indie oc.
written by syrinx, she/her, 25+.
if julie checks her bank account today, there may or may not be an extra zero. however, left on the coffee table in her apartment, wrapped in cloth, are a selection of his mother’s music books tony found time to go and dig out of the mansion
The era of checking her bank account every day has passed. No longer does she check it first thing to decide if she can afford to splurge on an extra hot chocolate or bubble tea or to have breakfast in addition to dinner. If the backing fabric on her shoe wears away and reveals the hard plastic underneath, she doesn't take some of Manhattan Mocha's band-aids from the first aid kit to pad it just enough to stop chafing her ankle. Her tank tops and jeans aren't almost threadbare out of a desire to wear them out for as long as possible. She doesn't decline invitations to friend get-togethers because one fun excursion will threaten her entire budget. Ice soup is no longer on the menu.
There's one person she has to thank for that.
So she doesn't notice the balance.
However.
Now, she touches the cloth with soft, tentative fingers. Picks it open, gentle.
Stares at the music for a long time, sitting on the couch.
Then she goes for her phone.
[text] who taught u how to break and enter
[text] you could have been a weird stalker
[text] did you even ask if like you could come over today
[text] oh wait let me scroll up
[text] no.
[text] not even like a warning..
[text] ??
[text] where the fuck are you anyway
[text] just dropping stuff off without saying hi ??
#in my inbox#there's like#this one from 2020#and then immediately above it there's another birthday ask from u from 2021#i either answered all my asks from 2021 already#or i did nothing in 2021.........#milehighmechanic#ic#ic: main.#arc: three.#julie constantly reaches new tax brackets because tony is like :)
❛ in the span of your life there’s plenty to avoid: the wicked, the merciless, the things you want for no reason other than wanting them. ❜ from Andrew
"In theory," Julie says, not looking at him, "I understand what you're saying."
And there's truth to it! Avoidance is something Julie loves to do, and some could say she even has an intense level of self-control when it comes to things she wants versus things she needs. Maybe too much self-control. Needs become wants when that happens but don't lose their urgency. Maybe that's why Julie feels so hollow all of the time.
"But."
She drags her stare from the display to meet his gaze. Is plain and open and honest and calm in her expression, which is communicating. How much she wants it.
"I want it."
It, in this case, is the full rainbow spread of those little octopus plushies that have a smiley face but can be turned inside-out to be a different colour with a frown. There are seven plushies. And only winning seven times in a midway game prevents her from having this. Andrew, please understand. She wants it. Wants all.
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“What! What! You want me to die?”
He opens his mouth. Closes his mouth. Opens it again. “You know, if you killed me, I’d totally forgive you—” But fuck. The puddle!
Xeno stares at the ground. It’s impossible for him to disobey a direct order from Captain Julie. He holds his hand out and silently calls out to the cold.
It’s less a puddle and more a frozen sheet of ice that he makes. But, hey! Once it melts, it’ll be a pretty badass puddle. He points. “There! There! For you! No dying!”
The journey that plays across Julie's face is more than I could possibly write, so all I will say is that her eyes land on the ice puddle, then flicker away, and flicker away, and again flicker away. Her brow furrows.
Then she looks at Xeno. This look has not quite gone away.
She says, "Can you."
A pause.
She says, "Make. Puddles. At all?"
The journey that plays across Julie's face is more than I could possibly write, so all I will say is that her eyes land on the ice puddle, then flicker away, and flicker away, and again flicker away. Her brow furrows.
Then she looks at Xeno. This look has not quite gone away.
She says, "Can you."
A pause.
She says, "Make. Puddles. At all?"
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Julie says What so Xeno says, "What?" and now they're both going What What?
He blinks at her, twice like a cartoon, and then rapidly shakes his head. He's probably going to give himself an injury doing that sometime soon.
"No, no, no, no—not weirdly! Like, nicely. Like—romantically." (He is really talking to the wrong person about this, isn't he?) "Like, he was paying attention to me, like he made me feel like I'm someone worth paying attention to, you know? He's nice, Julie. He's really nice. Like, not nice is a bullshit way. He's good. "
Xeno may notice that her skepticism has not waned. In fact, it might have even grown!
She says, slowly, as if she is deeply considering her words: "And. Hhhhhhhhhh—ow? Long? Have you known this guy?"
