hebeimmortalized | (no subject)

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people: paul schafer

(no subject)

Jillie fiddles with her phone, tempted to text Paul. She's been tempted to text Paul since all but ditching him in that little cafe. She'd panicked. She couldn't help it, at the time. He'd admitted to losing someone and all she could think was what she'd done to herself. The scars on her arms. The scar on her neck.

She's not good for him, not as a friend and not as anything more than that.

So she'd panicked. Distanced herself a little it, and had felt like it was the right move when he'd done it right back.

But she misses talking to him. And looking at him. And listening to his voice.

God, she's pathetic.

She stares down at her phone and types out half a message before deleting it. Then she starts a different message. She deletes that, too. Then she shakes her head and finally types, How'd the job hunt go? Tell me over coffee? and sends it before she can change her mind.

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"Maybe you have a calling you never dreamed of," she teases, though her voice is still soft, warm. No tears had fallen, though they'd threatened for a time, but all the same she reaches with her free hand to carefully wipe the waterline of her lower eyelid.

"We should . . . talk about happier things. Like . . . when's your birthday?"

"August," says Paul, almost surprised when she doesn't take her hand away. "Yours?"

"December," she answers. "I'll tell you now, you're not allowed to combine Christmas and birthday for me or Jack, okay? If you end up deciding to buy either of us presents."

"If," says Paul, grinning and he squeezes her fingers. There's something about her that makes it easy to make him smile, more than it feels like he's smiled in years.

"I don't like to assume," she says with a smile of her own. "So, yeah. If."

"What kind of gifts do you like?" he asks, eyebrow raised. "Just in case I decide, obviously."

"I . . . don't know," she admits with a laugh. Despite the track of the conversation, the question still catches her off guard.

"At least I've got until December to figure it out, then," he says. His thumb is still tracing against her knuckles, back and forth. It's not much of a touch, but it's one he can't seem to help now he's started.

She smiles small, shaking her head. "I guess that means we'll have to keep spending time together, so you . . . can figure it out."

"I guess it does." Paul looks down at their interlocked fingers, his thumb grazing against her skin. "I...I like spending time with you, Jillian. Very much. I'd like to see where this read leads."

She stares at their fingers for a long moment before looking up at his face. "Me, too," she whispers.

Something that's a mix of relief and joy spills through Paul at that and he finds himself smiling. Tentatively, haltingly, he lifts her hand and then leans in to press a kiss against her knuckles.

Jillie blushes, but she smiles. No one's ever kissed her hand before, like she's some sort of princess or other noblewoman. She squeezes his fingers gently and watches him through her lashes.

"Do you want to stay here and get more coffee?" says Paul, a hot blush burning in his cheeks now, "Or do you want to go and do something else? I've got nothing planned for today."

"I wouldn't mind another coffee," she admits. She hadn't even realized she'd drank all of hers already, but her throat feels dry from excitement, so she must have.

"Same thing again?" he asks, reluctantly letting go of her hand to get up from the table. "Or something different this time?"

"I think I'll do something decaf," she says. "I already have a hard enough time sleeping at night as it is."

"Decaf," says Paul, nodding, disappearing off to the counter. He's gone for a minute or two and then he returns carrying a tray. "Decaf hazlenut latte for you," he says, putting it down in front of her. "Another coffee for me, and I thought this cake looked too good not to share. Provided you don't hate red velvet."

"Anyone who hates red velvet is living a terrible life," she says, smiling up at him. She accepts the coffee with a happy hum and takes a sip, then watches him. "Thanks."

"It's my pleasure," he says, and means it utterly. He picks up a fork and offers it to her. "Ladies first, obviously." He's smiling when he picks up his own cup, watching her over the rim.

"Be careful," she says, "I could kill an entire real cake of this shit, not just a slice." She grins, but uses the edge of her fork to cut just a bite-sized piece off of the cake.

"Next time I'll buy more then," says Paul, with a grin, using his own fork to break off a bite. He finds that he likes watching Jillie eat, how obviously she enjoys the food put in front of her.

She's had people observing her eating, making sure she's getting proper nutrition, making sure she doesn't force herself to choke, things like that. Not once has she ever felt someone watch her and just . . . see her.

And the cake is good, god dammit.

"I'm sorry," says Paul, taking another bite of his own cake, blushing as he looks away. Absurdly, he wishes he was still holding her hand. "For staring. I wasn't raised to be so rude."

"I didn't find it rude," she assures. She watches him, then rests her left hand on the table. She's right-handed; he's left-handed. They can hold each other's hands without sacrificing their need to eat.