hebeimmortalized | (no subject)

Dec 8, 2016

Jack is at work, which is good, because he needs to work, but it's weird, because he's not here. Jillie has seen a huge change in him since coming here, and she doesn't know if it's only because of one thing or another, but it's visible, palpable, and she likes it.

She's been hiding in his room since he left, feeling a bit like an intruder. This isn't what Dr. Kapoor had in mind. She's lucid today, almost painfully so, and the forefront of her worry comprises doctors, therapists, and medication. These are things she needs, things that she requires to remain functional, and that she doesn't have them is triggering some anxious behavior.

She's pacing, feet scuffing softly against the floor. She's pulling and tugging on her hair. Her mind is starting to fill with noise, a steady swell, like someone is turning the volume up.

She fumbles into her pajama pants, pulling out her cigarettes. She only has two left. She lights up, hands shaking, and pulls a deep, long drag.

Jack is probably going to kill her for smoking in his room, but she doesn't dare go out into the apartment yet. There's someone out there, but what if they're not as understanding as Jack, as Poison?

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Jillie nods, but she hugs herself, like she's storing up all of the times she hasn't been touched in preparation for this one time she will be. Sometimes, it feels like she needs to do that.

Over the years, the years of keeping herself safe, Dee's gotten pretty good at reading body language. She stops, looking at Jillie for a moment.

"What is it?"

She shakes her head: the words won't come out for a long moment. Then she takes a breath and says, "I don't like being touched. But I'll be okay. I can handle it."

"We could wait until Jack's here." She knows that Jillie can stand being touched by Jack; she's seen it happen. And then she realises how that sounds. "That sounded way less incesty and gross in my head."

She scoffs a little laugh. "I didn't take it that way," she assures. "I'm— it's okay. I can handle it." She can. She has to. She wants to.

"C'mon then. Let's do it in my room in case the boys come home." Dee gets up off the sofa, abandoning her laptop and, after thinking about it for a moment, she offers Jillie both of her hands.

Jillie hesitates, but only for a minute. Then she grips Dee's hands with both of hers. "Do I need to take my shirt off?"

"It'll be easier to measure if you do," says Girl, leaning back on her hands and hauling Jillie up to her feet. She's always liked the way Jack does it, like it really means it. "I can...not look? If it bothers you?"

"If it doesn't bother you, it doesn't bother me," she says. She helps Dee pull her up and immediately recoils her hands, this time under the pretense of rubbing her arms. "Mostly it's the scars that get people staring."

"Yeah well. I've seen scars and I've got plenty of my own so." She sniffs, drawing Jillie into the bedroom with her. "Maybe they've just got nothing better to do."

Jillie smiles. "Thanks, Dee," she says. She pulls her shirt off so Dee can measure her properly, and she adjusts her sports bra so her breasts sit a little better. "Is this okay?" she asks.

"Yeah, man, that's fine," says Girl, retrieving her tape measure from a drawer. "You really do have an awesome rack."

She huffs a laugh and fidgets with her bra strap, with the little pudge of skin between her underarm and her bra, with her hair. She doesn't mind being topless around her. It's not that. It's just . . . her. The way she is.

Girl measures Jillie's bust in quick, economical movements, jotting things down in her phone. When she's done, she looks it up. "Okay. So, we can buy you bras that fit now," she says, flashing a grin.

Jillie pulls her shirt back on and hugs herself. "Probably just one for now, huh?" she asks. She has no idea if she needs more than that. She's just grateful this is as easy as it is.

"Let's get you two, so you've got one for laundry?" says Girl, padding back out to the sitting room and dropping back down on the couch. "What's your favourite colour?"

"Purple, I think," she answers. "Or blue? I'm not sure I have one, actually." It feels important, like she should have one.

"Some people don't," says Girl, shrugging a lot. "When I was a kid, red was my favourite, but I think that's only because I associated it with Poison, even after I forgot his face?"

"Does he even remember his natural hair?" she asks. Her tone is a bit hard, but she doesn't mean to sound judgemental. It's a bit of the old Jillie, shining through as she thinks about how awful coloring one's hair is, how harsh it is on the strands.

"Yeah, probably not," says Girl, flashing Jillie a grin. "He wouldn't look right to me with any colour other than red these days. It's all I've ever known him with." She fluffs her own hair.

"I think if my hair ever gets long again, I might do blonde tips," she admits. She says it like a secret, reaching up to tug on the strands.

"I think that would look really cute on you," says Girl, lifting her hand to brush her fingers against Jillie's hair but pulling herself up at the last minute. "If you let me know when, I'll dye it for you."