Community Fic: this isn’t rosanne
I don’t know how we got here, cozy_cupcake, for your request thing. But we did. And then 0penhearts gets involved and somehow, at the end of it all, I’m wondering if I should just blame Mary for everything because it usually is her fault. The point is that this was only going to be 420 something words? Oops.
I am going to bed now, lol. Ear infection and all.
this isn’t rosanne
community | jeff/annie | general spoilers | 4,153 words, PG
that awkward moment when everyone decides you’re a living, breathing translator. how did we get to ballerinas again?
-
Just so you know? This is happens a lot.
They show up at her door just as Center Stage loops into credits. She is half-asleep and sweating into her sheets because her window fan isn’t working and it really is this hot in July.
“He’s, like, ruining my game,” Britta says, pushing Jeff towards her. He stumbles to her door, but misses and catches Annie by the hip. There’s a sorry and Annie grips his arm to steady him, leaning heavily into the door anyway. “You need to make him stop it.”
Annie sighs. “You speak Jeff.”
Britta laughs and kind of wiggles in front of her.
“You do,” Annie says, and all she can smell is some ridiculous combination of beer and cigarettes as she tries to keep Jeff steady. It’s coming from both of them and really, what’s one more thing to subject her sheets to? Right, don’t answer any of that.
“Whatever. You do serious conversation Jeff.”
“I do not.”
Britta ignores her. “It’s also your night to do Drunk Jeff, since Shirley has a baby and a family, Abed and Troy are rooming together, and even I won’t subject Jeff to Pierce because I’m saving that for a raining day and when he’s talking to us again.”
Her eyes narrow and there are about nine different reasons she’s starting to think that this is a very, very bad idea. She has only seen Drunk Jeff three times and Drunk Jeff has one, no concept of space, two, no concept of space, and three, he tends to get incredibly introspective with alcohol.
All she wanted to do is watch her dance movie and go to bed.
“Okay. Whatever,” she mutters.
Britta pats her cheek. “You’ll be fine,” she says.
How she gets Jeff on her bed is something she never wants to talk about again. Mostly it involves a well-placed kick on the back of his leg, tripping him into her pillows. He moans into the few that she was lying on before and she rubs the back of her neck, her fingers pressing into her hair.
Jeff moans something that sounds like it’s hot and she’s on her knees, wrinkling her nose as she pulls his boots off of his feet. He rolls away from her through and his foot hits her hip as he turns onto his back.
“You’re an idiot,” she says.
“Britta’s mean,” he mumbles. “She promised cute brunettes not interested in relationships. Her friend hated me.”
Annie rolls her eyes. “She’s an idiot too.”
“I know, right?”
“I mean you and Britta,” she says, and pushes herself back up to stand. She moves to her television and starts the film again, moving around her apartment and turning the rest of the lights off.
The fan in the window isn’t working and she might hate herself, right now, because hot and sticky and Drunk Jeff may or may not have her calling out of work tomorrow - for, like, the first time ever. She’ll think of something.
She manages to sit next to Jeff on the bed, pulling back some of the sheets and letting them drape over her feet as she settles to watch the movie. She’s nowhere near self-conscious only because she’s tired and cranky and they’ll probably be more than enough of that tomorrow too.
“You’re mad at me,” he says.
She rolls her eyes.
Jeff’s finger presses into her thigh. He pokes it again, turning onto his side with his eyes closed. “You are,” he insists.
“You’re drunk.”
“Not really.”
She sighs. “I’m not going to argue with you.”
He grins into one of her pillows, pulling himself closer to her too. His legs pull some of the sheets away from her as he pokes her again.
“At least - and I say this as a non-non interested party, but at least you’re wearing panties,” he breathes.
She smacks his hand away, biting back a comment about Pierce and channeling Pierce. “You’re drunk,” she says again but his hand comes to rest on her knee. Drunk Jeff? He likes to touch. He likes to touch a lot. She stares at his hand. “Jeff,” she warns.
“You’re a cute brunette, Annie,” he says like it’s a sudden revelation. He groans too and drops his arm over his eyes. His hand is still on her knee and she thinks about showering. Several times. He should probably shower first, smelling like a bar and everything.
She hates herself right now.
She says nothing though. The movie’s probably already lost for the second time that night and she carefully drops her hand over Jeff’s. Her fingers slip between his and one by one, she tries and pries him away from her knee. It’s not that she minds it there but she’s tired and this makes things awkward for the summer, all over again.
Jeff doesn’t follow up either, and the movie fills the silence between them and the apartment, the occasional shudder from the fan next to her bed. She can feel the sweat start to press against the back of her neck, kissing it’s way to the column of her throat and she’s just annoyed that she’s giving up another night for whatever. It’s her turn apparently.
“What if I wasn’t home?” she asks.
“But you were.”
She rolls her eyes. “Jeff, you and Britta need to stop taking advantage of the fact that I live a block and a half away from your bar.”
“Tell me that in the morning,” he mumbles.
“Jerk.”
