Visceral | Community | Jeff/Annie
Visceral
Community, jeff/annie
Jeff agrees to a night of babysitting. Of course that decision comes back to haunt him. Thus, Annie comes to save him not only from a crying baby, but also the growing loneliness inside of himself.
But then a slobbery baby and a wide-eyed cardigan-wearing twenty-something entered his apartment. And things changed.
Visceral
So now he’s aware that babies are a mess of skin and bodily functions and just lots and lots of crying. The fact is that Jeff Winger, the man with the freshly ironed pants, the man who outwitted and stumped the law world for many years, that same Jeff Winger is clueless about babies.
Of course, he thought it would be easy. And he was wrong (which he is finding out more and more he seems to be).
But when Shirley asked him with her big smile and large brown eyes, if he wanted to watch over the kid, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Sure. Yeah. What, it’s just like a littler version of Leonard? He poops, he pees, all in his pants. Feed him macoroni. Should be easy.”
Shirley gives him this look, that Shirley-look, where the smile dissolves quickly into a deep serious frown. She says quickly, all in her deep voice, “I know you not comparing my child to no pervy, lollipop-hoarding, macoroni-stealing geriatric. Are you, Jeffrey?”
He quickly recovers, says, what the hell. Trust me, Shirley. If I can win a case involving a corporation suing their employers for putting too much into their retirement, I can handle a baby for seven hours. And so Shirley only gives him the stink-eye once and then leaves him alone, happy to have a couple hours of respite even though she guards that child like something very breakable and very hers.
Here’s the truth though, the sad, pathetic truth about Jeff Winger: he has been alone most of his life. Not just in a way that most people are, where you have to be alone. A quick lunch. The minutes right before nodding off to sleep. Those adolescent years when you think no one likes you. No, Jeff Winger, even from the early years of skinned knees and aching growing limbs, has been very and terribly alone. His mother, although a strong woman who constantly had to answer questions about fathers and money to her small wide-eyed son, was always on the move to make things better. Medical-coding classes, long into the night. Late dates with loan officers who drove fancy cars and always looked at him like a dirty puppy and insisted on calling him “scout.” And later, in his teenage years, dinner parties where she came home smelling of cheap wine, cigarettes, and an odd man’s cologne who she said was going to be, “their new roommate, buddy.” After her new husband, who pretended it was okay to refer to himself as Jeff’s “Uncle Ross,” he spent every night waiting for that girl to call him back, or hoping that his mother would come home heartbroken but ready for her son’s love for once, or just hoping that the world would just implode on him so that all would be a black nothing rather than this deep hole inside of him that he thought was normal. So, the fact is that, until Greendale, until this group of six crazy, socially psychopathic yet entirely lovable people came into his life, Jeff Winger had learned to simply accept the silence of his life.
But babies weren’t silent. Babies were very, very unsilent.
And this baby was no exception to that rule. As soon as Shirley dumped the pile of flesh and diapers on his floor, the kid started making this sound. Or sounds. A plethora of sounds.
“Oh, Jeffrey, she’s an angel,” she had said, laughing with her big Shirley-grin, which quickly dissolved when she noted, “But if she isn’t, there’s formula in the diaper bag, including her organic diapers and baby wipes...”
“Organic diapers?” He asked, as a large vinyl bag plastered in giraffes wearing party hats was shoved into his arms. “Isn’t what they put in it organic enough?”
Shirley ignored him and instead rummaged through the bag, pulling out various bottles, stuffed animals, and many many many diapers, “... and if she seems like she’s hungry, she is not. She is a liar, Jeffrey. Do not listen to her. She just wants to be held. So, if she starts crying, it might be the colic, it might be because she’s hungry, but the real reason is probably because she just wants to be held. Momma spoiled her like that. Didn’t she, honey?” And with a quick couple smiles at baby, and a little bit of cooing and finally shoving Shirley out the door with a, “Listen, Shirley, if I can manage to keep Pierce from making ethnic slurs about the Romani people, then I can make sure a baby doesn’t sit in its own poo” the two of them were alone. And for awhile, it was fine despite the slobber and the gurgling and all that other baby stuff.
But here in lies the problem: the baby is crying, and Shirley is right. The baby just wants to be held, Jeff can tell. There are huge tears dewing on her eyelashes and she has crawled to his feet and is staring at him, making little hiccup noises. He can see her two tiny fists; one is clutching his pant leg, and the other is reaching towards him, reaching, reaching, reaching.
No, here’s the actual problem. It’s not that the baby is crying, because Jeff Winger has dealt with crying before (his mother, ex-girlfriends, his own reflection). It’s not the diaper changing or the feeding, because he has had both fraternity brothers and a small ex-Spanish teacher with an affinity for needing nurturing invade his apartment before. It’s not the tears and slobber and the little spit-bubbles that explode from her mouth like she is boiling from the inside. It’s not any of those things. It’s the fact that Jeff Winger, the self-made man, the man with the Italian hand-crafted faucets, the man with the imported luxury car, with the looks, the whole package, that man doesn’t know how to hold a human being. Not in this way. Not in the way that demands just holding, no other motives, just holding and keeping close. Holding with the most purest and strangest non-intentions.
He looks at her with terrified eyes, and the two hold each other in their gazes for more than a second. Her eyes, shiny in tears, stare at him and he just looks down at her and whispers, “Sorry. I’m so sorry.”
And then the crying starts again and he still doesn’t know what in the world to do.
So he texts her.
He knows her shouldn’t do it, because he’s sure the next second that everyone from the study group will be texting him advice and then all of them will show up, loud and noisy and bossy and then someone will pull the fire alarm and then Shirley will show up perturbed and yelling about how you can’t let, “no white man babysit a child, you should have known that Shirley Bennet, but you never learn, do you now?”
But that doesn’t happen. Instead, there is a slight knock at the door, only the most timid of sorts. He rushes to it, peers through the peephole, expecting to see a gaggle of oddly-arranged people of various heights, sizes, and colors. But instead, he sees only her figure, small and nervously holding her arms across her chest.
He opens the door, slowly, peeking only his head around the ajar part. The crying is heard behind him and she sees her widen her already huge eyes. All he can manage is a small-voiced, “Hi.”
And instead of laughing at him, accusing him, yelling at him for the baby sitting on his floor bawling its eyes out, she looks back at him, gives him her crooked smile and says, “Hi.”
