⋆˚꩜｡ Dreams of Another (Jolyne Kujo x Reader) ⋆˚꩜｡
ദ്ദി •⩊• ) RAAAAHHHH I SAID I WOULD POST HER AND I DID. This was a lot of fun to write, “everyone lives” AUs are usually fun but the group sadness potential. I would love to write more Jolyne.
Mentions: good ending AU (fuck you Pucci), Jotaro as a dad, you and Jolyne work at a diner together to afford your apartment.
“Hey, miss! Could I get another glass of water?”
“Excuse me, would you get me a new fork? I dropped mine on the ground.”
“For dessert, we’ll have this….”
“Oi, you forgot my beer!”
“I’ll show you where you can shov—“
“One minute, sorry sir!” You cut her off, smiling cheerily and gripping the green haired girl’s wrist. Gritting her teeth, Jolyne smiles too— the power of needing to keep this job, you think wryly. Against her flush cheeks, even with the clear annoyance in her eyes, the white teeth charm the pot bellied father of three into swallowing, straightening a little.
“Thank you. Chrissy, stop that!” He barks at the small pigtailed girl across the table, who uses the barely pigmented crayons to draw four-petal flowers on the faded formica.
She scowls and jams the crayon down onto the scribbled over kids’ menu, where it promptly breaks in two.
Before he can turn back to you two, you tug on your girlfriend’s arm and the two of you slip back behind the half full countertop, single men and young couples yammering back and forth and to the dead eyed Petey; whether the dead eyes were from whatever sharp thing dripped into his coffee or his single life at fifty six was yours to speculate on.
Grease stained slips of paper dangle from a small cord. They’re the perfect height to obscure the faces of the cooks as they shuffle back and forth, pans clattering, oil hissing, porcelain plates hitting metal, the soundtrack to their melody of yells and barked orders.
The green haired gal leans an elbow on the lip of the window and smacks the steel insistently.
The guy who started maybe three weeks before you two is the first to duck his head into view, the pimples at his temple sure to have friends soon with how much sweat streaked his face. He raises dark brows.
“What we got, Jolyne?” He asks in a thin voice.
“Need two more orders of the brownie a la mode to booth seven, and booth twelve has a birthday.”
A groan reverberates throughout the kitchen, not in echo, but in a rising chorus as each cook expressed their annoyance.
“You fuckers don’t have to sing at least!” You retort, and Jolyne nods in affirmation, shaking her head.
“Maybe, but I still gotta get out there because of it,” the guy at the window— Dominic, right, you remember, complains, and pulls down the birthday plate in its chipped-paint glory. It was almost gloomy, really, balloons that were faded and party hats missing chunks. “Jay wants us all to start coming out even if we’re on break.”
“Are you fucking serious?!” Jolyne almost yells, and you pinch her quickly. She shoots you a look.
“Keep it down,” you hiss. She rolls her eyes.
“C’mon, like anyone can hear with that speaker going.”
As if in reply, the ancient thing in the corner pops and makes each of you wince. Its coating of dust scatters, flutters down from it like snow. Each of you watch as it settles on the booth below it, in the seats, the awful sticky red vinyl. Jolyne and you look at each other.
“Dibs!” She cuts you off, and you groan.
“Ugh, I swear I’ve cleaned the last five times!”
“Get faster then,” Jolyne taunts, and you flip her off just beneath the counter.
The age of the diner had resulted in a strange dichotomy of customers. Jolyne and you chatted about it until the wee hours some nights after shifts, passing back and forth a bottle of margarita mix that was no longer just mix. Half of the menu was salty, greasy all-day breakfast that you each had indulged in probably too much (sometimes after drinking the aforementioned margarita, to ease that grumbling hangover) and half of it was the typical lunch and dinner fare with as much spice as flour. Geriatric couples and exhausted looking parents alike spilled in for the latter during the day, and drunken college students and fellow wage workers staggered in during the night for the former. Perfect cycle.
Pale blue, white and red had faded and yellowed to what some may call antique, but anyone who touched it could call old as fuck. Jay, the balding, red-toned guy who owned the place (everyone who worked there had a bet of whether it was hereditary or skin cancer related from laying out in front of his stupid beach house) refused to touch up the interior and claimed that the style was what had led to its success.
“We like to keep it retro, y’know?” He smiled. A gold tooth glinted on the left side of his face. You laid your hand on Jolyne’s thigh under the booth table to keep her from socking him during the interview, as his gaze laid solely on her chest.
