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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"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?"