He’s too long for her bed and she ends up watching him as he shifts from his back to his stomach and his legs sort of drape off the edge of the bed. It’s stupid but she bites back the urge to sort of kick them back up, all part of her need to just go and fix things.
“I can hear you thinking,” he says, and his voice muffled by her pillow, as his arms stretch out and hit her headboard. She flicks his arm too, laughing when he jumps and turns his head to glare.
“You’re lucky I’m not moving you to the couch,” she says.
“You’re too nice,” he says. It catches as he swallows too, slurring his words. His nose wrinkles as if he’s caught a bad taste. “You can sleep on the couch,” he reasons. “You’re small. You’re petite. You’re small and petite and I bet you fit like a glove on that thing.”
“You’re so weird when you’re drunk.”
It’s stupid but it’s the way he says you fit which is quickly killed by the glove comment that she doesn’t linger too much on. When he pokes her knee, she manages to shift up, tucking her legs underneath her as he rolls back onto his back. He groans loudly.
Annie shakes her head and turns her gaze to the television.
She hopes for five minutes. She gets ten. The movie’s totally lost to her now, somewhere between the eating disorder ballerina and the guy from Band of Brothers and - well, yeah, it’s done.
“You’re still watching the movie,” he groans again, and it’s been only twenty minutes of silence, blissful silence and dancing that Jeff goes and ruins it. He knees her leg and she sighs, shaking her head.
More things she learns about Jeff when he’s sort of drunk? Not only does he like to consciously touch, he likes to unconsciously touch, hitting her knee and her leg and brushing against her arm as he tries to get comfortable. She thought it was endearing the first time - well, the first ten minutes of the first time - and now, she can’t decide whether or not she wants to push him off the bed. Accidentally, of course.
“Really,” he says sleepily. “You’re making me have, like, dreams about you being a ballerina or whatever. And dancing to nineties club music. You and Britta - that sounds dirtier than it needs to be, I think.”
She snorts. “You think?”
“And anyways,” he ignores her, “how are you still up?”
She’s not really thinking when she turns to him and usually this is a major part of the problem. She just reaches forward, pressing her fingers into his hair and pushing them back against his forehead. Her nose wrinkles because she can still smell the bar and she’s definitely, definitely going to have to wash her sheets twenty more times before the stupid smell gets off.
“Because you’re in my bed,” she answers. “And because you smell. And because you interrupted my movie and are - you’re a jerk.”
He laughs and the sound is low, husky. She fights a blush but watches as he eyes her, pushing himself to sit up. He slips or miscalculates or whatever and his hand is on her thigh as he tries to straighten himself.
“Lay down,” she says.
“No.”
Her eyes narrow and she curls her fingers around his wrist. She tugs at it, but his hands don’t move.
“Jeff.”
He leans forward. She presses her hand against his face, pushing him back. She can’t help but giggle, which is, in fact, the worst idea she’s ever had. He keeps trying too; his mouth nips at her palm and her eyes widen, her hand jerking back as he grins.
“You bit me,” she says, and he’s still grinning. She wasn’t expecting him to sober up in twenty minutes, but - god, she’s going to kill Britta. This earns her the friend card. No, Annie thinks. This earns her three friend cards to pull and then some more. Let’s talk about a lifetime of friend cards, actually.
“Let me see,” Jeff says. He stumbles back into the bed, sprawled into her pillows again. But he grabs her hand too, pulling her so that she’s lying down on her bed too and her hip pressing back into his.
She will not blush for Drunk Jeff. She will not blush for Drunk Jeff. Except Drunk Jeff starts to press his fingers into her palm, rolling them over where he supposedly (he did) bit her. There are no lines, but she can feel his mouth still and she would sort of, really, like her hand back.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
“I’ll live,” she says dryly.
“Will you?”
Her cheeks are warm and she seriously hates herself. She hates herself more than that time he decided that singing all night was a really good idea. It would be one thing if Jeff actually had a decent, and even, like, hot decent voice - shut up, she’s spending a lot of time with Britta, okay? - but he doesn’t. He sounds like her neighbor’s cat. Her neighbor has a grumpy cat. You get the idea.
“This is awkward, Jeff,” she manages, and she’s trying to be rational, well, she’s trying to be as rational as she can be.
“I know,” he says cheerfully. She narrows her eyes. “But it’s not the morning after,” he reasons. “And then, the morning after, you and I will look at each other - you’ll do that stupid blushing thing and I’ll grunt, hate my life and my breath, and then leave to kill Britta.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“What?”
“Don’t be stupid,” she repeats. “You’ll be here until lunch. Then I’ll have to roll you off my bed and wash the sheets nine times to get this gross smell out of my apartment.”
Annie is lucky that she stops. Seriously lucky, as Jeff’s hand finds its way around her waist again. His fingers are digging into her side and somehow, she finds herself twisting, cocked into his side as he laughs. It’s soft, too soft for a drunk Jeff laugh, but too much for a Jeff laugh that’s supposed to make her all nervous and uncomfortable.
