adifferentlife | A more modern sort of date

Admittedly, Combeferre had been a bit puzzled himself by what might be intended in Sybil’s offer. Though an evening spent alone with a young lady did not hold quite the same level of scandal in his own circles as they surely did in Sybil’s, certain… assumptions could be made. Assumptions that a woman like her surely would not appreciate. It had made him blush terribly, just sitting alone in his flat, to even consider the possibility for a moment. Sybil was a very different sort of woman.

But time spent with Sybil had always been comfortable, and he was certainly looking forward to another evening spent together, awkward assumptions or no awkward assumptions. Standing at her door with a bottle of wine and a single flower, he knocked on the door.

If Sybil knew his thoguhts she would cancel the entire evening, embarassed and ashamed. Thankfully she does not, though she imagines that his are similar to hers, and did wonder about the general propriety of the thing. In the end, though, she was convinced, and now she is excited as she opens the door to him with a smile.

Perhaps purposely she's worn a conservative sweater and cardigan and a long tweed skirt that flares and reaches nearly her ankles. Her only affectation is a pair of strappy heels that would be inappropriate outside in this weather but that she enjoys a great deal. Her hair tucked up as best as she can manage in a series of curls and rolls, and she almost feels as if this is a date like any other they have been on.

"Welcome," she says as she kisses him lightly on the cheek, pulling the door back for him to come in. "I'm afraid I don't have anything too exciting planned. I've been convinced that popcorn and a movie are much of a tradition for most."

“Sybil. You look lovely.” Combeferre grinned softly and took off his coat as he came in. Her apartment was much the same as his own - they were all fairly similar, he supposed - though there was still an air of femininity, of her, that had left its mark. “Exciting isn’t necessary. A film sounds quite nice."

"Thank you. Would you like a glass of wine or beer? I admit I have some of it in case you'd prefer." It seems common to her, but she knows that's a bias of her upbringing. The taste is foul as well, she knows from one she tried not long after arriving.

Sybil opens the closet for him before going to fill a galss with water for the flower. It's embarrassing to not have a vase, but she's never needed one. "I've put the movies out if you would like to look."

They sit in little boxes on the table. Say Anything, Princess Bride and Casablanca which she's been assured are all classics and perfect for a night such as this. "I'm just glad you could come."

“Wine, please.” Combeferre watches her go into the kitchen with a fond smile. "Of course I came. I am finding it terribly hard to resist your company, hadn't you noticed?"

The little boxes look almost like shiny books, stacked in a neat pile on the table. He sets the wine he brought next to them and picks the top one up curiously. None of the titles mean anything to him, of course. Films, in general, are still a bit of a mystery. “Do you know much about these?"

"I had, and I have to admit I enjoy that you do like spending time with me so much," she says without any bashfulness. Sybil is adjusting to this, to seeing him and having him about. It's comfortable and special all at once, and she wonders if this is how these things are supposed to feel.

Sybil pours him a white to start off the evening, carrying it out to him and taking up her own. "I don't, I admit. The one is fantasy, the other is apparently more modern though one girl called it 'retro' and the last is supposedly what people call a classic. Though something being classic when it's only from fifty years before does seem baffling."

Combeferre chuckles. "I have found that people here have a very different sense of time." Not that fifty years, or a hundred, didn't seem distant, but people around him sometimes spoke of the relatively recent past as though it were a different world altogether. "I think one of my students has mentioned this one," he says after a thoughtful pause, tapping his finger against the box labeled Casablanca. Admittedly, the description on the back has also piqued his interest - something about the French Resistance, and the twentieth century war he has seen numerous references to in his reading. "Shall we give it a try?"

The passage of time is a very different thing here, just as it had been during the war, she finds. Before that whole weeks could go by without much at all changing, the same sorts of things happening day in and out without anything to remark on. It makes her wonder if that life was truly real and how she managed to survive it.

"I think so. Have you seen many movies yet?" Sybil smiles as she picks up the box, her turning on of the various devices and readying the disc far more deft than it had been once. "Or is it something still new?"

“Not many. I have tried to watch a bit of television-“ he waved vaguely towards the screen- “though I find it a little difficult to follow. Films seem to be a bit more like the theater, though, don’t you think?"