It was exhausting. It paid the bills.
And it makes Jolyne grit her teeth as the other waitress on duty, Rea, sidles up beside her and clips up two more orders with chipping green nails.
“How’s it going?” you ask her.
With brown eyes dull as a stone that laid in a river for twenty years, she says flatly, “Living the fucking dream. Jo, you doing okay?”
“Fuckin’ peachy,” she mutters, sliding along the drink pourers and bar taps to pour the beer and water that were missing. Pop music continues to hum from above your heads, some soprano that you want to throw a cup at. Rea shakes her head and locks eyes with Dominic.
“More dessert orders coming in. One of the kids has a cherry allergy so don’t put the maraschinos on.”
“You hear that Jerry?” Dominic shouts to the wizened, bronze, bald figure bent over a section of toppings. He scowls.
“Rea, can you drop these off?” Jolyne pushes the plastic cups towards her. “Booths ten and two. I’m overdue for my fucking break.”
“Yeah, no worries,” the dark haired girl replies, and lightly nudges her. Pink and blue ink flex as Jolyne stretches her arms above her head and looks at you.
“Yep,” you say, and dust off your hands on your faded apron. Rea frowns.
“Hold on--” she starts, Jolyne lacing her fingers in yours, and striding ahead of you towards the exit door. You stumble only a hair and grin at the other girl’s irritated expression. “You can’t both--”
“I technically haven’t breaked yet either, y’know,” you reply. The other girl rolls her eyes. In the kitchen, Dominic’s laugh crackles against the deep fryer.
“Both you better get back in, gonna be timing that fifteen down to the letter you hear?”
“Unless you suck Jay’s dick, it won’t matter,” you mutter.
Jolyne laughs once the door bursts open-- tinkling bells that greet others signal your release and you both stumble down the cracked concrete steps, laughing into the night sky.
“Fuck,” she exhales, and whistles into the air.
No stars are visible from here. The streetlamps are too clustered. Flies hum around them in a discordant rhythm, blotting out the light in some spots, as Jolyne drags you around the side of the silver building.
Breathless laughs tickle her face, yours and hers alike. Green eyes meet yours.
“Shit,” she says, shaking her head and sliding a hand into her pocket for the cigarettes you know she keeps there. A thin one slides between her lips. She perks at you, offering one, and you take it even if you don’t feel like smoking at the moment. Brick stretches above each of yours’ heads-- the apartment building next to the diner, you’d checked out in case the prices were any better. No dice. And the guy offering was sleazier than your boss.
Gravel spatters dust on your shoes. You kick it.
“We have tomorrow off right?” you ask. Jolyne frowns, nods, inhales a puff of smoke before exhaling up into the sky. She rubs her toe in the alley path.
“Yeah, thank fucking god. That’s what, eight days in a row?”
“At least we have each other,” you croon, pseudo lovey-dovey. She flips you off, spurring a laugh.
Carefully, you watch her. The diner uniform is old as hell. Puffy sleeves with a skirt that would be considered workplace harassment at any reputable spot. Starched seersucker is classless, rash-colored in its stripes rather than the vibrant crimson you were sure it was forty years ago. Admittedly, she’s cute in it. With her Mickey-Mouse buns, she got quite a few tips.
“Yeah,” you concede. “Cute diners look way better in fiction.”
“There aren’t dicks like that guy there.” She blows smoke out with a scowl. “Sure you should be drinking when you’re driving your kids around? Total ass. His wife wasn’t there either.”
“Divorce sounds too easy though,” you muse, and pluck a stick of gum from your pocket.
“Yeah, I bet it’s something much weirder.”
“Maybe she was sick and we’re overthinking.”
“Or he was worried about coming in,” she counters.
“As if we could be mean about that.”
“None of our business either way.” A sigh leaves your lips. Cool brick presses against your tilted back head— the sky is flat, a blanket of black tinted purple the closer the corners got to the roofs of skyscrapers. Gasoline and burnt rubber meet your nose, coupled with the high pitched whine of tires that dissolve into the rhythm of night— horns in the distance, nonsense chatter, scattered pebbles, stamping feet and far away dogs who howl to no one in particular.
Carefully, without looking at her, you remark, “Shit puts things into perspective.”
She frowns, rubs her thumb over the orange filter paper on the outside. “Huh?”
