anything--" the sheer naivety in her words was sickening "--and then I just left. That's that. I'd tell you more if I could, amigo, believe me."

I'm sure, Carlos thought, but the words were amused now more than anything. Of course, there were pieces to Charlotte's story that didn't add up; a simple ignorance to her words that was not lost on him. He had been around the asylum for a decent while, after all, and he knew how things worked. He knew, for example, that it took a lot for a patient--any patient, even the ones who were regular chatterboxes when it came to putting others in their place--to sit down and lecture. He knew that no one would if they didn't have a probable cause, and sure, some people had odd definitions of "cause" and would go off where anyone else would have just shrugged and walked away, but it was still the general rule. Charlotte couldn't have just done nothing. Carlos knew very well that most of his fellows were content to leave well enough alone, particularly when they were not bothered first, and for Charlotte to claim that someone had simply walked up and aggressively engaged her was complete and utter malarkey. And so, at length, he laughed a little. A short burst of sound that was there and gone, amused, incredulous. "You and I both know that's not what happened," he told her with the slightest of grins. "And if you won't spin me a tale, at least do this: tell me, amiga, exactly what you were doing when you were interrupted, and tell me who did the interrupting. What they looked like, you know? We'll be sleuths, and I'll help you figure it out from that. I promise you I'll know your man. Okay?"

And Charlotte laughed a little, that same sort of indignant attitude entering her tone, and the redhead rolled her eyes, sitting up, crossing one leg over the other and running her hand through her hair before reaching her hands down to adjust the straps on her heels, as the straps had begun to dig into the tops of her feet just a little from the way she had been sitting. Miss O'Neal shook her head a little, and turned dark eyes towards Carlos, with a little smile on her lips. "Why is it so important that you know who this person was, Carlos my dear? Are you truly that worried about me?" At this idea, Charlotte laughed-- in her world, everybody worried about her. Everybody loved her. Her father created all of their jobs, and so everyone had to love her. The idea that someone just might not adore her had never entered the spoiled brat's little mind. The redhead sat up again, having fixed her heels and making her feet more comfortable (well, as comfortable as they could be in these ridiculous heels), and offered a little smirk in Carlos' direction. "I'm flattered, amigo, really, but I'm a big girl, and I think I'll do just fine on my own."

And Carlos, fed up with trying to worm it out of Charlotte when she so clearly wasn't going to talk, made a low, half-amused and half-annoyed sound of resignation and stood up. "Whatever you say, amiga," he told Charlotte, and as frustrated as giving up made him (who liked a quitter, after all?) amiability still shaped the words. The young Hispanic held up his hands, shook his head a little, let a gently amused smile cross his lips. "Wasn't trying to intrude. I guess I am just concerned about you." Well, that wasn't it. But it was something at least halfway close to the truth, and he knew it would please the bratty redhead. He would consider it a little...apology for the rudeness and negativity that had dominated his words earlier. "Like I said, you're a card. Cards get bent. A lot. Thought you might like someone to warn you against the people with grabby hands, but if not? All right." And he shrugged, even smiled a little, as he turned to leave. "It won't be skin off my nose. Or pain in my mind. O, sabes, mi funeral." And with those words, a light laugh and a wink, Carlos was gone. He didn't need to worry. Charlotte could do fine on her own. Just fine.

((Fade?))

The mermaid was a fairly sedentary creature. When the redhead appeared, she did not move, and she was the one creature that seemed to not constantly draw Aspen's eyes away from whomever she may have been speaking with. Today had been an especially rough day on the young girl, as she had been flip-flopping all day long between the mermaid and the fairy, two very different creatures, and the switching had left her utterly exhausted. Still, the mermaid had a smile on her face, and sat on the back of the large, plush chair Aspen sat in that seemed to swallow her whole, and the blue fish-tail draped over the edge of the couch. Aspen often found it interesting, if she stopped to think about it, that the mermaid did not need water to appear, but instead remained perfectly content and sedentary on land, perched in one position. Along with her tail fell her long, copper hair, and Aspen's was kept down and long in a similar fashion, draping over her right shoulder. Her eyes, glassy green as usual, were rimmed in a brownish liner, and her clothes were grays and blues, though the small smile on Aspen's face was far from gray or blue. Her hands raked through her hair, mimicking the motions of the mermaid who sat behind her, and in the peace and quiet of the library (which was really what she needed right now, seeing as the two creatures who had haunted her all day were not the most quiet of creatures) she and the mermaid could be heard singing a quiet tune, nonsense words, in an eerie, hauntingly beautiful sort of melody. Boredom, solace, and relaxation were the goals of the mermaid at this moment, who saw no target to entertain herself with.