For only a second the crying stops, but in that one second he realizes that his heart has been broken a little bit. Because it could have been the second that somebody poked the smallest and most vulnerable part of Jeff Winger, poked it so hard and without mercy he would have had no defense. And she, Annie Edison, the seeker of all wrongs, the one who never faltered from perfection with a discipline that verged on terrifying, she only smiled at him with a look in her eyes that said, “I know.”
And it broke him. In a good way. Like the way the skin peels away from a healed burn or a joint sliding back into place.
Of course, Annie Edison is still Annie Edison, captain of the overly-prepared. She has brought her own duffel bag full of: two realistic nipple bottles, two teething rings, a boo-boo bunny, a rattle, a stuffed giraffe (the giraffe motif had apparently been a thing he had forgotten to pick up on), and a couple packages of diapers that, “I think will fit her, but I went ahead and bought a couple different sizes just in case, you know?” She is briefing him all with it, rolling up her sleeves and he has to stop her, literally physically stop her.
He takes ahold of her shoulders and shakes her and says, “Annie, listen. This whole artillery of baby products exists tenfold in Shirley’s bag. I’ve tried them all. Rattles. Chewy toys. Diaper changes. A thousand story books including one that makes you feel better about pooping. The kid is obviously needing to be...” And he stops, watching her eyes. She is staring at him with expectation, and when he says, “.... needing to be held” she blows out a little burst of air from her lips. Very slowly, she looks from him to the baby, who is sitting with her hands wrapped around the stuffed giraffe already, squeezing its little head, and staring at them with hiccuping little gasps. Her pig tails are uneven and her face is covered in a combination of dried and fresh snot. His hands are still on her shoulders when he turns from the baby to her and sees that she is just as terrified as him. And all he can manage is, “Yeah. She definitely just wants to be held. Yeah.”
It’s in her terrified gaze that she sees his own life, spread out before him painfully. The long nights alone or in being ignored in Hebrew School. The acne scars that left her ostracized from friends, dates, dances. The pills that kept her, for once, feeling in control until they rebounded and left her dizzingly isolated, running through glass plate windows and segmented from her family like a dead limb might be cut away. It’s in her terrified gaze that Jeff realizes that Annie Edison has lead a life of being alone and estranged as well, and even though years and distance separate them, there is a core part of them that feels about the same. And maybe that’s why it seemed right to call her of all people. Because in this moment, he knows, she will see the terror in having to simply hold something. Something so fragile it might crumble in your hands like a sand dollar. In this moment, Jeff Winger understands Annie Edison and Annie Edison understands Jeff Winger on a level that is completely fundamental to the core of their being.
But she’s Annie Edison. He knows she can be far braver then him.
And, in this moment, she is. It’s only a few seconds between when he says this to her and when Annie crosses the room in a few quick steps. She hardly even thinks about it when she lifts the baby up, into her arms, putting her hand underneath her legs and drying up the tears and snot and a little bit of throw-up with the back of her hand.
It takes a little bouncing and at some point she starts singing this odd little Jewish tune, but eventually the baby stops, stares at her with the large brown eyes. His apartment is suddenly hushed. The only sounds are Annie talking nonsense and the baby sucking happily on the furry giraffe’s ear while she eyes Annie’s talking mouth with an amused expression.
All he can do is watch, still standing by the door, as she sits herself on the couch and bounces the baby on her knee. Like they do in movies. Its like exactly in the movies, she’s like something out the movies with her cardiganed body and her combed shiny hair. And her voice, calming and sweet. And slightly terrified.
“She likes you,” he says quietly, trying not to break the hush that has fallen over the room. There is a part of him that’s afraid that he will break it in another way, break something far more delicate. Like he’ll break this moment where she understands him, like somehow she has crossed into the territory of the people who can hold. Those people. Basically, everybody. But him.
However, instead of frowning at him, instead of calling him a wimp and a typical dude, instead of rolling her eyes, she looks up at him with that look that only she can give him. No one else but her looks up at him like this, as if his compliments actually mean something. Like they aren’t just lawyer crocodile grins or syrupy bullshit, but serious good things have just come out of him and she believes him. That’s maybe what makes her different from other girls: she believes him. There are many things to say about Annie Edison, not all good of course, but one thing is that he finds something glowing in him every time she looks at him when he has said something genuinely meaningful. And he loves the group, loves them more than he has loved anybody in his whole life, but they meet his stare sometimes one eye at a time. Abed doesn’t want his true conversations. Britta, forever skeptical, will never trust the simple, “You look nice today” under the basis that it’s got a hidden sexist agenda. Troy might accept a kind word, but he'd accept a compliment from Starburns (and also feels it necessary to relate it back to “butt-stuff”), and Pierce acts like everything he says is a direct threat towards his penis. So.
So, it’s something to say that Annie, despite her anal-retentive pen borrowing procedure (complete with sign in-sign out book) and her buttoned-to-the-collar cardigans, actually believes him when he says something genuine. And it flatters her, all the way down to her toes. He can actually see it, like his words have flowed through her body like a good drink.
“You think she does?” she asks, her voice soft. “You think she actually likes me?”
“Yeah.” He walks a couple steps closer, risking it. But the baby just looks at him. She recently decided that a pacifier sounded like a great idea, so she sucks away on it happily, watching him like she finds nothing more entrancing. “You, Annie Edison, are what they call a natural. Sure you haven’t been raising a couple half-hippie kids with Vaughn right under our noises?”
“Ew,” She says before crumpling her nose up at him. “Don’t be gross, Jeff. Besides, Vaughn is happily involved with a sweet young lady in Vermont named Honeysuckle.” At his raised eyebrows, she says quickly, “Which I’m sure is her real and birth-given name rather than the one she chose for herself upon completion of her facebook profile.” The two of them stare at each other before laughing. It feels good to laugh, all the way to his bones. The tension that has been heavy in his shoulders suddenly disappears and he finds he is laughing heartily. A true laugh.
The baby lets out a little screech, touching Annie’s smiling face. Annie, shocked, suddenly stops laughing and looks at her with wide-eyes.
He stops laughing too, and adds, “I think you’ve got another member of the Annie Edison fanclub.”
She looks up at him, frowning. “Another member?”
She has caught him, and Jeff knows it. He feels like a deer in the headlights for a second, suddenly not able to find a clear quick answer that can wittily fall off his tongue. So instead, he shrugs and mumbles, “I never said it was a large fanbase. More of a cult following.” He walks over towards her, where she’s sitting on the couch. He sits down himself before angling his legs so that he can look at her at from what he hopes is an indifferent-stance. “More cult than following now that I think about it.”