“I’ll be sober? Sober, soon,” he says, and he presses his mouth into her neck. It’s not really a kiss so much as he’s opening his mouth over her skin and pressing a half-hearted raspberry into her. She swallows a giggle, pushing him back. “Annnniiiee,” he groans.
“You’re an idiot,” she breathes.
"I smell good, by the way," he groans again, and she laughs. Her legs kick off the side of the bed and she's moving to stand, only to turn the movie off. But she pauses, straightening a crooked corner on the side of her bed - her therapist says to blame her mother - and then she's thinking that none of this is too, too bad.
Jeff vomits.
Annie wants to cry.
No seriously. She wants to cry.
Her nose wrinkles and she's threading her fingers through Jeff's hair as he throws up for the third time. He moans and she sighs, angling herself so that she's sitting on the edge of her tub. She lets her fingers rub the back of his neck, choosing to stay quiet. The bathroom seems too big all of the sudden, and Jeff is breathing heavily, awkwardly shifting back to his knees.
"Sorry," he manages.
"I hate you both," she says. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve. She rolls her eyes, passing him a towel. She tries not to gag when she leans over him, flushing the toilet. "I have mouthwash you can use," she says.
"Can't do whiskey, I guess."
He drops to the floor too. He makes a face and she shakes her head. She leans against her tub, curling her legs underneath her.
"I'm going to move," she declares.
"Where?"
Her eyes narrow. Jeff smirks. It doesn't last long though and he's back, draping himself over the toilet.
"You're lucky I like you."
"You tell me all the time."
"Britta does," she shoots. "And this is one of those times I don't agree with her."
"I'll make it up -" he launches forward to the toilet, gripping the bowl. His eyes squeeze shut. She sighs and reaches for him, but he pushes her hand away.
But she ignores that too, sinking besides him. She waits for him to throw up, watching his eyes squeeze shut. She feels a little bad, okay? But only a little. It just that the bigger part of her, the rational side, appeals to this mess.
"Remember Mexico?" she asks, and he moans in protest. Her fingers brush against the back of his neck again. "I'm still waiting for you to make it up to me," she teases.
"I try to forget Mexico," he mutters.
She smirks. “Of course you do.”
He looks up at her, his eyes squinting in the light. She wants to call him a baby. Instead, she smoothes his hair back and shakes her head.
“It was Pierce’s fault,” he says. He pokes his arm. “Thinking that he could make it up to all of us - ”
“With tequila,” she finishes.
Jeff tries to laugh, but it sounds more like something between a moan and some kind of gasp of pain. Her lips twitch and she leans further back against the tub, trying to get comfortable.
“Close your eyes,” she tells him. “It helps,” she offers.
His grip on the toilet lessens and he’s taking a deep breath, like he's panicking, and Annie almost feels a little bad for him. She pushes herself onto her knees, grabbing a washcloth.
"This is stupid.” She rolls her eyes, pressing the cloth against his forehead. He leans into her. “I feel like an asshole.”
“Well.”
“I didn’t ask - jesus,” he sighs.
She says nothing. She pushes herself back against the tub, rubbing her eyes. She’s exhausted, but it hasn’t really hit her yet. Of course, it has to be Jeff.
When it's safe - well, when it's apparent that he's fine, or fine for the moment, Jeff lets her drag him next to her too. He's slow enough for her grip to be steadying. But his eyes close and she drags him further -
His head falls into her lap. Oops.
"You hate me, huh?"
Her mouth twitches. "Jeff."
"Sorry," he murmurs, and her hand brushes against his face. His fingers catch her wrist and he stills her. "Seriously," he mumbles.
“I’m not cruel,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I wouldn’t turn you away. I may hate you for, like, a few days. But that’s probably the extent of it.”
“Probably,” he echoes.
She says nothing else, rubbing her fingers against his forehead. She leans back against the tub, closing her eyes and listening to him sigh against her leg. She ignores the feeling of his lips against her knee and the fact that it may or may not be a kiss that he presses into her skin. This is still Drunk Jeff, she tries to tell herself, and Drunk Jeff means that this will all be filed away for one of those random moments that the two of them seem to prefer to have.
But she finds herself settling, and maybe too calm, letting her hand drift back against his cheek, his jaw, and trying to ignore him when he leans back against her. She does not know what makes her say it, but the words fall fast.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Her fingers settle back in his hair. That’s probably a terrible idea.
Her eyes open. It’s early.
She’s in bed - the sheets are caught around her legs, and gone is the bar smell, the off-colored sensation of dirt, cigarettes, whiskey, and Jeff. She sighs and then rubs her eyes, sitting up and looking around.
The apartment is empty. The sheets from last night are in a pile, over her dirty laundry as well as a couple of towels she recognizes from the night before. She pushes herself off the bed and swears she smells pancakes, half-worried and half-amused by what she should expect to see.
“Jeff?” She waits before trying again. “Jeff?”
There is no answer. She shrugs and reaches for the television, turning it on and to the news to fill the apartment with some noise. She looks around and shakes her head. It really is like he was never here.