And most would not look the way of the opening doors, see the little boy entering, and prepare themselves to pounce. Jacob, after all, did not appear to be a very appealing target on a good day--at least, not for the kinds of games the mermaid and her kin enjoyed--and today he looked even less assuming than usual. He was wearing gray woolen pajamas despite the fact it was the middle of the afternoon, and they hung off his small frame in a way that suggested they were much too big for him: the sleeves all but covered his hands and he'd had to roll the pants up several times so he could just walk without tripping. He didn't even really know who they belonged to; a kind young woman with a round face and bright red hair (who had looked disconcertingly familiar but, as with many people in this strange little hospital, did not have a name to match a face) had brought them to him with an apologetic smile, saying that they were all she could find in the way of truly warm, comfortable clothes. Jacob didn't even mind that much, not really. He was just glad they weren't that white gown he'd wandered in for half a day. He was just glad his memory of English was improving, and he could speak and understand the language easily now without having to pause to think every few words. He was just glad he hadn't seen any soldiers, nor been fetched by doctors with falsely-reassuring smiles that did not match the hardness in their eyes. He still didn't know exactly what was going on or what he was doing here--thus far, no one had been saying anything that made any sense--but that was all right. He wasn't in danger, and that was what mattered.

Aspen's entire composure lit up when her glassy eyes landed upon Jacob-- Aspen's, not the mermaid's-- but the warm smile and the flushed cheeks were replaced by a sudden silence behind her and her own lips pursing a little, her own brows knitting, and Aspen could feel the mermaid leaning over her, could smell the ocean, could see the slightly lighter tendrils of red hair mixing in with her own. Beady brown eyes, beautiful nonetheless, belonged to the mermaid, and as she scrutinized Jacob she rested her head upon her hands and her elbows upon Aspen's head, her blue tail still hanging down the backside of the couch, and the silence was once again replaced by the signing of the mermaid, melodic nothings, not even words but simply sounds. Jacob looked rough. As if he had been through a lot these past days. And what little Aspen knew of Jacob, the mermaid knew even less, but both didn't see why Jacob should look so disheveled, so out of it. And the mermaid smiled, and tutted her tongue against her teeth, shaking her head.

Ask him what's wrong, keened the melodic voice behind her, above her, and out of her sight. A small smile made its way onto Aspen's lips, and her glassy gaze for once followed the boy as he entered, making his way around the room and the shelves of books, not yet noticing her.

"Oh Jacob, sweetie, over here!" A little finger wave was given, beckoning the boy to come closer, and Aspen spoke and interacted she felt the mermaid beginning to braid strands of her own hair, which would be unable to be seen if Aspen did not feel the urge to reach up and braid them in the real world, her hands brushing against those of the mermaid almost mechanically. But this didn't pull Aspen's eyes, her pale green eyes, from the boy in the sweatpants with the odd air about him. No, Aspen kept her gaze on him, and she smiled. "What's wrong, hon? You seem a little wrong-in-the-head."