“Hah-hah.” Annie rolls her eyes and when Jeff laughs at this, the baby laughs. Raising an eyebrow, he laughs again. The baby laughs, this time giving a little off-clap of her hands before sticking one of her fingers in her nose and looking at him intensely, expectantly. Annie gives him a meaningful look, one that indicates that she has figured out the answer to something he hasn’t questioned. Not yet. And that look scares the living crap out of him.
“She likes you,” she says, slowly, like she is piecing a puzzle together. “She likes you. That’s why she started crying in the first place. She likes you and she wants you to hold her and you wouldn’t do it. And it broke her! You broke her!” She says this all rather quickly, as if its coming out of her from a pressurized inside place. Like something pent up has sprung a leak. Annie turns towards him, looks him right in the eye, and says, “She wants you to hold her, Jeff. You should hold her. She likes you.”
It happens quickly. He doesn’t have time to think, really. But what can go through his mind, not in an organized, logical fashion, is: Jeff Winger does not do babies, Jeff Winger does not hold fragile human beings, Jeff Winger doesn’t think that a human life should be held much like a football player holds a football, and Jeff Winger believes that snot belongs in your nose and not running dry down your face and almost in your mouth. Basically, Jeff Winger thought he had no real feelings about babies other than he wasn’t involved in that world, that world of diapers and onesies and cooing. But now it’s falling into his arms quickly and with a small amount of force, a pile of too soft skin and fat and that distinctly baby smell of powder and spit.
For a second, he remains so still and so silent that it feels like the world stops. Like the air has been sucked from the room and all the sounds and feelings in the universe are contained only in the thudding of his heart and the little voice in his head saying, Oh no, oh no, oh no, ohnoohnoohno.
Annie is silent too, and when he manages a glance in her direction, she looks like she is holding her breathe heavy in her lungs. She slowly looks up at him, and he sees suddenly in her eyes that there’s something more to him just holding Shirley’s baby right now. Because sure, they care about the baby. Sure they do. But right now, in this moment as the baby falls in his arms like the way someone you love falls into a hug, the way the missing piece falls into place, this is the moment where she seems to say to him, “You’ve got to know. You’ve got to know that it’s okay. It’s okay to just trust yourself. You’re can trust yourself, Jeffrey. You can trust yourself to not be alone.”
And then the baby laughs, delightedly. She bounces gleefully before swatting him in the face with a flat, oddly-damp fist.
“Ow,” he says, rubbing his chin and grinning down at her.
Annie laughs before shaking her head in admiration. “I knew I liked her for a reason.”
And he smiles, looks down at the baby, who is grinning up at him with this wide gummy smile and suddenly he finds something inside of him fall apart, like this hard small ball inside of him, one that he always thought was cold and knotted and never going away, this piece of him suddenly unravels or perhaps crumbles away like sand. It alarms him, shocks him really, and it almost takes his breath away. Because Jeff Winger always thought that he was pretty constant, that there wasn’t much that could change him. But the baby smiles that gummy smile and something breaks and before he has really any time to dwell on thinking, Right now, I’ve changed, Annie’s knee presses tight against his thigh while she leans in and says, “See? I told you she liked you.” Her eyes, saucer-wide, flutter towards him and she says, “It’s been you she’s been wanting to hold her. All along.” And when she smiles, she really smiles. Not that Annie-political smile that she puts on to make people think she’s happy - he’s seen that one before and he knows it well. No, it’s not that kind of smile coming out of her now, it’s a real one, one that flows right from the middle of her, because her lips quiver a little when she says, “She’s been waiting you to hold her for a long time.” And then she seems to catch herself, because she literally jumps, and her leg is almost on top of his. Quickly, she mumbles, “I mean, almost all night. That’s a long time in baby-time.”
He laughs, because he finds that part of him has stared at her in that way he does when he finds he is drawn in, like she’s got a rope around the middle of him and is pulling him slowly but surely towards her. So he’s got to laugh, and when he does the baby laughs and soon all of them are laughing, him, Annie, baby, them three.
Later, they are constructing the makeshift plastic crib that Shirley sent along in a canvas bag that takes up most of the kitchen counter space. It’s huge and complicated, but Annie sits in the middle of the floor and manages to construct it by following very methodically and with pain-staking accuracy the instructional manual.
And while they’re constructing the fifty-five step portable crib, something crazy happens. The baby, still in his arms, falls dead asleep. There is a trail of slobber that runs from her lower lip to his arm, but he finds that he can hardly think to move himself let alone go ahead and move her away from his arm. Also, deep inside of Jeff Winger, where the cold hard part crumbled away, there’s something else growing. Right now, it feels tight, like something being bound around him, like something might squeeze him until he cries. So, he simply watches as Annie finishes the crib and refuses his half-hearted requests to help with a dismissive wave of her hand, that she’s got this and, not with the baby sleeping like it, Jeff Winger.
When she’s finally finished, he lays the baby in the crib. She stirs for a second and the two of them hold their breathes, as if in a second the silence will be broken with a loud, piercing scream. But then, the baby shifts and falls dead asleep again, her tiny chest going in, then out, slowly, perfectly.
Annie reaches down, parts the hair on the baby’s forehead. She smiles, this long smile before she turns to him and says, “Well. I guess you’re good to go. Now,” She walks a quick couple steps over to Shirley’s bag before rummaging through it and taking out various items with a flourished, “remember this if she wakes up. And this if she seems hungry...” and so on and so forth.
“Yes. I get it,” He says after what seems like an endless tirade of the theoretical index of How to Not Kill a Baby. “Hungry, feed. Poop, change. It’s all some pretty logical stuff. It’s good practice for Pierce anyway.”
She laughs, nods her head before crossing her arms across her chest. There is this stretch of silence between the two of them as if she’s trying to figure out exactly what to say, as if she’s waiting for him to fill in the blanks of the room. And, yes, he wants to say something, but he’s not sure what. Because thanks feels kind of flat and useless right now, and everything else, well. He just can’t get it out, can’t quite figure out how to make it come out. Basically, there’s a lot to say between the two of them, he knows that. He’s known that for awhile now.
It’s her that finally snaps out of the quiet, saying, “Well, I guess you’ve got everything under control. I guess I’ll get out of the two of your all's hair.” Her voice is sheepish and strange, as if she’s saying something she thinks is the right thing to say, but she’s not sure really. As if she doesn’t know how to get across what she really wants to say so she’ll stick to default sentences, to pleasantries.
