Passengers

Adelaide Blanchard​
The way he was looking at her was enough the drag the soft brush of red across her cheeks, and for a moment only, she forgot the terrifying uncertainty of her own circumstances in exchange for the remarkable confusion of this man's kindness and compassion. She did not even know his name, yet he looked at her with more warmth than Beau had ever shown...

He was not, perhaps, fully aware of the latitude of her circumstances and so she could not fault the nature of his behavior, but it was all too apparent in his posture that he was a charmer, and accustomed to that sort of thing working in his favor. But something else seemed to pull in the opposite direction... An apprehension.

He excused himself, and her own reaction felt oddly twofold... Both relief and disappointment at war within her. But it was for the best. She had laid too much on the stranger... And it was better she not attach herself to him. Not when, inevitably, Beaumont would find her.

"Goodbye, Monsieur..." She added with a note of sadness. Not goodnight... Goodbye, for she had every intention of avoiding him, the remainder of their journey.

Forcing herself to turn away, she closed the door behind her, and while she was sure she would get no rest, she laid down, fully dressed, anyway.​
 
Jean-Paul Duvauchelle​
An eventful evening he had had, Jean-Paul. Last minute, life altering decisions. A chance meeting with a beautiful stranger. The stranger telling him her life was in danger. Wanting to kiss said stranger at perhaps the worse time possible.

The artist wasn't sure what to make of it all as he settled onto the cot of his compartment, but his reflections entertained him on and off until the morning--Jean's always had a tumultuous relationship with sleep after all. He had gotten what? Two and a half hours of sleep in the time it had taken for the sun to start pouring through the window? That sounded right, if not a tad generous.

When he wasn't going over the previous night in detail, Jean Paul had taken to sketching the view from his window. The blur of countless, frosted trees... the sun teasing itself on the horizon. The sketch was messier than his usual and he couldn't discern why.

So a little annoyed and definitely sleep deprived, Jean-Paul found himself dragging his feet along the way to the dining car. He passed by Adelaide's door in the process, but knew it was best to give it little thought. Breakfast might get him back into the order of things, he hoped.

Ironically an early bird thanks to his lack of sleep, Jean-Paul had plenty of choice in regards to seating when he arrived. He chose a scenic booth, sprawling out his notebook and pens on the table as he practically fell into his seat. A server came and the artist ordered a mug of black coffee, letting the steam rise into his nose as he rubbed his forehead tiredly.​
 
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Adelaide Blanchard​
Sleep was illustrious, and paid Adelaide little mind that night. Tossing and turning, imagining all manner of terrible outcomes to her situation, she eventually gave it up for loss and began pacing instead. By dawn, her feet ached, her head hurt and she was fairly certain there was no worse feeling of guilt or uncertainty in the world.

She left for the dining car purely to escape her own self loathing, though she possessed little in the way of an appetite, and desired company even less than that.

Fate, it would seem, had other things in mind, however. It was upon passing through the dining car, intended to ask the steward whether she could take her coffee in her compartment that the train gave a remarkably unanticipated lurch that sent her sprawling. With a twist, she slid to the side and flopped rather without warning into the lap of the poor, unassuming man in the nearest booth.

"Oh! Oh Monsieur, I am so sorry!" She started, desperately, before she turned towards a pair of remarkable blue eyes. Familiar blue eyes. Her heart shuddered, and her cheeks flushed, as she scrambled to untangle and right herself, making matters exceptionally worse.

"Oh good heavens!"​
 
Jean-Paul Duvauchelle​
The events that had transpire in less than a few seconds was enough to make him jump, Jean-Paul's knee caught the table (spilling just a splash of his coffee against its white surface) and his lap caught a woman. But not just any woman of course--Adelaide. Somehow he had went from quiet reflection to Adelaide in his lap.

