hebeimmortalized | (no subject)

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people: paul schafer

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Paul is, Jillie is quite certain, some kind of actual living saint. She knows how he'd woken up when they'd shared her bed, and he'd actually excused himself. And, sure, part of Jillie wishes she hadn't — mostly the southern part of her — but she appreciates that he did, anyway.

But this is something entirely new. Jillie hasn't been on a date in . . . years. Even before she'd gotten sick, she hadn't so much dated as she had . . . gotten around. At least a little bit. It's nice to actually get to know the guy. And they are getting to know each other. They talk a lot. Almost as much as she and Jack talk. Almost as much as she and her therapist talk.

And today, they're going on a date. A real date.

It takes her hours to pick out an outfit. She makes Girl help. She sends pictures to Jack to double check. She's nervous and terrified and excited.

But she can do this.

She's got her hair braided up off her neck, and silver jewelry to accent her dress. Her shoes match her makeup and she's got a small clutch with her phone, keys, and cigarettes. Paul is picking her up. She feels like a princess.

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She blushes a little. "Don't go broke on my account, okay?" she says, partly teasing.

"I think I can afford one suit," he says, grinning. "Especially if you're going to look at me like that while I'm wearing it."

She smiles warmly, definitely trying not to stare. "It's really, really easy to look at you like this," she admits.

"All the more reason to wear a suit more often," he says. "I'd never have worn one in Toronto and, in Fionavar, the fashion is...somewhat different."

Her eyes cast down when he says that, but she doesn't ask him to stop. She just takes a moment to brace herself, then looks up at him again. "I'm imagining . . . high collars, and slim lines, and not as many layers?" she offers.

She doesn't usually ask about Fionavar, and Paul hesitates, for a moment, before he continues.

"Stockings," he says. "Breeches, boots. Doublets." His nose wrinkles. "It takes some getting used to."

"What's a doublet?" she asks, eyes narrowing as she tries to picture one with no basis for comparison whatsoever.

"Sort of like a jacket? Fitted. Snug. Buttons down here. You wear them over a shirt," he says. "Think sort of...Shakespearean, but without the puffy shorts?"

She nods slowly as the pictures settle into place. She presses her lips into a wan smile, then nods again, a little quicker. "Wow. I managed not to freak out that time. You must be good for me." She tries to keep it light, but she recognizes that this is also very huge for her.

"You're doing really well," he says, nodding, squeezing her hand. "Honestly. I'm happy to never talk about it if you don't want me to, Jillie. It's...whatever you need."

"I'm trying to . . . broaden my mental horizons," she admits. "Just because I can't handle something doesn't mean I get to ignore it. Just because it's weird doesn't mean it's bad. Right?"

"Right," he says, nodding, his hair slipping forward across his forehead. It's probably best not to tell her the depth of everything that happened, the Summer Tree, the God in the grove, but he'll answer any questions that she's got. "Like I said, Jillie - whatever you need."

She takes a breath and squeezes his hand gently. "You're . . . really amazing, you know that?"

He doesn't have an answer for that, not really, so he just blushes and glances away, squeezing her fingers.

"We can go as slowly as you need to," he says. "And I can tell you as much or as little as you want."

"Thank you," she says seriously.

She looks up when the waitress brings their drinks, and some warm rolls in a basket. Their meal is going to be a few minutes more, so she pulls her hand from Paul's so she can focus on getting herself one of the rolls. She opens one of those little butter packets and starts tearing the warm bread, then dredging the small hunks in the butter so she can pop it into her mouth.

It's happened before, but Paul gets totally distracted by watching Jillie eat for a moment. He clears his throat and takes a sip of his water.

"Tell me something true," he says.

"Something true," she echoes. She sips her water and leans back in her seat.

There are a lot of different truths she could choose for this. Some of them she'll probably take to her grave, no matter how charming Paul proves himself to be. Some of them are trivial, things he'll learn just by being with her and observing her. Others, like now, he'll have to ask her for.

"I am actually bisexual," she decides on.

Paul raises an eyebrow slightly. He has a sense that that admission is more common place now than it ever would have been in his time. He likes that, he thinks - that it's easier now.

"I'd worry more about competition, but you're already here with me," he says.

"I am," she agrees. She smiles a little wryly, then. "Plus, it means that if I ever catch you eyeballing another girl, I can just appreciate the same thing you are." She winks, because she's teasing. Paul is still a man, but in the time they've spent together, not once has she felt like his eyes are anywhere else.

Paul shakes his head, smiling, his cheeks touched with pink under his beard. He doesn't think he's ever blushed as much as he does when he's talking to Jillie.

"I've only got eyes for you."

It's silly, how that simple, six-word sentence has her belly flopping and her cheeks warming, too. He's really good at making her lighthearted remarks into something more serious, and she can't really tell if that's something she admires or sort of envies.

She smiles small and grabs another roll to decimate.

"Is it odd," he says, picking up his drink and sipping it. "That I think I could sit and watch you eat all night?"

"It's a little odd," she admits with a little smile. "But . . . I guess I kind of feel like. I wouldn't mind it, either. Is that odd?"

"Sounds like an ideal arrangement," he says, blushing a little. Thankfully, the waiter choses that moment to deliver their food, offering him a moment to catch his breath.

Jillie tucks her hands close to her body so the waiter has room to put their plates down. She offers a quiet thank you and then puts the half-demolished roll back in the basket so she can instead focus on her plate.

"Looks amazing," she murmurs, still a little bashful from their little exchange.