She moves into the kitchen and spots the plate of pancakes in the middle of the counter. It smells good. It smells really good. The pan in her sink is still wet so she can only assume that Jeff hasn’t been gone too long - there are no traces of him in her apartment with the exception of the sheets and towels. There’s coffee too and note leans against it, folded and with her name written on it.
When she opens it, she laughs.
yes i cook.
“You’re back,” she greets later, and Jeff is leaning against the frame of her door, Chinese in one hand and a pharmacy bag in the other. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” she says, letting him in.
“And sober,” he says dryly.
The apartment is clean. She made sure to go over everything once more, surprised to see that Jeff actually made sure to clean up a few things. She doesn’t ask how he managed it - it’s one of those compulsive quirks she assumes that he just has.
Taking the bags from him, she moves to the kitchen with him behind her, pulling out a bottle of Advil and laundry detergent from the pharmacy bag. She looks back at him, confused.
Jeff shrugs. “I stole yours,” he says. “I didn’t want to smell like vomit, or whatever, and - ” She watches him bite his lip. “You smell nice, I guess.”
“You guess?”
She tries to look offended. He smirks.
“Just be glad you brought Chinese,” she says. She wrinkles her nose in memory. “And not so gross. Or not as gross as you usually are.”
She moves to grab plates, but he seems to take over for her. Instead, she finds herself settling on the counter, pushing herself back and watching him as he starts to go through her cabinets and grab some plates.
She can’t remember if she told him that she loves Chinese. It doesn’t matter. It could be one of those things that Jeff just gets right, for whatever reason. But she’s struck at how easy it for him - she can count on one hand how many times he’s been to her apartment, and all of them because he and Britta try to occasionally out drink each other.
“We need to watch another damn movie,” he says. He hands her a plate of lo mein, and she smiles, amused as he slides a fork into her hand too. His thumb rubs against her knuckles and she bites the inside of her mouth. “Because I’m pretty sure I have you to blame for ballerinas.”
She laughs.
“Seriously though. It was you and Britta and a chorus line of brunettes that were literally telling me that I could - it doesn’t matter. The point is that there were tights and pointy shoes and so not okay with that, Annie. So not okay.”
“You could just go home next time,” she points out dryly. She puts her plate down next to her. “Instead of coming here.”
“It was Britta’s idea.”
“And yours the time before that.” She shakes her head. “I’m not an idiot, you too. I can deal with Drunk Britta. You -”
“Whatever,” he cuts her off. “You and that stupid movie. I’ll have nightmares, you know.”
She laughs. “Good.”
He snorts, but he’s grinning and there could be some sort of comment here about something. She could say that she likes him here or that she likes this, whatever this is - half the time, she thinks that if they were to talk about it, they’d actually agree on the state of their friendship-thing-whatever. But she ignores it though, that urge to just move everything along, and reaches out for him.
He puts his plate down too, as her hand curls around his arm, tugging him forward and to stand between her legs. She smiles. She feels her mouth quirk, then twitch, and she’s actually giggling before she can stop herself. Jeff looks confused and she can’t help but laugh harder.
“You’d make a pretty ballerina,” she breathes, and he’s scowling, leaning over her legs as she continues to laugh. She forgets how easy it is to fall into this with him, to be completely comfortable with him, and when she looks up, he’s watching her exactly like that, like finally they’re on the same page.
He leans forward. Slowly though; his hands fall to the counter on either side of her legs, his fingers skimming her knee. She feels herself flush and then sigh, wanting to do just a little more than watch him.
“I -” he stops himself.
And misses her mouth.
She freezes. She should laugh but his mouth is opening over her jaw, his hand dropping to her waist and he’s sort, maybe, nuzzling her. Her breath catches and her legs flank his side. He’s flushed against her and she’s more than aware of him - it’s easier when she isn’t angry, when she’s comfortable and she can feel her hand move over his chest, to the column of his throat as she turns herself into him. It could be just that easy to have a real moment and not share with everyone else.
Jeff sighs. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “For, you know,” he hesitates. “Everything.”
She can feel his mouth move against her cheek now, and the words seem to alternate between patronizing and everything that is just so Jeff.
She forces herself to swallow. “I like you,” she mumbles.
“Annie - ”
“I’m - ” she sighs. “I’m not mean, Jeff. I wouldn’t leave you guys to … well, I don’t want to know the alternative.”
It’s heavy. It’s too heavy. His fingers are in her hair and she’s trying, god, she’s trying to concentrate because he hasn’t exactly moved and they’ve gone from talking about the movie to last night to the entire year without actually mentioning the entire year.
She turns a little and presses her cheek into his. Her fingers curl around his t-shirt and he makes this sound, low and heavy.
His mouth grazes her ear. And maybe, she thinks, she really just wants to kiss him and not have it be a thing.
Then it’s over. His hand pats her hip. He hands her back her plate, forcing a smile and her heart is back in her throat, her eyes wide with too many things. He starts filling the conversation with Britta and weirdly enough, Troy and Abed and even Pierce, looking away as if to move the moment along.