"I find it strange. Especially the game shows?" Sybil frowns, wondering if he's experienced them. "They shout a great deal and it seems an off-sort of circus. They're nothing like the games we used to play at the fairs and bazaars, with a simple task to perform and prize to win."

She shrugs as she steps back from the machine, settling herself on the couch and smiling in hope that he will join her. It is rather racy, she thinks, to be able to sit so close to one another when not at a party or without a chaperone. "They are more like the theatre, though I've discovered that some leave me feeling much like the play we went to see."

“Mm, yes, those are quite odd. Though I do like the quiz show - Jeopardy, je pense?” He chuckles. “I do hope this film is a bit less strange than that production. Otherwise, you might start questioning my judgment. I might start questioning my judgment."

Combeferre hesitates for a moment, the corner of his mouth lifting up in an uncertain smile. What is the protocol? How close might he be expected to sit, what sort of contact would make her smile, and what would shock her? Combeferre is keenly aware that his own sense of propriety is different from Sybil’s, and both are wildly different from those of this brave new world.

There is only one thing to do: leap in, and hope for the best.

He sits beside her on the sofa close enough that their hands might rest upon each other. “Prouvaire sends his regards, by the way."

"I've not seen it. A quiz, you say?" She's always liked sharing little tidbits of knowledge and playing at those sorts of things. Even when she guesses wrong she never minds, appreciating that she's learning something in the endeavor and enjoying the process. "I may have to try one day."

Her smile turns into a laugh, shaking her head at him. "No, no judgment to be questioned. It's all a bit of guesswork for us, isn't it? There's no other way for it to be."

When he settles beside her she's pleased. It is close, but not so much so that she feels he's misunderstood her invitation or pushing an advantage. "How is he adjusting to the City? I hope well."

“I never get the answers right,” he admits with a grin, “but I do find it quite enjoyable to watch, and I have learned any number of odd facts. Just yesterday I learned that there was a mountain on the planet Mars that is thirteen miles high. Can you imagine?”

He nods. “Yes, he is doing well. Adjusting, as we all must. These few months have been strange, I fear, but Jehan has a talent for finding friends wherever he goes. I think that has made settling in easier."

"I read the strangest book shortly after I arrived here. I was looking for novels to entertain me, and I read something about a Princess of Mars? I thought for ages that there might be people up there. Only after did I learn that there weren't, which is a relief, in a way, I suppose?" Sybil still isn't entirely sure how she feels about that entire experience or those thoughts. It seems wrong, almost, to think of people out on other worlds. But then again they are here. "Though if there a mountains like that, who knows what else there could be."

She realises that she's taken the conversation on a flight of fancy, laughing again, this time at herself. "My father used to tease me for reading all the novels I did. I don't think he knew of some of the ones I'd manage to sneak when we were in London. He'd have been horrified, I think."

"Oh, that's good," she says with real fervor. It would upset her to think of him floundering and unhappy. He seemed lovely, and he was a friend of Henri's, making her concern double nearly. "I'm glad. Though you're doing rather well for making friends yourself."

“Alors, I don’t know. There is something exciting about the prospect. Unsettling, but...” He shook his head a little, trying to gather his thoughts. “In such a vast universe - and everything I have read has confirmed that it is larger than we will ever understand - I like to think we are not entirely alone.”

Combeferre chuckled. “Oh, I have managed. Though speaking of friends - I fear the good people of Casablanca will begin to doubt our interest if we keep ignoring them."

"I cannot imagine that we are, truthfully. Not after all that has happened here in this place and the people I have met." She thinks of the strange metal place she was trapped with the creatures whose scars she carries even know on her arms, pale though they are. Of Booker's magic (she can think of no other word for it) and Kaine's admission that he is a clone of another. Her hand slips around Henri's grasping it to avoid the threatening melancholy that sometimes accompanies these thoughts. "But it still makes me worried somedays. About everything I learned and what it all means in the scheme of things."

"I would hate to think of that." She's happy to turn to the movie, letting go of his hand to press the needed buttons on the controller. The opening sequencestarts and she sits more comfortably, sipping at her wine.

Combeferre squeezed Sybil’s hand, letting their fingers twine together. He could not read her mind, of course, and only wondered at what experiences she was thinking of behind her thoughtful eyes. He thought of Korra, with her world so wildly different that perhaps it was another planet - and he thought of Kathy, her world perfectly like this one, save for particular, disturbing differences. Yes, as much wonder as was out there, danger, too, lurked in the broader universe.