She’s got her car keys out and smiling her good-bye smile, so he knows his time is running out and he could say all the things he needs to say, but he just grabs her arm and asks, “Hey. I...” and she’s looking at him with those eyes that seem to be shocked and expectant all at the same time. He feels himself falling flat and so he grabs onto the one thing he can remember and that’s, “... why did you come over? I mean, yes, I texted you, but I mean. Jeff Winger, in a potentially hilarious position with a crying, snot-filled baby while he sits petrified and his hair is askew, which is totally against everything he believes in.” She laughs, folds her arms across herself and looks up at him with wide eyes. She’s waiting for him to finish, he can tell. “So, basically. You know. Thanks. But seriously. Why didn’t you text the rest of the gang and have them come over with cameras and guns a-blazing? I know that Pierce would have loved to see me crying in the corner like a little girl. I think it would validate most of his theories about me. And, let’s be honest, I haven’t always been prince charming to you. I’ve actually been a pretty unmitigated ass most of the time. And that’s being nice. So, seriously, why did you come over? I mean, thanks, but seriously?”
Annie laughs, or more chuckles, and then shrugs her shoulders. Her eyes rest on his for a few brief seconds, holds him there, and she says, “Let’s just say that I know what it’s like to have my back against the wall, thinking I was about to. You know, explode? Yeah, something like that. I mean, you have heard the story about me running through windows and being hauled off in a van with no windows, right?” He tries to look surprised, but it fails, and so she simply laughs before saying, “I don’t know. I mean, it would serve you right, having this up on youtube by the morning. Because you, Jeff Winger, are a pain in the ass sometimes. But, you know. There’s a part of you that I get. Maybe the pain in the ass part? Because, let’s be honest, Annie Edison isn’t the easiest girl to deal with. She’s anal and naïve. And she’s also obsessed with, you know, not failing,. And when her back’s against the wall and failure is staring her right in the eyes, and she’s about to rip out all her hair or slip into a mental breakdown where she can’t stop sobbing uncontrollably, there’s a certain unmitigated ass who always seems to pull her out of it. And so, you know, maybe I came over tonight because I felt sorry for you.” She grins at him like a Cheshire cat, but then the smile fades and her eyes become serious and dark and something else, he can’t tell because he can hardly breathe, “And maybe I came tonight because I know you, Jeff. And that sounds silly, okay, but. But, you know I love you. I mean, everyone does. You’re Jeff Winger. You’re the wonder boy of Greendale. But, sometimes I feel like maybe they don’t see what I see because I’ve got it too.” She touches his chest, right where the cold thing crumbled and where the knot burns as hot as her hand. “It’s right here. It’s the spot that cares too much. And not in the same way Britta does, because Britta is better than us. She cares because deep down she really cares. It’s a perfectly selfless sort of thing. I get that. But you know, we care. It’s different though. We care because failure means letting other people down, and we’ve never really had other people. Not really. Both of us have... been alone. You know? Not solitary, but alone kind of people. And now that we’ve got those people around us, we don’t want to blow the one thing we’ve got. It’s a selflessness I guess. I mean, you’re not as selfish as you think, Jeff. I’ve seen the parts of you that you think everybody doesn’t see. And so, that’s why I came tonight. Because I know you. Better than you think. Because you’re sort of like me. Because you’re a little bit of Annie Edison, and I’m a little of Jeff Winger.”
The room: still. He is holding his breathe and his lungs are itchy and heavy in his chest. Her hand is still there, right over the spot inside of him that is growing and burning. And suddenly he realizes that maybe it was always there, it was just covered with this crusty exterior. This bravado he’d built up because he was the great Jeff Winger. Nothing could get him down. But then a slobbery baby and a wide-eyed cardigan-wearing twenty-something entered his apartment. And things changed, because he realizes that she has been doing this thing inside him for a long time now. He’d just thought it was those sort of feelings that normal people feel. Crushes. Obsessions. He was higher than that. But now he knows it's different. Now he knows that there’s no running because what’s inside of him isn’t going away. It isn’t a crush or obsession or anything like that. It’s a piece of him that’s been taken by a person, a doe-eyed girl who half the time is worried about losing her mind, and he’s not getting it back. It’s inside her already and he can do nothing to stop it. Nothing.
He has remained silent though for a long time and so he suspects that when she lowers her hand from his chest and murmurs, “But anyway, like I said. Best be going,” she thinks he is dismissing her. As if crazy Annie has said something again to ruin everything. She gathers herself up, like she always does, shoulders first and then her straightened neck. There’s a pain in her though, now, he can see etched in her face. She’s trying to be brave. Always trying to be brave. And he’s saying nothing. He’s said nothing. She’s almost gone, almost beyond his grasp from where he’s cemented in place on his apartment floor.
At the last second, right before she literally slips through his fingers, he grips her arm, pulling her back and he hadn’t intended it like this, not at all. But it sort of happens, like two magnets falling into place, and suddenly there’s nothing to do. It’s going to happen, because he’s already got his mouth on hers and he can smell her hair, something like cinnamon and honey.
In theory, this is nothing new, the two of them in a tryst. Nothing new the moment her mouth opens and he tastes her full on his tongue. Nothing new the moment she moans just a little bit and leans her neck into him and her hand roams up his back, her nails leaving a small trail of goosebumps along his skin. Nothing new when he pulls her level with his body and she full and against him.
There is something new though, and it isn’t in the physical. Now, it's visceral. It’s down inside of him and he can’t stop it. The tiny part of him that he wasn’t sure was there is burning bright and deep, right where her body meets his. And all he can do is mumble into her mouth, “Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go...” And for some reason, he knows he means more than don't go in this second, or in this hour, or don't go from this apartment. He means don't go from here, this spot inside of me, don't leave me, not ever. He knows he means it and he knows she knows what he's saying, really.
And she doesn’t go, she remains right where she is. The room is quiet except for the sound of her sweater hitting the ground and the whisper of her skin on his.
He can’t think, not really, but suddenly he realizes that holding her is easy, holding her face is simple. There’s nothing to think about really, now. It was the easiest thing to figure out and for once he’s not terrified, for once the thought of a human being, fragile and flush against him, being held there in his arms, it doesn’t frighten him one bit.
Instead, he asks quietly, “So you’re going to stay?”
Her breathe is hot against his ear when she groans, “I thought you’d never ask.”