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" — Now you're being coy." She's not saying it isn't working for her. But she can't be serious. Surely Julie knows what she's talking about! "Is it that you don't know, or you just want to hear me say it. Cos I don't do tricks unless I get treats." A tip of her glass. Hint hint.
The bar is so casual today that it lets her be casual, too. She taps her fingers against the wood of the counter, then says, candid: "Honestly. I think my opinion of myself is just. So low that I like. Desperately crave hearing about anyone else's. Positive opinion. You know?"
Though a faltering part of herself fears that now that she's admitted it, positivity will slip through her fingers as false dreams.
But! She will get Millie the drink! Looking down at it: "What did you get, again?"
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As Julie's gaze falls from his, Krou'Ahz sizes her up through burning eyes, as though to scry the words she wants to hear from her countenance alone. Nothing rises to the surface but a soft psychical murmuring, humming in his ears.
It's becoming clear to him that it's not enough to rely on his usual tricks; if he's going to win her heart, he'll have to change tack.
He scratches his beard, contemplating, then ventures, "I find it ... difficult to articulate what I am." All these millennia and words still somehow fail him. "But I know whatever I am, and whatever you are, we're cut from the same ineffable cloth. I could be your patron, a mentor, even a warlock — if you should ask it. And all I'm asking in return is your friendship and faith in me."
Here he drops a wink. "Leave the pacts to the devils to make."
There are a lot of things Julie could say to this. She just considers him from the corner of her vision. Him and his weird way of seeming to stare into her soul. What he finds, she doesn't know. But suddenly he is saying many things that make sense.
It's weird. It's a nice change of pace.
Julie opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
She says, tentatively: "Have you... considered... that... I might already. Have." A beat. Despite the risks, she continues anyway. "Teachers that. Are trying to help me with — my. Everything?"
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On some level, he knows it's a losing game. That by continuing to respond, he's playing right into her hand. The dignified thing to do would be to stop bartering and cut his losses, quit while he's ahead for heaven's sake, but the impulse is irresistible — like some sort of death instinct.
Everett decides to play one of the stronger cards in his hand.
"I sign your paycheques?"
If an image could fit the definition of scorn, it might be Julie's at this very moment. Disgust. Disdain! She says, lips curling: "Oh. Okay. Why would you bring something real into this? Are you, like, so fucking unoriginal that suddenly you have to remind me that I'm like. Successfully not homeless because of your generous, fucking, hourly wage?" A beat. "Like, okay, thanks, Boss, I rely on you to survive? Like, shit, dude."
She's still teasing him. By the way.
hey why does tumblr thread trimming hate me and me specifically, just wondering
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He returns the smile, his gaze touching hers briefly, then turns his attention to her posture. He adjusts the guitar first, moving it closer to her body on her hip, then pulling her right arm over it. Her arms are a bit shorter than his, more slender; he guides her elbow to rest just so, to let her right hand strum where it falls.
“What chords do you know? Any?”
Does anybody else think that in another scene, in another world, with another Julie, they might be so electrified by this touch that they just, like, start boning halfway through this impromptu lesson? Julie feels that spark when he touches her, with eyes and hands both, but her unfortunate ass is so ace that all she can think of being is quietly indignant at his insult.
"I do have a music degree or two," Julie says, feeling suddenly starved in her core, like something lonely and neglected inside of her has just remembered what it feels to be hungry. She says it with a flippant tone, like, duh. But then: "Um, on guitar, though? Umm, I know this one?" She strums at the open strings. Does a singular jazz hand after, with her strumming hand. Ta-da.
Does anybody else think that in another scene, in another world, with another Julie, they might be so electrified by this touch that they just, like, start boning halfway through this impromptu lesson? Julie feels that spark when he touches her, with eyes and hands both, but her unfortunate ass is so ace that all she can think of being is quietly indignant at his insult.
"I do have a music degree or two," Julie says, feeling suddenly starved in her core, like something lonely and neglected inside of her has just remembered what it feels to be hungry. She says it with a flippant tone, like, duh. But then: "Um, on guitar, though? Umm, I know this one?" She strums at the open strings. Does a singular jazz hand after, with her strumming hand. Ta-da.
