Jeff/Annie - One Of Many Moments Where Jeff And Annie Do Not Kiss
Title: One Of Many Moments Where Jeff And Annie Do Not Kiss
Author: wordybee
Spoilers: None.
Rating: PG/PG-13
Warning: It makes sense in my brain, but it might not (probably won't) in yours.
Word Count: 554
Disclaimer: I don't own Community
Jeff and Annie do not kiss.
(He can feel her move just a little closer, just a fraction but that fraction could ignite something that had had been burning, lowly and slowly for a while now - burning, but lacking the kindle to create a flame.)
He thinks that they could have, if just given one more second.
(She would reach up to him, standing on her tip-toes to make the distance work, but he would be the one to close the gap and touch his lips to hers because he is the one that feels that crackling in the air. A storm rolling in.)
She sits down, ignorant of the possibilities running through his head. Jeff is reminded of Abed’s insistence of alternate universes, of alternate choices and their alternate outcomes.
(Jeff would slide his hand up her arm, glance his fingers across her side. Annie would shiver, goose bumps rising in her skin. She would wrap her arms around his neck in order to pull him closer, but Jeff would already be as close as he could get without them melting into one another entirely.)
It is a moment like any other. She is there, and he is there, and they do not kiss.
(She would dart her tongue across his bottom lip, requesting access. Tasting, slowly - like that burn, which is getting hotter but still no flames yet.)
He asks for her biology notes.
(One hand would tangle itself in her hair while the other retraces its path down Annie’s side, to her thigh. She would make a sound not unlike a whimper, instinctively moving her leg against him just a bit. Fractions, again. Important fractions.)
He smiles at the notes, neatly written and color-coded.
(Annie’s hands would move to frame his face and she would pull away, gasping, her lips red and eyes large and dark with a lingering brightness that flashes like lightning when she looks at his face; his eyes, his lips, his lips, his lips. She concentrates on his lips, as he concentrates on the storm in her eyes. Heat lightning.)
Her hand touches his as she passes him an extra pen.
(She would say, “Jeff” like it meant something. Like she was asking a question and giving an answer all at once. He would say “Annie” the same way, and he would lean down again to seal it with another kiss, because sometimes he wasn’t so great with words and he would really want her to know what he meant.)
Annie smiles at him and Jeff can feel the potential energy lingering all around him. She turns back to her notebook and he’s the only one left in their one-of-many-moments-where-they-do-not-kiss. The potential fades, and fades, and dies altogether.
(She would smile against his lips and he would try his best not to get totally carried away with her in whatever hypothetical place they were in. Still, lightning was flashing and the air was dry and the world would be on fire soon enough.)
He feels the loss like a phantom limb: gone, but still aching.
(Lips and tongues and tasting.)
He sits down at the table and starts to copy her notes.
(Soft touches and gasps.)
His fingers tingle where she’d touched them.
(A slow burn turned to wildfire.)
Just one more second.
(What would have happened.)
Author: wordybee
Spoilers: None.
Rating: PG/PG-13
Warning: It makes sense in my brain, but it might not (probably won't) in yours.
Word Count: 554
Disclaimer: I don't own Community
Jeff and Annie do not kiss.
(He can feel her move just a little closer, just a fraction but that fraction could ignite something that had had been burning, lowly and slowly for a while now - burning, but lacking the kindle to create a flame.)
He thinks that they could have, if just given one more second.
(She would reach up to him, standing on her tip-toes to make the distance work, but he would be the one to close the gap and touch his lips to hers because he is the one that feels that crackling in the air. A storm rolling in.)
She sits down, ignorant of the possibilities running through his head. Jeff is reminded of Abed’s insistence of alternate universes, of alternate choices and their alternate outcomes.
(Jeff would slide his hand up her arm, glance his fingers across her side. Annie would shiver, goose bumps rising in her skin. She would wrap her arms around his neck in order to pull him closer, but Jeff would already be as close as he could get without them melting into one another entirely.)
It is a moment like any other. She is there, and he is there, and they do not kiss.
(She would dart her tongue across his bottom lip, requesting access. Tasting, slowly - like that burn, which is getting hotter but still no flames yet.)
He asks for her biology notes.
(One hand would tangle itself in her hair while the other retraces its path down Annie’s side, to her thigh. She would make a sound not unlike a whimper, instinctively moving her leg against him just a bit. Fractions, again. Important fractions.)
He smiles at the notes, neatly written and color-coded.
(Annie’s hands would move to frame his face and she would pull away, gasping, her lips red and eyes large and dark with a lingering brightness that flashes like lightning when she looks at his face; his eyes, his lips, his lips, his lips. She concentrates on his lips, as he concentrates on the storm in her eyes. Heat lightning.)
Her hand touches his as she passes him an extra pen.
(She would say, “Jeff” like it meant something. Like she was asking a question and giving an answer all at once. He would say “Annie” the same way, and he would lean down again to seal it with another kiss, because sometimes he wasn’t so great with words and he would really want her to know what he meant.)
Annie smiles at him and Jeff can feel the potential energy lingering all around him. She turns back to her notebook and he’s the only one left in their one-of-many-moments-where-they-do-not-kiss. The potential fades, and fades, and dies altogether.
(She would smile against his lips and he would try his best not to get totally carried away with her in whatever hypothetical place they were in. Still, lightning was flashing and the air was dry and the world would be on fire soon enough.)
He feels the loss like a phantom limb: gone, but still aching.
(Lips and tongues and tasting.)
He sits down at the table and starts to copy her notes.
(Soft touches and gasps.)
His fingers tingle where she’d touched them.
(A slow burn turned to wildfire.)
Just one more second.
(What would have happened.)