He let their attention shift to the movie, resting his hand on top of Sybil's as the picture began to flicker across the screen, sharing a warm smile with his companion. He still found the experience of watching moving pictures strange, even distracting, but soon he had settled into the story.

The film is captivating, the story of Rick and Ilsa filled with intrigue and mystery. There are a number of times that she jumps, gripping Henri's hand as the tension builds. Even with the raciness of their relationship, she finds her heart breaking at teh end when Rick tells her to go. The honourable thing and the proper thing, by far, but it seems so hard to her. Her wine forgotten, she feels nearly breathless when the credits begin. "Oh. How noble and how hard. I don't think I expected that."

Combeferre had long been drawn to the theater - to epic stories of romance and war, sometimes laced with politics and philosophy, and other times merely human adventure, and sorrow, and joy.

Casablanca had it all. He had read just enough about the history of the twentieth century to follow the plot’s broader context. Though the story - it’s tale of freedom, and love, and betrayal, and sacrifice, wrapped in fight for the greater good - would have reached his heart even if the details had been entirely unknown to him.

“Indeed,” he said softly, flashing Sybil a gentle, sad smile. “But in times of struggle, I suppose we all must rise above our own desires."

"I suppose that we must," she says as she considers it. The war that she knew had meant a great deal of change for everyone, and at Downton for Matthew and Thomas the most. For herself as well, though she cannot compare going to war with being a nurse. "I wonder, would I have done the same?"

“For a country’s freedom, and for the life of someone you love? I think we are all capable of any number of things.” He smiled softly, letting his fingers brush her cheek, but then sheepishly dropping his hand. “It was a very good film. The best I have seen, I would wager."

"You are likely right," she admits, her cheeks growing warm at his touch. Such a brief little thing and yet her stomach jumps, the touch both sweet and intimate. She doesn't mind it, in fact, she likes it a great deal.

"How many are you comparing it to," she asks lightly, her voice betraying none of her thoughts. "Is it a group of very many?"

“Not many,” Combeferre was forced to admit, laughing softly. He reached for the wine bottle - still mostly full - and filled up both their glasses. “But we have said they are a bit like theater, oui? These films? And have you ever seen a play, and been immediately certain it is the best you will see all year - and never mind that it is January.”

She nods as he does, knowing that what he says is very true. "I know that it wasn't the play we saw together. But this.. This may be, I think that you're right. Only this is December now, isn't it? We'll have to begin again in January."

She starts, realising something horrible. "I forgot to make the popcorn," she apologises. "It was supposed to be a part of all this."

"Well, we have had many the new beginning recently, yes? Why not one more?" Combeferre blushed a little, though his smile was nearly sly.

When she mentioned popcorn - a food with which he had become familiar, but that he still found odd - he lifted his brows in puzzlement. "Oh? Is it to do with the film?"

Edited 2013-12-11 03:36 (UTC)

"It's supposed to be eaten when you watch the film. In cinemas they always have it." It's become something of a treat, the few times she's gone to the movies. "I suppose we may just have to have another movie, another time. As it must be done properly."

"I think that we have," she says, that same shyness creeping into her tone. She pushes it away, thinking of something else she might talk of lest she forget herself and kiss him here and now. "Speaking of, I had a thought for Christmas. I've been thinking on what we spoke of, about knowing how to become involved in this place? About causes and what we might find? There's a charity that feeds the poor and on Christmas Eve they are having a special dinner for any who might not be as fortunate as we are. They need people to serve the meal, and I thought perhaps, before mass?"

Surprise flashed across Henri’s face as he looked into her earnest eyes, and he nearly laughed - not at her, exactly, but at the sheer wonder of her, and of her overspilling heart. Charity had not been on his mind when he had spoken of the hole in his life once filled by politics; in fact, it was precisely charity’s lack of direction, however noble the intentions, that made him long for what he had had in Paris. Feeding hungry people was good, yes, but it would not stop them from going hungry again - not in Paris, and not in Darrow, either, he suspected.

Not that Combeferre imagined refusing Sybil’s suggestion - not even for a moment. Hungry people did not care about the bigger picture, and certainly not on Christmas. You have spent too much time around Enjolras, to be worrying about such matters,, he thought ruefully, though with a pang of homesickness.

