He pauses with a cigarette pinched between his lips, lighter fiddling between his fingers to shake his head. "Okay? I don't....want that? Fuck." His brow pinches low, frustration and concentration, as he lights up--drops the lighter in the console before cracking the window. Somewhere between the hot smoke and the cold air, his brain starts to settle. Back up. Be nice. Offer something.
"I had--I had this group of friends. In high school. Just--assholes, but they were my assholes, right? My dad fucking hated them, he'd never say it but...y'know no one's ever good enough. They probably woulda gone to college and we all woulda found new friends and girlfriends and all that, just..." His thumb raps the steering wheel as he takes a drag. "...just they all died. Were all--murdered. Serial killer who picked us cuz..."
Serial killers pick people for no fuck reason all the time. This is already more than Quentin likes to share with anyone, he can probably forego the gritty details--especially when they sound insane. He focuses on the grind of smoke along his tongue for a few thoughtful seconds, focuses till his eyes stop watering. "I got away. And I was so fucking lonely. If I had someone else, I would've...I dunno. Maybe I could go home.
Her eyes might be obscured, but Julie's expression is probably plenty clear despite that, a frown that only deepens as Quentin keeps talking. Confused, frustrated, annoyed. Why is he telling her all this?
"That sucks," in place of the 'I'm sorry' most people would offer, hearing about his friends. Because it's horrible and Julie's pretty sure some asshole picking off her friends would break her, it fucking sucks, but she's not exactly brimming with compassion at the best of times. The way he cuts himself off, stops himself from telling her why pings at her curiosity, but not enough for her to pry. Maybe it's some shred of respect, or maybe she just can't find it in herself to care, who could say?
"Dunno why you're telling me all this. I'm not your friend and I'm definitely not your fucking therapist." It's cold, the way she says it. Impassive. Slapping away the hand he's offering. If he needs people so bad, there's a town full of them. She has all the ones she wants.
She's a stone. Maybe that's the rub; he took her for icy and she's just straight up stone. Quentin laughs, no smiling, and shakes his head. "You're the one who keeps asking why. What's--in it for me." The cigarette is wasting next to the window as he swallows hard. He comes back hoarse, "So I'm fucking telling you. That's why I want to help, because it fucking--sucks."
And this sucks. His mouth shakes till he pinches it around what remains of his cigarette, frees up his hands to reach for the radio. "Whatever. You don't have to believe me." When he cranks the dial, the station is playing something bubblegum and electric. Quentin winces. "Jesus. Can you find something else?"
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"I had--I had this group of friends. In high school. Just--assholes, but they were my assholes, right? My dad fucking hated them, he'd never say it but...y'know no one's ever good enough. They probably woulda gone to college and we all woulda found new friends and girlfriends and all that, just..." His thumb raps the steering wheel as he takes a drag. "...just they all died. Were all--murdered. Serial killer who picked us cuz..."
Serial killers pick people for no fuck reason all the time. This is already more than Quentin likes to share with anyone, he can probably forego the gritty details--especially when they sound insane. He focuses on the grind of smoke along his tongue for a few thoughtful seconds, focuses till his eyes stop watering. "I got away. And I was so fucking lonely. If I had someone else, I would've...I dunno. Maybe I could go home.
"You need other people."
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"That sucks," in place of the 'I'm sorry' most people would offer, hearing about his friends. Because it's horrible and Julie's pretty sure some asshole picking off her friends would break her, it fucking sucks, but she's not exactly brimming with compassion at the best of times. The way he cuts himself off, stops himself from telling her why pings at her curiosity, but not enough for her to pry. Maybe it's some shred of respect, or maybe she just can't find it in herself to care, who could say?
"Dunno why you're telling me all this. I'm not your friend and I'm definitely not your fucking therapist." It's cold, the way she says it. Impassive. Slapping away the hand he's offering. If he needs people so bad, there's a town full of them. She has all the ones she wants.
no subject
And this sucks. His mouth shakes till he pinches it around what remains of his cigarette, frees up his hands to reach for the radio. "Whatever. You don't have to believe me." When he cranks the dial, the station is playing something bubblegum and electric. Quentin winces. "Jesus. Can you find something else?"