Her mouth opens and then closes. She shakes her head. When she picks up her fork, she manages to laugh lightly as if to say they’re fine, that she’s fine, even as he tenses against the counter.
They’ll forget to talk about this time too.
I am going to bed now, lol. Ear infection and all.
this isn’t rosanne
community | jeff/annie | general spoilers | 4,153 words, PG
that awkward moment when everyone decides you’re a living, breathing translator. how did we get to ballerinas again?
-
Just so you know? This is happens a lot.
They show up at her door just as Center Stage loops into credits. She is half-asleep and sweating into her sheets because her window fan isn’t working and it really is this hot in July.
“He’s, like, ruining my game,” Britta says, pushing Jeff towards her. He stumbles to her door, but misses and catches Annie by the hip. There’s a sorry and Annie grips his arm to steady him, leaning heavily into the door anyway. “You need to make him stop it.”
Annie sighs. “You speak Jeff.”
Britta laughs and kind of wiggles in front of her.
“You do,” Annie says, and all she can smell is some ridiculous combination of beer and cigarettes as she tries to keep Jeff steady. It’s coming from both of them and really, what’s one more thing to subject her sheets to? Right, don’t answer any of that.
“Whatever. You do serious conversation Jeff.”
“I do not.”
Britta ignores her. “It’s also your night to do Drunk Jeff, since Shirley has a baby and a family, Abed and Troy are rooming together, and even I won’t subject Jeff to Pierce because I’m saving that for a raining day and when he’s talking to us again.”
Her eyes narrow and there are about nine different reasons she’s starting to think that this is a very, very bad idea. She has only seen Drunk Jeff three times and Drunk Jeff has one, no concept of space, two, no concept of space, and three, he tends to get incredibly introspective with alcohol.
All she wanted to do is watch her dance movie and go to bed.
“Okay. Whatever,” she mutters.
Britta pats her cheek. “You’ll be fine,” she says.
How she gets Jeff on her bed is something she never wants to talk about again. Mostly it involves a well-placed kick on the back of his leg, tripping him into her pillows. He moans into the few that she was lying on before and she rubs the back of her neck, her fingers pressing into her hair.
Jeff moans something that sounds like it’s hot and she’s on her knees, wrinkling her nose as she pulls his boots off of his feet. He rolls away from her through and his foot hits her hip as he turns onto his back.
“You’re an idiot,” she says.
“Britta’s mean,” he mumbles. “She promised cute brunettes not interested in relationships. Her friend hated me.”
Annie rolls her eyes. “She’s an idiot too.”
“I know, right?”
“I mean you and Britta,” she says, and pushes herself back up to stand. She moves to her television and starts the film again, moving around her apartment and turning the rest of the lights off.
The fan in the window isn’t working and she might hate herself, right now, because hot and sticky and Drunk Jeff may or may not have her calling out of work tomorrow - for, like, the first time ever. She’ll think of something.
She manages to sit next to Jeff on the bed, pulling back some of the sheets and letting them drape over her feet as she settles to watch the movie. She’s nowhere near self-conscious only because she’s tired and cranky and they’ll probably be more than enough of that tomorrow too.
“You’re mad at me,” he says.
She rolls her eyes.
Jeff’s finger presses into her thigh. He pokes it again, turning onto his side with his eyes closed. “You are,” he insists.
“You’re drunk.”
“Not really.”
She sighs. “I’m not going to argue with you.”
He grins into one of her pillows, pulling himself closer to her too. His legs pull some of the sheets away from her as he pokes her again.
“At least - and I say this as a non-non interested party, but at least you’re wearing panties,” he breathes.
She smacks his hand away, biting back a comment about Pierce and channeling Pierce. “You’re drunk,” she says again but his hand comes to rest on her knee. Drunk Jeff? He likes to touch. He likes to touch a lot. She stares at his hand. “Jeff,” she warns.
“You’re a cute brunette, Annie,” he says like it’s a sudden revelation. He groans too and drops his arm over his eyes. His hand is still on her knee and she thinks about showering. Several times. He should probably shower first, smelling like a bar and everything.
She hates herself right now.
She says nothing though. The movie’s probably already lost for the second time that night and she carefully drops her hand over Jeff’s. Her fingers slip between his and one by one, she tries and pries him away from her knee. It’s not that she minds it there but she’s tired and this makes things awkward for the summer, all over again.
Jeff doesn’t follow up either, and the movie fills the silence between them and the apartment, the occasional shudder from the fan next to her bed. She can feel the sweat start to press against the back of her neck, kissing it’s way to the column of her throat and she’s just annoyed that she’s giving up another night for whatever. It’s her turn apparently.
“What if I wasn’t home?” she asks.
“But you were.”
She rolls her eyes. “Jeff, you and Britta need to stop taking advantage of the fact that I live a block and a half away from your bar.”
“Tell me that in the morning,” he mumbles.
“Jerk.”
He’s too long for her bed and she ends up watching him as he shifts from his back to his stomach and his legs sort of drape off the edge of the bed. It’s stupid but she bites back the urge to sort of kick them back up, all part of her need to just go and fix things.