He might as well have been blushing just as hard as her. The stewardess apologized profusely, helping the other woman up and out of his booth. All the while the artist refused to take his eyes of his beautiful stranger, his expression blank with the exception for the slightest quirk of his brow. He realized he hadn't said anything and waved his hand to dismiss the train worker.

"It's fine, nobody's hurt. This lady is a friend." Jean-Paul explained, his eyes remaining on Adelaide all throughout. "Could you perhaps grab us some napkins? I accidentally spilled my drink..."

With the stewardess gone, Jean-Paul gestured to the seat across from him in the booth. "Would... would you like to sit down?"​
 
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Adelaide Blanchard​
The way he stared... It was enough that the crimson crept up her neck and across her cheeks all over again. Never in her life, and certainly not since Beau had Adelaide faced such unbalanced scrutiny. It was as though she were being studied, most professionally... Yet the man was a stranger, who had little right to be so blatant.

First his manners the night prior, and now this. He was dangerous, and she would be better off secluded in her cabin the remaider of the trip.

"Monsieur, I don't think that's a good idea." She started plainly, and what she ought to have done was cross the car to the steward, to ask her question and be done with it.

Perhaps it was the exhaustion... Or the strain, but somehow, instead of leaving, Adelaide found herself sinking down into the seat opposite the man, gloved hands rolling over her face a moment, before she met his eye.

"Who are you?" She finally asked, because though he had shown her kindness, she could not escape her paranoia that somehow the man meant terrible things for her...​
 
Jean-Paul Duvachelle​
"Did we not get introductions done last night? Oh whatever--" The artist extended his hand after thinking aloud. His eyes twinkled with something, whether it was inspiration or desire he himself wasn't quite sure. History told him he had a problem of mixing the both of them up. "I am Jean-Paul Duvachelle. An artist from Paris."

She was more stunning in the light, the window beside of them made sure of that. For a moment his hand twitched at the thought of sketching her right there. He was a quirky man, Jean-Paul, only made odder by what life had put him through until that point. Noticing that Adelaide had yet to take his hand he continued in hopes of making her more comfortable with speaking to him.

"I'm from a small town, I used to delve into business quite heavily. I was good at it but in the end that life rejected me." Jean-Paul explained with a lightness that hid just how bitter he was about it all. He laughed, shaking his head before glancing at his hand still hanging there. "Last night was... weird I must admit--for the both of us."​
 
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Adelaide Blanchard​
Listening to him, Adelaide's expression fell, as the realization hit her that she had misjudged him, entirely. Sitting up, she shook her head, and for a moment, she fiddled with the top button of her blouse, before folding her hands on the table in front of her, "I am so sorry, Monsieur Duvachelle. You must think I'm a mad woman. You've been nice to me, a perfect stranger, and I've been terrible."

Her eyes turned to the window, and her breath escaped in a sigh, gaze misting over in the early morning light, "I don't know what I'm doing here. I keep thinking that I've made a mistake, but there's no way to take it back. I'm not sure I would if I could, and that scares me. I... I'm terrified... and I'm making a fool of myself because of it. But there's no excuse. I know that you told me I apologize too much, but, if there's anyone that I owe that to, it's you."

Turning her gaze back to him, she peeled the glove and with a small, wry smile, she extended her hand to him, "It's lovely to meet you. And if I may be so bold as to say... If your art is anything like what you made last night, then the business life doesn't deserve you."​
 
Jean-Paul Duvachelle​
A perfect stranger... he could almost laugh at that descriptor. That would have been rude of course and as its already been established in his own mind--Jean Paul was a great deal of things but never rude. So instead Jean-Paul just smiled sweetly as she spoke. He adored the angle of Adelaide's image as she gazed out the window and it would have been so easy to just...

His eyes drifted towards his sketchpad. People often reacted differently when he asked to draw them, how would Adelaide?

It occurred to him that Jean-Paul was once again letting his imagination get the best of him. It took him a moment to snap from introspection and back into reality, there was a pause in the conversation and it waited for him to resume it. Rubbing the undercut of his jaw he chuckled.