He smiles against the warmness of her neck, the warmness of her.
fine
Community, jeff/annie
Jeff agrees to a night of babysitting. Of course that decision comes back to haunt him. Thus, Annie comes to save him not only from a crying baby, but also the growing loneliness inside of himself.
But then a slobbery baby and a wide-eyed cardigan-wearing twenty-something entered his apartment. And things changed.
Visceral
So now he’s aware that babies are a mess of skin and bodily functions and just lots and lots of crying. The fact is that Jeff Winger, the man with the freshly ironed pants, the man who outwitted and stumped the law world for many years, that same Jeff Winger is clueless about babies.
Of course, he thought it would be easy. And he was wrong (which he is finding out more and more he seems to be).
But when Shirley asked him with her big smile and large brown eyes, if he wanted to watch over the kid, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Sure. Yeah. What, it’s just like a littler version of Leonard? He poops, he pees, all in his pants. Feed him macoroni. Should be easy.”
Shirley gives him this look, that Shirley-look, where the smile dissolves quickly into a deep serious frown. She says quickly, all in her deep voice, “I know you not comparing my child to no pervy, lollipop-hoarding, macoroni-stealing geriatric. Are you, Jeffrey?”
He quickly recovers, says, what the hell. Trust me, Shirley. If I can win a case involving a corporation suing their employers for putting too much into their retirement, I can handle a baby for seven hours. And so Shirley only gives him the stink-eye once and then leaves him alone, happy to have a couple hours of respite even though she guards that child like something very breakable and very hers.
Here’s the truth though, the sad, pathetic truth about Jeff Winger: he has been alone most of his life. Not just in a way that most people are, where you have to be alone. A quick lunch. The minutes right before nodding off to sleep. Those adolescent years when you think no one likes you. No, Jeff Winger, even from the early years of skinned knees and aching growing limbs, has been very and terribly alone. His mother, although a strong woman who constantly had to answer questions about fathers and money to her small wide-eyed son, was always on the move to make things better. Medical-coding classes, long into the night. Late dates with loan officers who drove fancy cars and always looked at him like a dirty puppy and insisted on calling him “scout.” And later, in his teenage years, dinner parties where she came home smelling of cheap wine, cigarettes, and an odd man’s cologne who she said was going to be, “their new roommate, buddy.” After her new husband, who pretended it was okay to refer to himself as Jeff’s “Uncle Ross,” he spent every night waiting for that girl to call him back, or hoping that his mother would come home heartbroken but ready for her son’s love for once, or just hoping that the world would just implode on him so that all would be a black nothing rather than this deep hole inside of him that he thought was normal. So, the fact is that, until Greendale, until this group of six crazy, socially psychopathic yet entirely lovable people came into his life, Jeff Winger had learned to simply accept the silence of his life.
But babies weren’t silent. Babies were very, very unsilent.
And this baby was no exception to that rule. As soon as Shirley dumped the pile of flesh and diapers on his floor, the kid started making this sound. Or sounds. A plethora of sounds.
“Oh, Jeffrey, she’s an angel,” she had said, laughing with her big Shirley-grin, which quickly dissolved when she noted, “But if she isn’t, there’s formula in the diaper bag, including her organic diapers and baby wipes...”
“Organic diapers?” He asked, as a large vinyl bag plastered in giraffes wearing party hats was shoved into his arms. “Isn’t what they put in it organic enough?”
Shirley ignored him and instead rummaged through the bag, pulling out various bottles, stuffed animals, and many many many diapers, “... and if she seems like she’s hungry, she is not. She is a liar, Jeffrey. Do not listen to her. She just wants to be held. So, if she starts crying, it might be the colic, it might be because she’s hungry, but the real reason is probably because she just wants to be held. Momma spoiled her like that. Didn’t she, honey?” And with a quick couple smiles at baby, and a little bit of cooing and finally shoving Shirley out the door with a, “Listen, Shirley, if I can manage to keep Pierce from making ethnic slurs about the Romani people, then I can make sure a baby doesn’t sit in its own poo” the two of them were alone. And for awhile, it was fine despite the slobber and the gurgling and all that other baby stuff.
But here in lies the problem: the baby is crying, and Shirley is right. The baby just wants to be held, Jeff can tell. There are huge tears dewing on her eyelashes and she has crawled to his feet and is staring at him, making little hiccup noises. He can see her two tiny fists; one is clutching his pant leg, and the other is reaching towards him, reaching, reaching, reaching.
No, here’s the actual problem. It’s not that the baby is crying, because Jeff Winger has dealt with crying before (his mother, ex-girlfriends, his own reflection). It’s not the diaper changing or the feeding, because he has had both fraternity brothers and a small ex-Spanish teacher with an affinity for needing nurturing invade his apartment before. It’s not the tears and slobber and the little spit-bubbles that explode from her mouth like she is boiling from the inside. It’s not any of those things. It’s the fact that Jeff Winger, the self-made man, the man with the Italian hand-crafted faucets, the man with the imported luxury car, with the looks, the whole package, that man doesn’t know how to hold a human being. Not in this way. Not in the way that demands just holding, no other motives, just holding and keeping close. Holding with the most purest and strangest non-intentions.
He looks at her with terrified eyes, and the two hold each other in their gazes for more than a second. Her eyes, shiny in tears, stare at him and he just looks down at her and whispers, “Sorry. I’m so sorry.”
And then the crying starts again and he still doesn’t know what in the world to do.
So he texts her.
He knows her shouldn’t do it, because he’s sure the next second that everyone from the study group will be texting him advice and then all of them will show up, loud and noisy and bossy and then someone will pull the fire alarm and then Shirley will show up perturbed and yelling about how you can’t let, “no white man babysit a child, you should have known that Shirley Bennet, but you never learn, do you now?”
But that doesn’t happen. Instead, there is a slight knock at the door, only the most timid of sorts. He rushes to it, peers through the peephole, expecting to see a gaggle of oddly-arranged people of various heights, sizes, and colors. But instead, he sees only her figure, small and nervously holding her arms across her chest.
He opens the door, slowly, peeking only his head around the ajar part. The crying is heard behind him and she sees her widen her already huge eyes. All he can manage is a small-voiced, “Hi.”
And instead of laughing at him, accusing him, yelling at him for the baby sitting on his floor bawling its eyes out, she looks back at him, gives him her crooked smile and says, “Hi.”