“I can hear you thinking,” he says, and his voice muffled by her pillow, as his arms stretch out and hit her headboard. She flicks his arm too, laughing when he jumps and turns his head to glare.
“You’re lucky I’m not moving you to the couch,” she says.
“You’re too nice,” he says. It catches as he swallows too, slurring his words. His nose wrinkles as if he’s caught a bad taste. “You can sleep on the couch,” he reasons. “You’re small. You’re petite. You’re small and petite and I bet you fit like a glove on that thing.”
“You’re so weird when you’re drunk.”
It’s stupid but it’s the way he says you fit which is quickly killed by the glove comment that she doesn’t linger too much on. When he pokes her knee, she manages to shift up, tucking her legs underneath her as he rolls back onto his back. He groans loudly.
Annie shakes her head and turns her gaze to the television.
She hopes for five minutes. She gets ten. The movie’s totally lost to her now, somewhere between the eating disorder ballerina and the guy from Band of Brothers and - well, yeah, it’s done.
“You’re still watching the movie,” he groans again, and it’s been only twenty minutes of silence, blissful silence and dancing that Jeff goes and ruins it. He knees her leg and she sighs, shaking her head.
More things she learns about Jeff when he’s sort of drunk? Not only does he like to consciously touch, he likes to unconsciously touch, hitting her knee and her leg and brushing against her arm as he tries to get comfortable. She thought it was endearing the first time - well, the first ten minutes of the first time - and now, she can’t decide whether or not she wants to push him off the bed. Accidentally, of course.
“Really,” he says sleepily. “You’re making me have, like, dreams about you being a ballerina or whatever. And dancing to nineties club music. You and Britta - that sounds dirtier than it needs to be, I think.”
She snorts. “You think?”
“And anyways,” he ignores her, “how are you still up?”
She’s not really thinking when she turns to him and usually this is a major part of the problem. She just reaches forward, pressing her fingers into his hair and pushing them back against his forehead. Her nose wrinkles because she can still smell the bar and she’s definitely, definitely going to have to wash her sheets twenty more times before the stupid smell gets off.
“Because you’re in my bed,” she answers. “And because you smell. And because you interrupted my movie and are - you’re a jerk.”
He laughs and the sound is low, husky. She fights a blush but watches as he eyes her, pushing himself to sit up. He slips or miscalculates or whatever and his hand is on her thigh as he tries to straighten himself.
“Lay down,” she says.
“No.”
Her eyes narrow and she curls her fingers around his wrist. She tugs at it, but his hands don’t move.
“Jeff.”
He leans forward. She presses her hand against his face, pushing him back. She can’t help but giggle, which is, in fact, the worst idea she’s ever had. He keeps trying too; his mouth nips at her palm and her eyes widen, her hand jerking back as he grins.
“You bit me,” she says, and he’s still grinning. She wasn’t expecting him to sober up in twenty minutes, but - god, she’s going to kill Britta. This earns her the friend card. No, Annie thinks. This earns her three friend cards to pull and then some more. Let’s talk about a lifetime of friend cards, actually.
“Let me see,” Jeff says. He stumbles back into the bed, sprawled into her pillows again. But he grabs her hand too, pulling her so that she’s lying down on her bed too and her hip pressing back into his.
She will not blush for Drunk Jeff. She will not blush for Drunk Jeff. Except Drunk Jeff starts to press his fingers into her palm, rolling them over where he supposedly (he did) bit her. There are no lines, but she can feel his mouth still and she would sort of, really, like her hand back.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
“I’ll live,” she says dryly.
“Will you?”
Her cheeks are warm and she seriously hates herself. She hates herself more than that time he decided that singing all night was a really good idea. It would be one thing if Jeff actually had a decent, and even, like, hot decent voice - shut up, she’s spending a lot of time with Britta, okay? - but he doesn’t. He sounds like her neighbor’s cat. Her neighbor has a grumpy cat. You get the idea.
“This is awkward, Jeff,” she manages, and she’s trying to be rational, well, she’s trying to be as rational as she can be.
“I know,” he says cheerfully. She narrows her eyes. “But it’s not the morning after,” he reasons. “And then, the morning after, you and I will look at each other - you’ll do that stupid blushing thing and I’ll grunt, hate my life and my breath, and then leave to kill Britta.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“What?”
“Don’t be stupid,” she repeats. “You’ll be here until lunch. Then I’ll have to roll you off my bed and wash the sheets nine times to get this gross smell out of my apartment.”
Annie is lucky that she stops. Seriously lucky, as Jeff’s hand finds its way around her waist again. His fingers are digging into her side and somehow, she finds herself twisting, cocked into his side as he laughs. It’s soft, too soft for a drunk Jeff laugh, but too much for a Jeff laugh that’s supposed to make her all nervous and uncomfortable.
“I’ll be sober? Sober, soon,” he says, and he presses his mouth into her neck. It’s not really a kiss so much as he’s opening his mouth over her skin and pressing a half-hearted raspberry into her. She swallows a giggle, pushing him back. “Annnniiiee,” he groans.