“You are remarkable,” he said, and he did laugh with fondness. He took one of her hands in both of his. “That is a wonderful idea, ma cherie."

"I'm very glad you think so. Not that I'm remarkable," she says with a gentle laugh. Though it is nice to hear, and nicer to hear the term of endearment. "But that it's a good idea."

Sybil wouldn't argue his thoughts. She knows that charity without some meaningful work to forment change is a paltry thing. But it has a place, especially in a society such as this where near everyone seems to have enough, and especially at a time such as Christmas. That he's agreed is a pleasure, her hands squeezing his as she closes the gap to kiss him how she's been thinking of for most of the evening.

“A little remarkable, at least,” Combeferre teased, though he was swiftly cut short by Sybil’s kiss. He had been cautious with her, and still intended to be, but for the moment he sank into the kiss with happy surprise, bringing one hand up to cup her cheek.

It's more than they've done before -- more than she's done before -- their other kisses always brief and whilst never proper not nearly as over the line as this. Sybil can't even blame the wine, having barely drunk a glass, nor would she want to. This is her own intitiative, of her own making. She mirrors him, taking the lead and brushing her fingertips across his cheek as she does not pull away, at least, not yet.

With a soft sigh, Combeferre shifted closer - nothing dramatic, but enough to close the gap between them. He trailed his fingers lightly into her hair, and only after another long moment did he finally break away. Lingering close, he smiled, gentle and warm, but with a touch of uncertainty, unsure how she would now react.

The breath she takes is a deep one, trying to calm herself and order her thoughts. The kiss has been invigorating, furthering the things she's felt each and every time they've kissed. Yet she's relieved that he pulls back, knowing she would have had to do the same herself in only a few moments more.

"I-" Sybil struggles for what to say. In the end, there's only one thing she can settle on, one thing that is proper. "Perhaps we should say good night?"

Henri blushed. “Yes. Of course.” Though Sybil had initiated the kiss, he felt responsible for the uncertainty now bright in her eyes. Tread carefully here.

He pressed his lips to her forehead - briefly, chastely - and then stood. “This has been a lovely evening. As always. Thank you."

She's flushing as well, and feels awful knowing that it was her who started the kiss. If only Mary were here to talk to, Edith even. They could help her sort her thoughts and guide her, as right now she feels adrift and caught up all at once.

Sybil stands with him, taking his hand between her own. "It has been a wonderful evening. Will I see you again?"

“I certainly hope so,” Combeferre said, and laughed a little at his eagerness, ducking his head. “I- yes. If I have not- Alors, I hope I have not overstepped…"

"No, I should apologise for being caught up in it all," she says, offering a nervous smile. It's a relief that he isn't offended by her sudden ending of the evening. "But there are things, it's silly, I suppose we never did things like this when I am from. Dating, that is. We met people at parties or dinners, or simply knew them growing up. Then one day we'd get engaged and be married to someone."

Only she knows that's not what will happen to her, if what thomas has told her is true, and she's no reason to believe that it's a lie. If she does elope with Branson what does it say about her? And what does it say about the way Henri is winning her heart now? "I thought it would be simple, but it seems it's all rather complicated."

“It isn’t silly at all,” Henri assured her, He tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. “I cannot say I understand any of it better myself - what people might expect here, or... what you might expect.” He blushed a little and took a breath. “I suppose we will have to muddle through together, oui?"

"Yes, I think that we shall." Her agreement is shy and almost tentative but it is heartfelt. Her smile grows at the touch, just as it does each and every time he touches her so. "I have had a good night, honestly."

"As have I." He dropped her hands with a certain reluctance, though he was smiling. "But I should depart. I shall telephone you? Or- well, yes, I suppose that would be simplest, wouldn't it?"

"It would." She lets her fingers drift past his as they pull away, smiling at him as he does at her. "I would like it very much if you did. Especially if it means you use the telephone more often."

Combeferre chuckled softly. “Then you should expect my call.” He kissed her temple lightly - again, with careful chasteness. “Goodnight, cherie."

"Good night," she says softly, finally letting him leave and shutting the door quietly between them. The night was good but also a challenge to her, in ways that were completely unexpected.

A more modern sort of date

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