"Maybe so. The art life isn't particularly welcoming either, if I'm honest." Jean-Paul smiled and took a sip of his coffee. "Too many egos for way too little money."

The server came by and presented them with a variety of baked goods not nearly as fresh as they were advertised to be. He took a croissant, preferring something solid and stable as he more interested in speaking rather than eating. Jean-Paul continued, his tone more somber as he rounded the conversation back to what Adelaide spoke of fear.

"Is it fine of me to ask of him? This man you are running I mean... what exactly is he to you?"​
 
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Adelaide Blanchard​
"Ah..." She answered softly, and for a moment, the smile remained as she waved politely to the steward, asking instead for a coffee, "Egos appear everywhere, it seems. But at least in art, you've freedom."

She recalled a street fair not long ago... Victor had taken her when Beaumont needed the house for one of his meetings. The many vendors and their beautiful, exotic wares... It had been the artists, with their easels and palettes, their cavases filled with spirit, with life, who had most inspired her.

For a brief time, it had been a different world. A brighter, better world. She had bought a painting from a young woman named Celeste. A simple blue and white flower on a canvas no bigger than the palm of her hand. When she had returned to show Beau, he had insisted there was no artistic merit to the piece and that she should throw it away immediately.

The smile faded, and as the steward returned with her coffee, she turned her eyes down to it, tracing her finger along the rim of the little white porcelain cup, "My husband." She finally said.​
 
Jean-Paul Duvachelle​
If dejection had a face it would most certainly look like Jean-Paul's in that very moment. Two words alone was enough to ruin what hopes he may have had for his new companion. Of course her being married didn't reduce her worth as a person to him, it didn't reduce the company he was willing to give her, but it did make things different... even if she had chosen to run away from this man.

Jean-Paul was a great deal of things but he was not a man who pursued a woman with a ring, no matter how beautiful she may have looked in the sunlight. The artist cleared his throat and with a smile more somber than before he took another sip, and afterwards began to speak. He took note of the ring on her finger and felt his disappoint settle even deeper into his gut.

"I'm not sure what I expected when I had asked in all honesty." He laughed calmly. "Though I suppose it's better that I learn this now rather than later as I'm sure I would've developed enough feelings for you to make things a lot more complicated." Jean-Paul caught himself, his eyes widening at the realization of his thoughts verbalized carelessly. He rubbed the back of his head.

"Sorry." The artist muttered, looking elsewhere. "...Damnedest things."

He cleared his throat, a former businessman still readily prepared to swing conversations no matter how sour they might go. "I apologize. Your situation is complicated and I just... I suppose I found it oddly comforting to know I wasn't the only one on that platform last night struggling with the intricacies and humor of life."​
 
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Adelaide Blanchard​
She should probably have been more offended by his words. A good woman... a smart woman might have. A woman who had any sense at all to see that life was not handing her a chance, it was throwing up a warning - a bright, gleaming warning. She had already put herself in a dangerous position, leaving... Associating with a person like Jean-Paul... it was like adding coal to a fire that was already burning the house to the ground.

He had no right to tell her what he did. To be so open and honest, when she had given him no indication that it was appropriate or wanted. It was, in so many ways, it was wrong of him to be so presumptuous, and she should have been offended. Angry, even...

And cutting ties with him then and there was the smart thing to do. The right thing to do... So when the words came out of her mouth, she hated herself a little for them, for how easy they came, and how desperately she wanted the man sitting across from her to understand that she meant them, without a shadow of doubt, she meant them, "...I'm not going back to him."

Sitting up, she breathed out, as her gaze followed his to the ring on her finger, her fingertips glancing across the stone. When she looked up, her expression was stalwart, as she shook her head, "He's a monster, and I won't ever go back to him. When I said last night that he will kill me if he finds me, I meant it, Monsieur. Because he will have to."​
 
Jean-Paul Duvachelle​
"You say that like you believe it. Good. If you are going to run away from your husband you best be sure of it." Jean-Paul began, leaning back with a sort of disbelief laced in the laughter that followed his words. The artist followed her gaze back to the ring and he continued. "You seem sure of yourself to me and yet here you are still wearing a monster of a man's ring."