“You’re an idiot,” she breathes.
"I smell good, by the way," he groans again, and she laughs. Her legs kick off the side of the bed and she's moving to stand, only to turn the movie off. But she pauses, straightening a crooked corner on the side of her bed - her therapist says to blame her mother - and then she's thinking that none of this is too, too bad.
Jeff vomits.
Annie wants to cry.
No seriously. She wants to cry.
Her nose wrinkles and she's threading her fingers through Jeff's hair as he throws up for the third time. He moans and she sighs, angling herself so that she's sitting on the edge of her tub. She lets her fingers rub the back of his neck, choosing to stay quiet. The bathroom seems too big all of the sudden, and Jeff is breathing heavily, awkwardly shifting back to his knees.
"Sorry," he manages.
"I hate you both," she says. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve. She rolls her eyes, passing him a towel. She tries not to gag when she leans over him, flushing the toilet. "I have mouthwash you can use," she says.
"Can't do whiskey, I guess."
He drops to the floor too. He makes a face and she shakes her head. She leans against her tub, curling her legs underneath her.
"I'm going to move," she declares.
"Where?"
Her eyes narrow. Jeff smirks. It doesn't last long though and he's back, draping himself over the toilet.
"You're lucky I like you."
"You tell me all the time."
"Britta does," she shoots. "And this is one of those times I don't agree with her."
"I'll make it up -" he launches forward to the toilet, gripping the bowl. His eyes squeeze shut. She sighs and reaches for him, but he pushes her hand away.
But she ignores that too, sinking besides him. She waits for him to throw up, watching his eyes squeeze shut. She feels a little bad, okay? But only a little. It just that the bigger part of her, the rational side, appeals to this mess.
"Remember Mexico?" she asks, and he moans in protest. Her fingers brush against the back of his neck again. "I'm still waiting for you to make it up to me," she teases.
"I try to forget Mexico," he mutters.
She smirks. “Of course you do.”
He looks up at her, his eyes squinting in the light. She wants to call him a baby. Instead, she smoothes his hair back and shakes her head.
“It was Pierce’s fault,” he says. He pokes his arm. “Thinking that he could make it up to all of us - ”
“With tequila,” she finishes.
Jeff tries to laugh, but it sounds more like something between a moan and some kind of gasp of pain. Her lips twitch and she leans further back against the tub, trying to get comfortable.
“Close your eyes,” she tells him. “It helps,” she offers.
His grip on the toilet lessens and he’s taking a deep breath, like he's panicking, and Annie almost feels a little bad for him. She pushes herself onto her knees, grabbing a washcloth.
"This is stupid.” She rolls her eyes, pressing the cloth against his forehead. He leans into her. “I feel like an asshole.”
“Well.”
“I didn’t ask - jesus,” he sighs.
She says nothing. She pushes herself back against the tub, rubbing her eyes. She’s exhausted, but it hasn’t really hit her yet. Of course, it has to be Jeff.
When it's safe - well, when it's apparent that he's fine, or fine for the moment, Jeff lets her drag him next to her too. He's slow enough for her grip to be steadying. But his eyes close and she drags him further -
His head falls into her lap. Oops.
"You hate me, huh?"
Her mouth twitches. "Jeff."
"Sorry," he murmurs, and her hand brushes against his face. His fingers catch her wrist and he stills her. "Seriously," he mumbles.
“I’m not cruel,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I wouldn’t turn you away. I may hate you for, like, a few days. But that’s probably the extent of it.”
“Probably,” he echoes.
She says nothing else, rubbing her fingers against his forehead. She leans back against the tub, closing her eyes and listening to him sigh against her leg. She ignores the feeling of his lips against her knee and the fact that it may or may not be a kiss that he presses into her skin. This is still Drunk Jeff, she tries to tell herself, and Drunk Jeff means that this will all be filed away for one of those random moments that the two of them seem to prefer to have.
But she finds herself settling, and maybe too calm, letting her hand drift back against his cheek, his jaw, and trying to ignore him when he leans back against her. She does not know what makes her say it, but the words fall fast.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Her fingers settle back in his hair. That’s probably a terrible idea.
Her eyes open. It’s early.
She’s in bed - the sheets are caught around her legs, and gone is the bar smell, the off-colored sensation of dirt, cigarettes, whiskey, and Jeff. She sighs and then rubs her eyes, sitting up and looking around.
The apartment is empty. The sheets from last night are in a pile, over her dirty laundry as well as a couple of towels she recognizes from the night before. She pushes herself off the bed and swears she smells pancakes, half-worried and half-amused by what she should expect to see.
“Jeff?” She waits before trying again. “Jeff?”
There is no answer. She shrugs and reaches for the television, turning it on and to the news to fill the apartment with some noise. She looks around and shakes her head. It really is like he was never here.
She moves into the kitchen and spots the plate of pancakes in the middle of the counter. It smells good. It smells really good. The pan in her sink is still wet so she can only assume that Jeff hasn’t been gone too long - there are no traces of him in her apartment with the exception of the sheets and towels. There’s coffee too and note leans against it, folded and with her name written on it.