Jacob started a little when he heard the called words, slightly disconcerted. Here was yet another person who seemed to know just who he was, who was smiling at him as though she was a friend, who had beckoned him over with a dainty hand and a tilt of her head. Was he supposed to know her, too? He didn't think he did. She didn't look familiar--her features were pale and defined, her green eyes pale and glassy, hair long and red hanging past her shoulders. He had not known many redheads Before, back in Berlin, and that was the trouble; for the moment, those were the only memories he could call to mind at will. Even though he knew he was not in Berlin, or even the twentieth century. He couldn't be. This was the hospital, after all. St. Peter's, the boy Weiss had called it; white and gray and clean, quiet, full of people who spoke not a word of German, who all seemed to know him if not of him, and spoke as if he was supposed to know them, too. To be quite honest, it was all terribly confusing to him, like looking at everything through a distorted glass, but seeing as he really had no other choice--the girl was staring right at him, braiding her hair but alert, expectant--Jacob pushed his hands into too-big pockets and walked slowly, almost cautiously over. He held his tongue and looked at her, hoping somewhere in the back of his mind that his silence would provoke something else, some more long-winded response that might clear things up a bit. If he could recognize at least one person in this strange little place, that would be a start.

Wrong in the head alright, said the mermaid, with a sigh in her voice as she recognized that look in the boy's eyes, in Jacob's eyes: confusion. Anxiousness. Unhappiness at the fact that she knew who he was, and yet oddly enough he did not seem to know who she was. And the look, the dull, empty look that Jacob gave in return, one that read I'm sorry, who are you? would have shattered the heart of Aspen, of the fairy, of plenty of other creatures housed within that redhead, but not the mermaid. No, the redhead herself simply pursed her lips and cocked her head to the side, stilling her hands that were braiding Aspen's hair. The girl beneath her mimicked her motions, though she continued to braid her own hair. She felt a little sad. A little confused herself. Why didn't Jacob seem to remember her? They had become fairly good friends, or at least, so she had thought. Had something happened? Had someone come out she couldn't remember?

Before Aspen could voice these concerns, she once again heard the sweet voice of the mermaid, which broke off her train of thought. He doesn't know who you are. Smile. Tell him it's all right, and you won't hurt him. Ask him what's wrong. As one-minded and goal oriented as the mermaid could be when it came to men, Jacob was still a boy, still young, and still to be looked after, not played with. Aspen, deep down inside herself, was thankful for this

And so Aspen did as told, and smiled, and held up a hand. "Sweetheart, I'm not gonna hurt you. You don't have to be so jumpy around me." The mermaid laughed a little, and so did Aspen, both equally as melodic and sonorous. "What's wrong, Jacob?"

A pause as he deliberated just how to respond. What was wrong? Again, the words I'm confused came to his mind, but that didn't mean much. He'd been confused for days, and no amount of talking and explanation seemed to make things any clearer. It didn't seem to matter how many times he was told that he was in St. Peter's Asylum, or that it was the middle of winter in New England, or that he was here to receive treatment until further notice--none of these facts (if they even were facts) clicked in his head. None of them made sense coupled with all he could remember, and that was perhaps the most distressing of all. If he really was Jacob Fox, twelve-year-old Jewish mental patient, why couldn't he remember anything about himself? Who his parents really were? Where he lived before he came here? Where he'd gone to school, how many friends he'd had, what his bedroom looked like? All he could recall were visions of Berlin--the flat he'd lived in with his parents and sister, days spent playing in Peter's yard with him and his dog Kaiser, the deep sense of dread blanketing everything as Adolf Hitler rose higher and higher in the eyes of the German people and indoctrinated everyone with lies and slander and hate. The terror as soldiers pounded on his door to take them all away to a work camp. The hopelessness of Auschwitz, the feeling of hunger because he never had enough to eat, the fear of Hans, the pain of--

Back in the library, Jacob jerked a little where he stood, gray eyes wide, breath catching audibly. Perhaps it was not such a good thing to dwell too long on what he could remember. He looked at Aspen, trying not to clench his fists or worry at his lip like he always did when he was particularly nervous, trying to remember what this reassuring, smiling girl had asked him before he'd gone away inside his head. It was a few moments before the words came back. "What's wrong?" he said, in barely a whisper. He shook his head just slightly, tried to speak more clearly, more calmly. For all his efforts, his voice still came out too soft, too uneasy. "Nothing. I'm all right. I just...I just had a moment there. Sorry." And, hands still in his pockets, he walked--almost crept--to the chair across from Aspen and sat down. He might as well stay here, he thought, until his heart stopped pounding against his ribs. It would do little good to try and go out like this.

