minnesota winters don't compare to the california sunrating.
juno macguff, michael bluthoriginally written.
march 19, 2008spoilers/warnings.
crossover, and really vague spoilers for both (like it's helpful to have seen them to kind of understand things but nothing really specific)summary. today is just like yesterday and just like she imagines tomorrow until that jerk runs his bike into her case scattering loose ones and glittering change across the gray pavement.disclaimer.
i own nothing, fox apparently owns the world, but i own nothing at all.for. sparkfading
for her birthday, happy 18th sweetie!! you're awesome!
LA is warm and sunny, not really all that different from home (except in all the ways it is) except its warm, and she likes that.
She plays her guitar on a sunny corner of the boardwalk in New Port Beach and manages to squish her face into a smile whenever someone drops a few quarters into her open guitar case.
Her parents call to check up and ask about school; she lies and says everything’s fine – never mind she dropped out three weeks ago and sleeps on her old roommate’s (ex) boyfriend’s couch and eats maybe a meal a day.
She plays a gig at a downtrodden and glum club every once and a while, and the patrons smile sadly and nod knowingly as if they’ve all be there before, and she thinks they all might have been.
Today is just like yesterday and just like she imagines tomorrow until that jerk runs his bike into her case scattering loose ones and glittering change across the gray pavement.
He’s dressed in a suit (brown) and he apologizes profusely as he bends down to help recover her scattered fortune.
She opens her mouth to say thanks for nothing, asshat, except then she sees his face and she swallows all her words.
“Look, I’m really sorry about that. I was just trying to catch my son before he closes up the Banana Stand for the night, but,” he looks out into the setting sun, “I’m too late now.”
She says his name because she can’t think of anything else to say even though she knows he doesn’t have a son (and he would never wear such a square brown suit). “Mark?”
“What?” He half smiles, and it softens his face in a way she’s never seen. “No, no, my name’s Michael. Michael Bluth.”
“Juno MacGuff.” She offers his hand, and he takes it, hand sticky with grit from the cement and sweat from the bike handle.
He hands over the money he retrieved from the ground and apologizes again.
He peddles off, away from the beach and her life, and she decides tomorrow she’s going to find somewhere else to be, somewhere else that’s not New Port Beach because she left her past behind (with tears and snow and pain).
And it’s warm in LA and there are a thousand beaches just like this one where she can set up her guitar case never see not-Mark-Loring ever again.
Never.There actually is more but I want to have something completed before the end of your birthday today here, dear.