"If he is half the man that you claim him to be than that ring should be tossed from the side of this train! Immediately in fact!" Jean-Paul declared, though he kept his volume between the both of them as more and more early birds filtered into the dining car. He cleared his throat as he leaned forward this time.

And just like that the artist found himself presenting the beautiful woman with a challenge. He wondered how Adelaide looked like angry, if her beauty would be marred or only intensified by anger. "I'd gladly hold open the door for you if that's what you wish.​
 
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Adelaide Blanchard​
Blinking, Adelaide looked down at the ring as her lips fell in a frown. It was aggravating, almost, how the man continued to prod into business that wasn't his own... But it was easily more frustrating that what he said rang so true. She had considered it... As she was packing her bag, she had considered leaving the ring behind. But it felt so final... So real, and she couldn't quite understand what held her back, but the idea had terrified her.

Sinking back in her seat, her eyes snapped up to his and a brow lifted, then, without saying a word, Adelaide rose to her feet. Turning, she started away from the booth and for a moment, it looked as though she might keep going, but at the doorway, she turned back, looking at him expectantly.

There had never been much fire inher. In truth, she had been too afraid that if she ever spoke back or toed the line, she might like the feel of it far too much. Beaumont had never been kind or gentle, but to invite his ire intentionally? Would have been pure and unadulterated madness. But Beaumont wasn't there... And maybe a small part of her had fire after all.

"Well? Are you going to hold that door for me or not, Monsieur Duvachelle?"​
 
Jean-Paul Duvachelle​
With a furrowed brow and just the crack of the smile, Jean-Paul watched with great pleasure, as Adelaide Blanchard left him on his lonesome at the table. Propping his arm up against the booth, he turned and watched her movements. There was more than just a melancholic beauty to that woman and of that he was glad.

When she asked of him he scrambled to get out of his seat. In a flurry his hands collected his items, the notebook and pencils, and he stood. Jean-Paul followed after her with just the hint of a spring to his step. The more time he spent with this woman the more interesting she became. He approached both Adelaide and the door with a smile and as his hand came to rest on the metal handle he turned to her and whispered.

"Apres la pluie le beau temps." He assured, before pulling the door open with little warning. A rush of cold wind ran through the dining car from the outside much to the disdain of the other breakfast goers. Jean-Paul laughed at the eccentric nature of the exchange and motioned to the outside. "Quickly, Adelaide! Say your farewells and toss that ring to hell itself!"​
 
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Adelaide Blanchard​
She had been ready. So ready, and had the ring off by the time Jean-Paul had opened the door. Clutched in her hands, the physical representation of a decision she'd never actually had the chance to turn down... And she had been so ready.

The wind whipped a frenzy through the train, pulling bronze curls and sending them wild and Adelaide stared at the metal circle as though it were Beaumont himself, a walking, breathing terror. And as her heart sank deeply into her chest, she stepped back... Pulled away.

Looking to the artist, she shook her head, fully prepared for the disappointment that would come, and as tears grew beneath dark lashes, she called out against the bluster, "I'm sorry. I can't do it! I can't..."

Her every facet of life was tied to that ring, and throwing it out the door... Ridding herself of it was admitting that she had made the right decision... And admitting that meant admitting that for several years now, nearly a decade, she had lived an empty, hollow life. A life of regret and sadness and misery. She knew the truth. Deep down she knew it. But she didn't want to see the shackles. Not yet.

Because seeing them meant she could free herself... But freedom was only worth while when it was lasting. And Beaumont would find her. He would find her, eventually... And freedom could not survive him.