How on god’s green earth were you supposed to talk about the events of six months prior? The whirl of the world. That fear in the eyes of the woman who you trusted the most, as the grasp of eternity threatened to lock upon her. An echo lingers there when you continue. You rub your toe in the dirt. “Lot has happened.”
“Moving shitty apartments and all that, yeah,” she replies. But her voice shakes a bit. The cigarette in her fingers threatens to drop to the ground.
Immediately, you dodge into another land mine.
“Nope.” Despite her best efforts, her voice raises at the end of the syllable. Fingers shake around the cigarette.
Jolyne has her mother’s eyes. Her hair, and soft cheeks. But the pain in her eyes— that haunted look. Echoes of men decades, a century more removed from her, lingered in the crevices of her body.
No matter who she clung to, no one could drain her of the accursed Joestar blood; no one could take it from her, not even you, no matter how you tried.
And even now, you reach out. Or at least open yourself. She looks up at you from where her spine has curled slightly on itself over the orange embers and her eyes soften.
“C’mon, JoJo,” you murmur. “Our break isn’t that long.”
The rarely invoked nickname spurs something, because her irises shimmer and Jolyne curses as her arms wrap tightly around you. Wiry, strong— every bit of her trembles. As if you could feel each strand of Stone Free woven to her flesh. You hug her back, hands at the middle of her back, and laying your head on her firm shoulder: strawberry shampoo, and honey soap.
A lump bulges in your throat before you swallow.
“It’s longer than what you think,” she mutters, and bumps her forehead against yours lightly.
You nuzzle into her. “It is. Sorry.”
“He said… he’d pay for us to visit,” she says hesitantly. Your eyes widen.
Jaden eyes meet yours before turning away. She was cute when embarrassed, even when her brows were furrowed like this, but— dammit, you sigh, and push your hair back. You peck her forehead.
“I’m so down to visit New York. Is your dad also gonna cover the days we don’t get paid, either?”
“I’m sure if I asked, he would….” Jolyne pushes her cheek into your shoulder and frowns. It’s almost unfair, the adorable heart shape of her lips when she pouts. A girlish face, despite her strength.
Guilt pushes at your chest, and you kiss her.
Jolyne hums in satisfaction, and pushes up against your lips. Vanilla chapstick coats the soft skin as you lean into her your bodies melting into the other.
“We don’t have to go. And of course we can figure it out if he doesn’t.”
With pink cheeks, the girl glares at you as if asking how dare you cut the moment off. The both of you swaying for a moment, hands settled carefully on each others’ hips, you relax.
Gray gravel crunches underfoot.
“Yeah,” you whisper. Every bit of you warms.
And the woolen weight of the night, in all its sounds and sights settles upon your shoulders for a moment. Not light. Hardly even soft, for how new it was, and yet, comforting. Blinded by different lights. Riding down new streets.
No matter how, the future would approach. Lovingly. Patiently.
The edge of a braid tickles your nose as she straightens, and Jolyne frowns towards the end of the alley.
As she starts, you watch her pupils blow out and brows narrow before stomping towards the end of the alley where you came.
“JoJo?” You ask, following after her long strides. God, were you actually rubbing off on her with the “worried about being earlier” thing? Even according to your busted ass phone— a few weeks ago, you’d noticed somehow the stupid thing got three minutes behind— you still had time.
But as you get closer, your eyes widen.
“It’s the end of our shifts. You couldn’t have had worse timing!” The green and gold haired girl yells, stomping her foot on the cracked sidewalk in protest.
In response, tossing black braids back, shoving her hands into her jean pockets and grinning, Hermes shrugs.
“Welcome to my fucking life. Ages three and up.”
“No one else?” You ask, sneaking a hug from Hermes. Cinnamon and oak tickle your nose.
“FF is sleepy tonight, Weather’s out on a date and he gets weird. Don’t fucking ask me what Anasui is up to,” Hermes says with a scoff.
“Awful fucking timing,” Jolyne reiterates.
“I’ll get you twos dinner the next two nights?” Hermes offers. Her cutout collar tee slides down her shoulder, and you perk, glancing back at Jolyne. She shakes her head.
“So not worth it.” The girl mutters.
“We’re off tomorrow, let’s at least rest!” You almost throw your hands into the air in exasperation. Jolyne sticks her tongue out. You do the same.
The squabbles fall to the ground with the same weight as dandelion seeds. As the diner bell chimes, somewhere far off, a wave crashes, a cloud rolls, and the earth moves, stuttered occasionally— but steady, caringly, as your beloved and you let the tides carry you without grudge.
