Freak Scene [Jonny Greenwood x Fem Reader]

1: How Soon is Now?

You give your hair one final wring, letting the burgundy dye drip into the bathtub below. The color you had chosen makes your bathroom look like a murder scene, though the dark red suits you just fine. Wrapping a towel gingerly around your body, you resume the monotonous task of scrubbing the blood reminiscent dye off your hands.

Before you can fully cleanse your hands of the stain, the frustrating sound of a ringing phone cuts through the air. Huffing loudly, you turn the sink off and make your way to the small end table that your house phone resides on.

"Y/n?" The voice on the other end asks, a hint of unease audible through the way they repeat your name. You're hit with the sudden realization that the voice belongs to your boss, his cockney accent immediately recognizable.
"Oh, hello sir." You respond robotically, trying your best not to seem disinterested, though you couldn't care less for whatever job he was going to offer.

"I'm afraid I need your help.." He starts, taking a long pause for what you can only imagine is a long drag on his cigar.
"Charles was s'posed to do this article on a band. Radiohead, I think they're called. Have you heard 'em? They're quite popular in Oxford." Your boss continues, his smooth voice reminiscent of one of those radio show hosts from your childhood.

"I don't think I've had the pleasure." You respond with a shitty attempt at concealing your annoyance. He clears his throat nervously but tries to mask it with a low chuckle, it's easy to tell that he wasn't content with your response.

"Well, Charles is ill and can't attend the concert tonight, and I was thinkin' that this could be your chance to shine. We'd be needin' an article, interview, and photos, all of which I reckon you can handle, eh?" Your boss requests, beginning to pique your interest.

Your presence at the newsroom you worked at was far from important, despite you being a consistent hard worker, your boss was too infatuated with your snobby male coworkers to take notice. While your usual pessimistic attitude remained, part of you wanted to believe him, that maybe you could finally get an ounce of respect at work.

"What time?" You question into the receiver, now balancing awkwardly on your toes as you await a response.
"10:00. Show's 'bout an hour long." He states firmly as if reading off a list of instructions.
"I'll take it. Thank you, sir." You accept his offer nervously, praying to god that it won't be a waste of time.

"Pleasures all mine, darlin'. I expect good work from you." Your boss says before punctuating his sentence by hanging up on you. Huffing slightly, you drop the phone back into its base, feeling a strange mix of dissatisfaction and accomplishment.

A quick glance at the clock reveals that you have almost two hours to get ready, which is more than enough time. You start with scrubbing the remaining dye off your hands carefully, not wanting the band's first impression of you to be a potential murderer.

When deciding what to wear, you're reminded that the venue is a proper mess, or at least it was when you'd seen a band called Magazine a few years back. Regardless of whatever state the venue was in, you thought that you couldn't go wrong with wearing a sweater, a denim skirt, and sheer black tights.

After adding a few jewelry items, you felt strangely content enough to focus on your least favorite part of getting ready, makeup. You'd never been taught the correct technique of applying makeup since your mother wasn't around for much of your childhood. So you only did what was considered the bare minimum.

Concealer, mascara, eyeliner, and eyeshadow were the only products in your collection, all of which you didn't exactly know if you were using correctly. Despite the circumstances, you applied a little of everything, ending up with a messy, smudged look that complimented the shagged state of your hair.