Brushing past him, too afraid to burst into tears in front of the poor man again, she ran from the dining car, ran back to the sleep compartments.​
 
Jean-Paul Duvachelle​
Jean-Paul was left by the door just as intrigued as he was dumbfounded. It seemed Adelaide was a rather erratic woman, teetering from one emotion to the other quite sharply. He stood there for a moment, blank faced as he tried to think of what to do... it was only when other passengers shouted for him to close the door he did.

Suddenly all eyes were left on him and Jean-Paul, being himself, just offered a smile and a bow before quickly following after the woman.
She had seemed so certain and it was a pleasure to see her fired up, what had happened he wonder to make her crumble so easily?
Just how fearsome and powerful was this man to be capable of causing such turmoil for her? Intriguing, indeed.

But most importantly she was hurting and Jean-Paul--as weird and awkward as their relationship was--felt partially responsible as he had both brought up the topic and tried to force an ultimatum on her. Adelaide, Adelaide he called out as he walked down the hallway of the sleep compartments. With her nowhere to be seen he could guess she had retired to her room.

Normally he'd respect a person's wishes to be alone, but this was no ordinary person. No ordinary relationship. Jean-Paul knocked and with the clear of his throat, called her name once again. "Adelaide? Are you in there?"​
 
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Adelaide Blanchard​
He was a remarkable man. Persistent to a fault, and had she been in a better position to, Adelaide might honestly have found Jean-Paul amusing. But there was nothing amusing about her situation. She was a broken woman, burning up inside by fear and indecision, and he was a powerful force, too much to contend with.

It was as though the man's purpose was to torment her... To punish her. For leaving? Perhaps. It was ridiculous and irrational, but at the soft knocking and gentle strum of his voice outside her door, she wanted to believe it. Anything that made him less... confusing.

Miserably, she turned around, having barely had time to throw off her shoes and stockings before he'd arrived. Pulling back the sliding partition, she met his eyes with a red rimmed glare. It wasn't fair to be angry with him, but it felt so much more productive than being angry with herself.

"I am not a strong woman, Monsieur Duvachelle! And you may push me, but you will always find yourself disappointed! Whatever you want from me, understand that I am not a game for your amusement and I can punish myself enough for my own decisions!"​
 
Jean-Paul Duvachelle​
Not a strong woman? Need he remind her that it was she, Adelaide, who got up and made for the doorway in the first place? Suddenly the artist found himself feeling a little heated at her comments of him, and though they weren't particularly untrue, he had been genuinely concerned when he chased after her. You don't just pour your heart out like she had the night before and expect a man like him to not be involved.

For awhile Jean-Paul just stared at her, melancholic eyes intense with something between disdain and confusion. Finally, he shook his head and retorted with little regard for sugar coating. "So punish yourself then! Cry your heart out. Just make sure to remember that at the end of the day everyone is alone with their decisions--and you've made yours."

"Nothing will change the fact that you've run from a husband you believe will kill you, not now. Everyone is haunted by their demons, mine torment me every hour I lay in bed without sleep, but I am not a slave to them, my dear." Jean-Paul continued, soon reaching that point of fired up where he was beginning to match her, maybe even exceed her. "And perhaps its still tender, perhaps I'm overstepping but I think deep down you hear the truth in my words. You know that you're going to have to let go of your fears eventually... or else you might as well have never left in the first place!"

He stopped and took a moment to breath, his piece was done. It seemed his comment earlier rung true for the both of them, though it should come to no surprise that two people leading very broken lives would end up anything erratic and confused as they looked for the better path.

"I cannot explain why I feel this need to try and get it through that pretty little head of yours." Jean-Paul explained, brows furrowed as he took a step back. "But seeing a woman strong enough to run away think of herself so weak that she can't cast away a ring... it is nothing short of a tragedy."​
 
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Adelaide Blanchard​
Her eyes narrowed as she looked up at him. She couldn't quite say where the anger came from. Not because she thought at all that she didn't know... But because knowing he was right and admitting as much, even to herself was enough to shatter her resolve entirely.