For only a second the crying stops, but in that one second he realizes that his heart has been broken a little bit. Because it could have been the second that somebody poked the smallest and most vulnerable part of Jeff Winger, poked it so hard and without mercy he would have had no defense. And she, Annie Edison, the seeker of all wrongs, the one who never faltered from perfection with a discipline that verged on terrifying, she only smiled at him with a look in her eyes that said, “I know.”
And it broke him. In a good way. Like the way the skin peels away from a healed burn or a joint sliding back into place.
Of course, Annie Edison is still Annie Edison, captain of the overly-prepared. She has brought her own duffel bag full of: two realistic nipple bottles, two teething rings, a boo-boo bunny, a rattle, a stuffed giraffe (the giraffe motif had apparently been a thing he had forgotten to pick up on), and a couple packages of diapers that, “I think will fit her, but I went ahead and bought a couple different sizes just in case, you know?” She is briefing him all with it, rolling up her sleeves and he has to stop her, literally physically stop her.
He takes ahold of her shoulders and shakes her and says, “Annie, listen. This whole artillery of baby products exists tenfold in Shirley’s bag. I’ve tried them all. Rattles. Chewy toys. Diaper changes. A thousand story books including one that makes you feel better about pooping. The kid is obviously needing to be...” And he stops, watching her eyes. She is staring at him with expectation, and when he says, “.... needing to be held” she blows out a little burst of air from her lips. Very slowly, she looks from him to the baby, who is sitting with her hands wrapped around the stuffed giraffe already, squeezing its little head, and staring at them with hiccuping little gasps. Her pig tails are uneven and her face is covered in a combination of dried and fresh snot. His hands are still on her shoulders when he turns from the baby to her and sees that she is just as terrified as him. And all he can manage is, “Yeah. She definitely just wants to be held. Yeah.”
It’s in her terrified gaze that she sees his own life, spread out before him painfully. The long nights alone or in being ignored in Hebrew School. The acne scars that left her ostracized from friends, dates, dances. The pills that kept her, for once, feeling in control until they rebounded and left her dizzingly isolated, running through glass plate windows and segmented from her family like a dead limb might be cut away. It’s in her terrified gaze that Jeff realizes that Annie Edison has lead a life of being alone and estranged as well, and even though years and distance separate them, there is a core part of them that feels about the same. And maybe that’s why it seemed right to call her of all people. Because in this moment, he knows, she will see the terror in having to simply hold something. Something so fragile it might crumble in your hands like a sand dollar. In this moment, Jeff Winger understands Annie Edison and Annie Edison understands Jeff Winger on a level that is completely fundamental to the core of their being.
But she’s Annie Edison. He knows she can be far braver then him.
And, in this moment, she is. It’s only a few seconds between when he says this to her and when Annie crosses the room in a few quick steps. She hardly even thinks about it when she lifts the baby up, into her arms, putting her hand underneath her legs and drying up the tears and snot and a little bit of throw-up with the back of her hand.
It takes a little bouncing and at some point she starts singing this odd little Jewish tune, but eventually the baby stops, stares at her with the large brown eyes. His apartment is suddenly hushed. The only sounds are Annie talking nonsense and the baby sucking happily on the furry giraffe’s ear while she eyes Annie’s talking mouth with an amused expression.
All he can do is watch, still standing by the door, as she sits herself on the couch and bounces the baby on her knee. Like they do in movies. Its like exactly in the movies, she’s like something out the movies with her cardiganed body and her combed shiny hair. And her voice, calming and sweet. And slightly terrified.
“She likes you,” he says quietly, trying not to break the hush that has fallen over the room. There is a part of him that’s afraid that he will break it in another way, break something far more delicate. Like he’ll break this moment where she understands him, like somehow she has crossed into the territory of the people who can hold. Those people. Basically, everybody. But him.
However, instead of frowning at him, instead of calling him a wimp and a typical dude, instead of rolling her eyes, she looks up at him with that look that only she can give him. No one else but her looks up at him like this, as if his compliments actually mean something. Like they aren’t just lawyer crocodile grins or syrupy bullshit, but serious good things have just come out of him and she believes him. That’s maybe what makes her different from other girls: she believes him. There are many things to say about Annie Edison, not all good of course, but one thing is that he finds something glowing in him every time she looks at him when he has said something genuinely meaningful. And he loves the group, loves them more than he has loved anybody in his whole life, but they meet his stare sometimes one eye at a time. Abed doesn’t want his true conversations. Britta, forever skeptical, will never trust the simple, “You look nice today” under the basis that it’s got a hidden sexist agenda. Troy might accept a kind word, but he'd accept a compliment from Starburns (and also feels it necessary to relate it back to “butt-stuff”), and Pierce acts like everything he says is a direct threat towards his penis. So.
So, it’s something to say that Annie, despite her anal-retentive pen borrowing procedure (complete with sign in-sign out book) and her buttoned-to-the-collar cardigans, actually believes him when he says something genuine. And it flatters her, all the way down to her toes. He can actually see it, like his words have flowed through her body like a good drink.
“You think she does?” she asks, her voice soft. “You think she actually likes me?”
“Yeah.” He walks a couple steps closer, risking it. But the baby just looks at him. She recently decided that a pacifier sounded like a great idea, so she sucks away on it happily, watching him like she finds nothing more entrancing. “You, Annie Edison, are what they call a natural. Sure you haven’t been raising a couple half-hippie kids with Vaughn right under our noises?”
“Ew,” She says before crumpling her nose up at him. “Don’t be gross, Jeff. Besides, Vaughn is happily involved with a sweet young lady in Vermont named Honeysuckle.” At his raised eyebrows, she says quickly, “Which I’m sure is her real and birth-given name rather than the one she chose for herself upon completion of her facebook profile.” The two of them stare at each other before laughing. It feels good to laugh, all the way to his bones. The tension that has been heavy in his shoulders suddenly disappears and he finds he is laughing heartily. A true laugh.
The baby lets out a little screech, touching Annie’s smiling face. Annie, shocked, suddenly stops laughing and looks at her with wide-eyes.
He stops laughing too, and adds, “I think you’ve got another member of the Annie Edison fanclub.”
She looks up at him, frowning. “Another member?”
She has caught him, and Jeff knows it. He feels like a deer in the headlights for a second, suddenly not able to find a clear quick answer that can wittily fall off his tongue. So instead, he shrugs and mumbles, “I never said it was a large fanbase. More of a cult following.” He walks over towards her, where she’s sitting on the couch. He sits down himself before angling his legs so that he can look at her at from what he hopes is an indifferent-stance. “More cult than following now that I think about it.”