When she opens it, she laughs.
yes i cook.
“You’re back,” she greets later, and Jeff is leaning against the frame of her door, Chinese in one hand and a pharmacy bag in the other. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” she says, letting him in.
“And sober,” he says dryly.
The apartment is clean. She made sure to go over everything once more, surprised to see that Jeff actually made sure to clean up a few things. She doesn’t ask how he managed it - it’s one of those compulsive quirks she assumes that he just has.
Taking the bags from him, she moves to the kitchen with him behind her, pulling out a bottle of Advil and laundry detergent from the pharmacy bag. She looks back at him, confused.
Jeff shrugs. “I stole yours,” he says. “I didn’t want to smell like vomit, or whatever, and - ” She watches him bite his lip. “You smell nice, I guess.”
“You guess?”
She tries to look offended. He smirks.
“Just be glad you brought Chinese,” she says. She wrinkles her nose in memory. “And not so gross. Or not as gross as you usually are.”
She moves to grab plates, but he seems to take over for her. Instead, she finds herself settling on the counter, pushing herself back and watching him as he starts to go through her cabinets and grab some plates.
She can’t remember if she told him that she loves Chinese. It doesn’t matter. It could be one of those things that Jeff just gets right, for whatever reason. But she’s struck at how easy it for him - she can count on one hand how many times he’s been to her apartment, and all of them because he and Britta try to occasionally out drink each other.
“We need to watch another damn movie,” he says. He hands her a plate of lo mein, and she smiles, amused as he slides a fork into her hand too. His thumb rubs against her knuckles and she bites the inside of her mouth. “Because I’m pretty sure I have you to blame for ballerinas.”
She laughs.
“Seriously though. It was you and Britta and a chorus line of brunettes that were literally telling me that I could - it doesn’t matter. The point is that there were tights and pointy shoes and so not okay with that, Annie. So not okay.”
“You could just go home next time,” she points out dryly. She puts her plate down next to her. “Instead of coming here.”
“It was Britta’s idea.”
“And yours the time before that.” She shakes her head. “I’m not an idiot, you too. I can deal with Drunk Britta. You -”
“Whatever,” he cuts her off. “You and that stupid movie. I’ll have nightmares, you know.”
She laughs. “Good.”
He snorts, but he’s grinning and there could be some sort of comment here about something. She could say that she likes him here or that she likes this, whatever this is - half the time, she thinks that if they were to talk about it, they’d actually agree on the state of their friendship-thing-whatever. But she ignores it though, that urge to just move everything along, and reaches out for him.
He puts his plate down too, as her hand curls around his arm, tugging him forward and to stand between her legs. She smiles. She feels her mouth quirk, then twitch, and she’s actually giggling before she can stop herself. Jeff looks confused and she can’t help but laugh harder.
“You’d make a pretty ballerina,” she breathes, and he’s scowling, leaning over her legs as she continues to laugh. She forgets how easy it is to fall into this with him, to be completely comfortable with him, and when she looks up, he’s watching her exactly like that, like finally they’re on the same page.
He leans forward. Slowly though; his hands fall to the counter on either side of her legs, his fingers skimming her knee. She feels herself flush and then sigh, wanting to do just a little more than watch him.
“I -” he stops himself.
And misses her mouth.
She freezes. She should laugh but his mouth is opening over her jaw, his hand dropping to her waist and he’s sort, maybe, nuzzling her. Her breath catches and her legs flank his side. He’s flushed against her and she’s more than aware of him - it’s easier when she isn’t angry, when she’s comfortable and she can feel her hand move over his chest, to the column of his throat as she turns herself into him. It could be just that easy to have a real moment and not share with everyone else.
Jeff sighs. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “For, you know,” he hesitates. “Everything.”
She can feel his mouth move against her cheek now, and the words seem to alternate between patronizing and everything that is just so Jeff.
She forces herself to swallow. “I like you,” she mumbles.
“Annie - ”
“I’m - ” she sighs. “I’m not mean, Jeff. I wouldn’t leave you guys to … well, I don’t want to know the alternative.”
It’s heavy. It’s too heavy. His fingers are in her hair and she’s trying, god, she’s trying to concentrate because he hasn’t exactly moved and they’ve gone from talking about the movie to last night to the entire year without actually mentioning the entire year.
She turns a little and presses her cheek into his. Her fingers curl around his t-shirt and he makes this sound, low and heavy.
His mouth grazes her ear. And maybe, she thinks, she really just wants to kiss him and not have it be a thing.
Then it’s over. His hand pats her hip. He hands her back her plate, forcing a smile and her heart is back in her throat, her eyes wide with too many things. He starts filling the conversation with Britta and weirdly enough, Troy and Abed and even Pierce, looking away as if to move the moment along.
Her mouth opens and then closes. She shakes her head. When she picks up her fork, she manages to laugh lightly as if to say they’re fine, that she’s fine, even as he tenses against the counter.
They’ll forget to talk about this time too.