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”shouldnt have been so wet and pathetic looking buddy. your own fault” - Julie @glacierfront
HAPPY BIRTHDAY. The gleaming black-wrapped present in his skeletal hands looks suspicious like a potato masher. Well, Julie never actually told him it wasn't a suitable present for a young lady. GO AHEAD, OPEN IT. OR DO YOU WANT A HINT FIRST? I'LL TELL YOU IT IS WHAT PEOPLE CALL A 'THROWBACK.'
Julie stares at the potato masher wrapped in paper.
She accepts the potato masher wrapped in paper. It's relatively nice paper. One would think that, being a being of a few hundred forevers or so, that a Death would be slightly better at wrapping presents. Well — at the very least, better at disguising it.
"It's..." She eyes the potato masher wrapped in paper. "A brand new gaming PC." A beat. "A hairbrush." A beat. "A gift card for a really nice. Spa." A beat. "An ice cream cone."
A smile has snuck up on her while she wasn't looking. Julie pulls delicately at one of the folds of the paper, slides her finger under. Prepares to feign surprise very poorly.
♝ : Reading a book together
"I don't think we should read this one. Actually."
It's everything she's ever wanted — someone who actually takes the time to be interested in her interests and also hang out with her the whole time she is showing them the interest! One day that will happen with me in real life, and someone will go through all of FFXIV MSQ with me, but it hasn't yet, so I live vicariously through Julie.
It's a cold, wintry night in the cabin that they've rented solely for the purposes of being in a wintry atmosphere. This is all well and good, except with the way the wind is shrieking and the porch light illuminates naught but a static screen through the frosting window and the way her nerves feel alight with energy, being snowed in would be a potential risk, if clearing snow from places were not her specialty.
Julie stares at the book in her hands. Stares at him. He looks very cozy, in his soft pajamas and perched on the ledge of the fireplace, which he has been dutifully tending for what seems like an hour now. What she likes most about how he looks is that it's all for her. She could say anything, she thinks, and he would be interested. Would look interested.
"It's just." She sighs. Looks at the book again. Sets it in her lap in another fake sigh. "The thing is — I'm not as — quick, you know. And this book has a lot of. Little nooks and crannies. I just think that. Like. Instead of being surprised by all the cool twists and turns of the book, you're going to be like — oh, I knew that the moment she wrote about, like, fucking, the gods or some braids or some shit."
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That sounds like a lot of information, to give of herself. And in truth… she doesn’t know. She hopes she is kind. And pleasant. There are scenarios in her head that she relives enough to know that she is not. She hopes she is brave, but is so easily, so constantly terrified that the very idea is laughable.
So then: maybe she needs an example?
“Why.” It sounds challenging, and might even seem it, with how she finally looks straight at him. “What are. You to you.”
He decides that if she wanted him to fuck off, she would just say that. She’s said it often enough before.
“I’m Odysseus,” he says, and smiles lopsided after another moment. “Storyteller.” Liar. “Musician. Traveler. Unappreciated royalty.” Husband, father, son. Soldier. Hero. Legend. “And what other people don’t know won’t hurt them; I certainly don’t let it hurt me when they read me wrong.” In fact, he lets it help him. He can seem to be what someone expects to see. What he isn’t willing to do is forget himself for it. “I always know who I am. I have to, or someone else will tell the story.”
"Someone else is gonna tell the story anyway, I think." I'm so mad that he told her straight up his name, again, and she's letting it slide, again. She follows his lopsided smile with a tilt of her head, a considering glance at his lips. "Especially if they're going to read you wrong. Which I think they will. They'll be like. Here's Odysseus, that piece of shit who, like, hated going to mid-tier restaurants and complained the whole time."
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Turning to him, she stares at his pockets, as if the mere act of doing so will reveal to him his pass, and thus save the day. “Did. You.” A beat. “Did someone…?” A beat. She glances up at him. The train is slowing, but she remains sitting for a moment longer. “Steal it? You had it — when we got on?”
“Yes.” Resigned. “I had it when we got on. I don’t know.” He’s checking his wallet now, but not for the ticket. Thoughts succeed one another too rapidly to finish sentences: “Probably just fell under… There’s still time to catch — Can you spot me a couple bucks?”
"—You don't have — money, either?" Did someone steal it? Julie is already taking out her wallet, fishing for bills. She doesn't use them so much these days, being more convenient to whip out a card, but she does try to keep a selection of cash for emergencies. Probably around $150, or so?
She stares at her assortment, then holds the flap open and presents it to him. "What do you need? Do you know what train we need to — catch?"