“Hah-hah.” Annie rolls her eyes and when Jeff laughs at this, the baby laughs. Raising an eyebrow, he laughs again. The baby laughs, this time giving a little off-clap of her hands before sticking one of her fingers in her nose and looking at him intensely, expectantly. Annie gives him a meaningful look, one that indicates that she has figured out the answer to something he hasn’t questioned. Not yet. And that look scares the living crap out of him.
“She likes you,” she says, slowly, like she is piecing a puzzle together. “She likes you. That’s why she started crying in the first place. She likes you and she wants you to hold her and you wouldn’t do it. And it broke her! You broke her!” She says this all rather quickly, as if its coming out of her from a pressurized inside place. Like something pent up has sprung a leak. Annie turns towards him, looks him right in the eye, and says, “She wants you to hold her, Jeff. You should hold her. She likes you.”
It happens quickly. He doesn’t have time to think, really. But what can go through his mind, not in an organized, logical fashion, is: Jeff Winger does not do babies, Jeff Winger does not hold fragile human beings, Jeff Winger doesn’t think that a human life should be held much like a football player holds a football, and Jeff Winger believes that snot belongs in your nose and not running dry down your face and almost in your mouth. Basically, Jeff Winger thought he had no real feelings about babies other than he wasn’t involved in that world, that world of diapers and onesies and cooing. But now it’s falling into his arms quickly and with a small amount of force, a pile of too soft skin and fat and that distinctly baby smell of powder and spit.
For a second, he remains so still and so silent that it feels like the world stops. Like the air has been sucked from the room and all the sounds and feelings in the universe are contained only in the thudding of his heart and the little voice in his head saying, Oh no, oh no, oh no, ohnoohnoohno.
Annie is silent too, and when he manages a glance in her direction, she looks like she is holding her breathe heavy in her lungs. She slowly looks up at him, and he sees suddenly in her eyes that there’s something more to him just holding Shirley’s baby right now. Because sure, they care about the baby. Sure they do. But right now, in this moment as the baby falls in his arms like the way someone you love falls into a hug, the way the missing piece falls into place, this is the moment where she seems to say to him, “You’ve got to know. You’ve got to know that it’s okay. It’s okay to just trust yourself. You’re can trust yourself, Jeffrey. You can trust yourself to not be alone.”
And then the baby laughs, delightedly. She bounces gleefully before swatting him in the face with a flat, oddly-damp fist.
“Ow,” he says, rubbing his chin and grinning down at her.
Annie laughs before shaking her head in admiration. “I knew I liked her for a reason.”
And he smiles, looks down at the baby, who is grinning up at him with this wide gummy smile and suddenly he finds something inside of him fall apart, like this hard small ball inside of him, one that he always thought was cold and knotted and never going away, this piece of him suddenly unravels or perhaps crumbles away like sand. It alarms him, shocks him really, and it almost takes his breath away. Because Jeff Winger always thought that he was pretty constant, that there wasn’t much that could change him. But the baby smiles that gummy smile and something breaks and before he has really any time to dwell on thinking, Right now, I’ve changed, Annie’s knee presses tight against his thigh while she leans in and says, “See? I told you she liked you.” Her eyes, saucer-wide, flutter towards him and she says, “It’s been you she’s been wanting to hold her. All along.” And when she smiles, she really smiles. Not that Annie-political smile that she puts on to make people think she’s happy - he’s seen that one before and he knows it well. No, it’s not that kind of smile coming out of her now, it’s a real one, one that flows right from the middle of her, because her lips quiver a little when she says, “She’s been waiting you to hold her for a long time.” And then she seems to catch herself, because she literally jumps, and her leg is almost on top of his. Quickly, she mumbles, “I mean, almost all night. That’s a long time in baby-time.”
He laughs, because he finds that part of him has stared at her in that way he does when he finds he is drawn in, like she’s got a rope around the middle of him and is pulling him slowly but surely towards her. So he’s got to laugh, and when he does the baby laughs and soon all of them are laughing, him, Annie, baby, them three.
Later, they are constructing the makeshift plastic crib that Shirley sent along in a canvas bag that takes up most of the kitchen counter space. It’s huge and complicated, but Annie sits in the middle of the floor and manages to construct it by following very methodically and with pain-staking accuracy the instructional manual.
And while they’re constructing the fifty-five step portable crib, something crazy happens. The baby, still in his arms, falls dead asleep. There is a trail of slobber that runs from her lower lip to his arm, but he finds that he can hardly think to move himself let alone go ahead and move her away from his arm. Also, deep inside of Jeff Winger, where the cold hard part crumbled away, there’s something else growing. Right now, it feels tight, like something being bound around him, like something might squeeze him until he cries. So, he simply watches as Annie finishes the crib and refuses his half-hearted requests to help with a dismissive wave of her hand, that she’s got this and, not with the baby sleeping like it, Jeff Winger.
When she’s finally finished, he lays the baby in the crib. She stirs for a second and the two of them hold their breathes, as if in a second the silence will be broken with a loud, piercing scream. But then, the baby shifts and falls dead asleep again, her tiny chest going in, then out, slowly, perfectly.
Annie reaches down, parts the hair on the baby’s forehead. She smiles, this long smile before she turns to him and says, “Well. I guess you’re good to go. Now,” She walks a quick couple steps over to Shirley’s bag before rummaging through it and taking out various items with a flourished, “remember this if she wakes up. And this if she seems hungry...” and so on and so forth.
“Yes. I get it,” He says after what seems like an endless tirade of the theoretical index of How to Not Kill a Baby. “Hungry, feed. Poop, change. It’s all some pretty logical stuff. It’s good practice for Pierce anyway.”
She laughs, nods her head before crossing her arms across her chest. There is this stretch of silence between the two of them as if she’s trying to figure out exactly what to say, as if she’s waiting for him to fill in the blanks of the room. And, yes, he wants to say something, but he’s not sure what. Because thanks feels kind of flat and useless right now, and everything else, well. He just can’t get it out, can’t quite figure out how to make it come out. Basically, there’s a lot to say between the two of them, he knows that. He’s known that for awhile now.
It’s her that finally snaps out of the quiet, saying, “Well, I guess you’ve got everything under control. I guess I’ll get out of the two of your all's hair.” Her voice is sheepish and strange, as if she’s saying something she thinks is the right thing to say, but she’s not sure really. As if she doesn’t know how to get across what she really wants to say so she’ll stick to default sentences, to pleasantries.