Instead of smiling and nodding, and agreeing with Jacob, the mermaid frowned a little. It was odd that this poor boy was putting up such an act, such a blatant lie, around this girl who was a stranger to him. He didn't know Aspen, he didn't recognize her face, nor did his complexion brighten when he sat across from her. And while of course, this made her sad, and caused her stomach to drop in her chest, Aspen still refused to buy the fact that he was fine. Something was wrong clearly, the mermaid could tell, and with a blink of her glassy eyes the mermaid now sat on the arm of the chair beside Aspen, where Aspen could fully see her, though her muddy gaze was focused on the boy across from her, curious, interested, maybe even a little concerned.

Tell him who you are, the mermaid said, not turning to look at Aspen but directing her words towards her. The creature smiled a little, and once again began to play with her hair. I don't think he knows.

And so Aspen did as told, and asked. "Jacob, do you know who I am?" When that same blank stare was received, Aspen continued: "My name is Aspen. I'm your friend. But its okay if you don't know me; that's the least of our worries right now." And, as Aspen spoke, the mermaid hummed a song, an indistinguishable tune, and as Aspen fell silent she herself began to mimic the voice of the mermaid beside her, now.

"The least of our worries right now," Jacob repeated, but very quietly, and only to keep himself from biting his lip. He didn't understand. If his confusion wasn't the most they had to worry about, what was? Was this Aspen saying there was something more pressing going on, something that needed immediate attention? She didn't look too concerned--she was even humming a tune, now, some soft nonsense melody that was as senseless and flowing as water--but that didn't mean she wasn't putting on an act. Coerced into nonchalence, maybe (Jacob didn't like the thought of that at all). He looked at her, trying not to draw his brows or frown, to give any sign at all that he was disconcerted. If people didn't want it from Aspen, they certainly wouldn't want it from him. Instead, he made himself sit back and cross his ankles, as if he were going to stay awhile, as if he were having a normal conversation with a normal friend in a normal room. He didn't smile--he knew he wouldn't be able to make it look real enough--but he forced his voice to lightness as he said, "Okay. What do you want to talk about, then?" That was clear and unassuming enough, wasn't it? "What do you want to talk about?" He could only hope. Until he knew more, he would have to play it as casually and calmly as he could. Trying to ignore the slight flutter in his chest at the thought of lying (lying and being found out, God forbid, God protect him) Jacob glanced from Aspen to around the room and back again. No one was watching them yet. Perhaps, if he was smart about this, he could keep it that way.

Jason was not a frequent visitor to the asylum's library, warm and comfortable and quiet though it was; reading had never been one of his favorite pastimes, even when he was a child, even when he wasn't wearing one of his masks and playing macho for an audience. The truth was, he simply didn't find it stiumlating enough. His imagination was tuned well and often exercised, but the realms he explored were cool and logical, full of subtle twists and turns, nothing like the great colorful scape of those with a liking for daydreams. He navigated the realm of society like a hyperintelligent rat in a maze, singing the words to the song of life although he really only knew the melody, and that was absolutely nothing like surrendering one's self to books.

A passion for things he disliked had always been the one thing he could not cultivate, the one facade he was never able to put on, the one trick he could never pull. And if there was one thing Jason hated more than not being able to fool a crowd, it was certain defeat. Thus, he had ventured to the library more and more as the days went by, selecting a quiet, shadowed corner of the room to tuck himself into (difficult, considering his size, but doable with a little effort) when he wanted to at least pretend to read. And indeed, he was there now, bored out of his skull but with a novel open on his lap nonetheless, green eyes flicking periodically from the pages to the room around him to see if there was anything of more interest going on. At some point, he knew, there would be; something--or someone--always turned up. He just had to be patient.