He was a stranger, and he had no right to know her so well. It was as though he had somehow linked to her subconscious, tugging at those thoughts she had spent years burying. It had been easy to pretend that all was well, that Beaumont was just a deeply passionate man, jealous for his wife. That when he shouted or raised a hand to her, it was that passion rising, inescapable, to the surface. She knew the truth, but admitting it hurt too much.

Tears stung her eyes through the glare and stepping back from him, she shook her head, "You don't know anything about me. You presume... You have, since the moment we met on the platform, and because it sounds good in your head you say it out loud. But you know nothing about me, or my life Monsieur Duvachelle, and I think it is perhaps best that we leave it that way."

Without waiting for a response, terrifying that if he did not relent, he would break her, she reached for the pocket door and with a yank, she tugged it shut.

It was hours yet, before their next stop and the remainder of that time, Adelaide kept to her room. Through her mind, Jean-Paul's words rang with that heartbreaking truth, and try as she might, she could not wish or will them away. It was agonizing, and with every passing moment she grew more and more desperate.

When the sharp whistle of the train indicated their next stop, Adelaide considered getting off. Considered putting the mad plan behind her... And going home. She got as far as the door to the platform, one foot teetering over the edge when she saw him. In the crowd of faces, coming and going, he moved like a snake, slow and deliberate, dark Slavic features fixed on concentration, nearly black eyes scanning the crowd, scanning for familiarity.

Victor.

"No..." Whispering, Adelaide spun swiftly on her heels and tore off, back to her room. A minute or two more and the train lurched forward again, propelled by its schedule, and as speed increased, it ran parallel to the race of her heart in her chest. Tears poured and hands shook.

Despite everything she had said to Jean-Paul she knew in her mind then that she was wrong. Beaumont would never kill her. Not ever.

Pulling open the door to her room, she looked down the hall to the end of the compartment car. In her mind she recalled Jean-Paul, clinging to the door outside, crying out to be let in. Heart hammering, Adelaide took off and running for the door, she yanked it open, wind pouring through the car, furious and violent. Stepping out, sound was enveloped by the raw churn of the train engine, but the metal squeal of wheels against the tracks. They were picking up speed... It wouldn't take long now before they were going too fast. Moving to the rail, she kicked off her heels and bare feet on the frigid bar, she pulled herself up, clinging to the support beam as she willed the train to hurry... Another few second. Just a few seconds.​
 
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Jean-Paul Duvachelle​
The door closed but the anger remained. Jean-Paul stood there for a time, frozen in thought on the other side of the partition. He was already a mess before boarding this damned train but in the short time he had known Adelaide she had made him even more of a whirlwind of emotions.

He eventually came to the decision that he was done with her and done with worrying over her. The artist spun on his heel and ironically much like the woman he vowed to never speak with again, he confined himself behind the walls of his own private space. There with his feet propped up and his sketchpad on his knees he drew to get his mind off of things. They had been on the train for a generous amount of time already but in reality the journey had just begun.

Jean-Paul only ever left his room to eat and even then he rushed... he had no intention of reenacting the morning's events. He didn't want to see Adelaide, to see those large beautiful melancholic eyes of hers as she shuffled into the same cab as him.

The artist had been asleep for an hour before a nightmare forced him to wake. He cursed loudly... angered that the one occasion rest came to him had been interrupted. The artist decided in that moment that he needed a change of scenery, he needed to get out of that small little closet of a room.

So with his notebook and pencils tucked underneath his arm he set off, walking through the train with a quiet... nearly whimsical curiosity. He'd stop at times to sketch whatever caught the eye--perhaps a specific bench or the silhouette of an older passenger. He had filled up an entire page of miscellaneous sketches by the time he returned to the compartments.

But then he saw her and the last thing on his mind was the notebook. Jean-Paul never ran faster down a corridor than he did just then. He had no time for wisecracks, no time for jests. "Adelaide--WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"​
 
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