She’s got her car keys out and smiling her good-bye smile, so he knows his time is running out and he could say all the things he needs to say, but he just grabs her arm and asks, “Hey. I...” and she’s looking at him with those eyes that seem to be shocked and expectant all at the same time. He feels himself falling flat and so he grabs onto the one thing he can remember and that’s, “... why did you come over? I mean, yes, I texted you, but I mean. Jeff Winger, in a potentially hilarious position with a crying, snot-filled baby while he sits petrified and his hair is askew, which is totally against everything he believes in.” She laughs, folds her arms across herself and looks up at him with wide eyes. She’s waiting for him to finish, he can tell. “So, basically. You know. Thanks. But seriously. Why didn’t you text the rest of the gang and have them come over with cameras and guns a-blazing? I know that Pierce would have loved to see me crying in the corner like a little girl. I think it would validate most of his theories about me. And, let’s be honest, I haven’t always been prince charming to you. I’ve actually been a pretty unmitigated ass most of the time. And that’s being nice. So, seriously, why did you come over? I mean, thanks, but seriously?”
Annie laughs, or more chuckles, and then shrugs her shoulders. Her eyes rest on his for a few brief seconds, holds him there, and she says, “Let’s just say that I know what it’s like to have my back against the wall, thinking I was about to. You know, explode? Yeah, something like that. I mean, you have heard the story about me running through windows and being hauled off in a van with no windows, right?” He tries to look surprised, but it fails, and so she simply laughs before saying, “I don’t know. I mean, it would serve you right, having this up on youtube by the morning. Because you, Jeff Winger, are a pain in the ass sometimes. But, you know. There’s a part of you that I get. Maybe the pain in the ass part? Because, let’s be honest, Annie Edison isn’t the easiest girl to deal with. She’s anal and naïve. And she’s also obsessed with, you know, not failing,. And when her back’s against the wall and failure is staring her right in the eyes, and she’s about to rip out all her hair or slip into a mental breakdown where she can’t stop sobbing uncontrollably, there’s a certain unmitigated ass who always seems to pull her out of it. And so, you know, maybe I came over tonight because I felt sorry for you.” She grins at him like a Cheshire cat, but then the smile fades and her eyes become serious and dark and something else, he can’t tell because he can hardly breathe, “And maybe I came tonight because I know you, Jeff. And that sounds silly, okay, but. But, you know I love you. I mean, everyone does. You’re Jeff Winger. You’re the wonder boy of Greendale. But, sometimes I feel like maybe they don’t see what I see because I’ve got it too.” She touches his chest, right where the cold thing crumbled and where the knot burns as hot as her hand. “It’s right here. It’s the spot that cares too much. And not in the same way Britta does, because Britta is better than us. She cares because deep down she really cares. It’s a perfectly selfless sort of thing. I get that. But you know, we care. It’s different though. We care because failure means letting other people down, and we’ve never really had other people. Not really. Both of us have... been alone. You know? Not solitary, but alone kind of people. And now that we’ve got those people around us, we don’t want to blow the one thing we’ve got. It’s a selflessness I guess. I mean, you’re not as selfish as you think, Jeff. I’ve seen the parts of you that you think everybody doesn’t see. And so, that’s why I came tonight. Because I know you. Better than you think. Because you’re sort of like me. Because you’re a little bit of Annie Edison, and I’m a little of Jeff Winger.”
The room: still. He is holding his breathe and his lungs are itchy and heavy in his chest. Her hand is still there, right over the spot inside of him that is growing and burning. And suddenly he realizes that maybe it was always there, it was just covered with this crusty exterior. This bravado he’d built up because he was the great Jeff Winger. Nothing could get him down. But then a slobbery baby and a wide-eyed cardigan-wearing twenty-something entered his apartment. And things changed, because he realizes that she has been doing this thing inside him for a long time now. He’d just thought it was those sort of feelings that normal people feel. Crushes. Obsessions. He was higher than that. But now he knows it's different. Now he knows that there’s no running because what’s inside of him isn’t going away. It isn’t a crush or obsession or anything like that. It’s a piece of him that’s been taken by a person, a doe-eyed girl who half the time is worried about losing her mind, and he’s not getting it back. It’s inside her already and he can do nothing to stop it. Nothing.
He has remained silent though for a long time and so he suspects that when she lowers her hand from his chest and murmurs, “But anyway, like I said. Best be going,” she thinks he is dismissing her. As if crazy Annie has said something again to ruin everything. She gathers herself up, like she always does, shoulders first and then her straightened neck. There’s a pain in her though, now, he can see etched in her face. She’s trying to be brave. Always trying to be brave. And he’s saying nothing. He’s said nothing. She’s almost gone, almost beyond his grasp from where he’s cemented in place on his apartment floor.
At the last second, right before she literally slips through his fingers, he grips her arm, pulling her back and he hadn’t intended it like this, not at all. But it sort of happens, like two magnets falling into place, and suddenly there’s nothing to do. It’s going to happen, because he’s already got his mouth on hers and he can smell her hair, something like cinnamon and honey.
In theory, this is nothing new, the two of them in a tryst. Nothing new the moment her mouth opens and he tastes her full on his tongue. Nothing new the moment she moans just a little bit and leans her neck into him and her hand roams up his back, her nails leaving a small trail of goosebumps along his skin. Nothing new when he pulls her level with his body and she full and against him.
There is something new though, and it isn’t in the physical. Now, it's visceral. It’s down inside of him and he can’t stop it. The tiny part of him that he wasn’t sure was there is burning bright and deep, right where her body meets his. And all he can do is mumble into her mouth, “Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go...” And for some reason, he knows he means more than don't go in this second, or in this hour, or don't go from this apartment. He means don't go from here, this spot inside of me, don't leave me, not ever. He knows he means it and he knows she knows what he's saying, really.
And she doesn’t go, she remains right where she is. The room is quiet except for the sound of her sweater hitting the ground and the whisper of her skin on his.
He can’t think, not really, but suddenly he realizes that holding her is easy, holding her face is simple. There’s nothing to think about really, now. It was the easiest thing to figure out and for once he’s not terrified, for once the thought of a human being, fragile and flush against him, being held there in his arms, it doesn’t frighten him one bit.
Instead, he asks quietly, “So you’re going to stay?”
Her breathe is hot against his ear when she groans, “I thought you’d never ask.”
He smiles against the warmness of her neck, the warmness of her.
fine