After perusing through different locations in the asylum, Pekya found his way into the library. As he usually kept his expectations low, the presence of a library, as well as the overall state of the library, were both pleasant surprises. With increased energy and excitement, Pekya slowly walked by the books, with a casual face, often stopping to peer at a book with an appearance of uninterested intrigue on his face. After some amount of time, he spotted a figure in the edge of his eye, sitting in the corner reading a book. In eager responce to this sighting, he continued to slowly cruise through the books awhile, untill he found something he might be able to enjoy. What he did find, though it seemed rather out of place, was a biography of Nicola Tesla. After flipping through a few pages, he became satisfied with his choice, and while reading, eventually made his way to a seat near the person in the corner, where he continued to read and immerse in the aspirations and ambition of an underappreciated man.

Jason saw the boy as soon as he began to make his way over, of course. He wasn't actually reading, after all, just pretending to; and as eager as he was for some kind of interaction--anything would do, even socialization at this point, he was just so dreadfully bored--there was no way Pekya could have escaped his notice for long. He scrutinized him now, green eyes narrowed slightly and one blond brow raised: new? Hard to tell, but he certainly didn't recognize the scruffy dark hair and well-worn jacket, or the shy ease with which the boy moved; if he wasn't new outright, he was certainly something of a hermitcrab. "What do you think you're doing, kid?" His voice came out gruff, not sharp, not angry, but definitely a few marks shy of friendly. Jason really wasn't all that bothered, but he thought it would do well to open the conversation with a bit of spice. Always made a good baseline test for new meat. "There are four fucking corners in this room and you had to come pick mine? The fuck are you, blind or stupid?"

Pekya lowered his book slightly. Whoever this person was, they wanted to be bold. Perhaps he wants a challenge. Pekya shot him a glance, and decided to play along. After all, letting him win would just assert his dominance and make me his prey. I wouldn't want to sink to the bottom when I have just arrived, but still I don't know who this guy is, so I better play it safe too. "I'm reading here, and if this is your fucking corner then I'll leave." A sly smile appeared on Pekya's eyes, while only a hint of it showed on his lips. "I'd be fucking stupid to be fucking in a corner with a stranger; though, it looks like you have the goods. I'm not blind." With that Pekya closed the book and began to stand up.

Well. That certainly hadn't been what Jason expected to hear--but he pounced on it quick as anything, mouth curling to a smirk before the new kid began to move. "Sit down," he ordered, though growled might have been more appropriate, with the edge that had suddenly sharpened his voice. "I don't fucking think so. New meat doesn't just get to waltz in here, get in my face and say the shit that just came out of your mouth, and leave. No fucking way." He flapped a hand towards the chair, though it was obvious the boy hadn't really intended to leave at all as quickly as he went to obey. For a moment, Jason couldn't help but raise his eyebrows. Had that been the kid's intention all along, to bait him? Or had he just done his own job particularly well? He didn't know.

Didn't know, but intended to find out. "Let me tell you something, shithead," he said, in a tone that was almost jaunty, almost flip. Two could play at the game Pekya had started. "No one gets to comment on my goods--which I do have, thanks so much for noticing--without me knowing at least their name, so put your fucking eyes up here"--he snapped his fingers by his face to indicate--"and spit it out. Get comfortable, too. You're not going anywhere until you dig through that whole can of worms you just opened." The smirk slipped from his lips and one brow arched up, the green eye beneath it glittering in time with its twin. "Clear?"

That worked. He had definitely caught his attention, and by the looks of it this person was ready to have some fun. Sitting back down, Pekya crossed his legs and laid his arms on the rests. With that he gave him a bemused look, and with a sly smile responded, "Crystal." Then straightening up, he faced him head on, eye to eye, and in a manner of satisfaction, said, “I’m Pekya Owen. Pleased to make your acquaintance. What might your name be?"

So far things are going well, he could play it safe, but that would defeat the purpose of coming here. He had been playing it safe his entire life, but if he just stopped now he could still -- "NO! This who I am. I can't have thoughts like that. I don't have to hide anymore" -- His eyes brightened, and his face relaxed as calm excitement came over him. He then began to purr.