27: fanfiction (britta/troy)
Title: Crackity Jones
Fandom/Characters: Community - Britta/Troy (with some mentions of Britta/Jeff)
Summary: There weren’t many people Britta could count on to come round at this time of morning to help her look for a lost cat.
Notes: I should warn you that myself and Mickie (-sundaysmile @ tumblr) have our own personal canon for these two, which includes stuff that you've read in some of my other fics, as well as stuff which we've come up with together on stories that haven't been published as of yet. The stuff that happened after the Tranny Dance is the only thing that really effects this story, I think, and it's explained. Anywhoodle, this is another one-shot. I'm like a machine. I need to stop writing these. The cat's name comes from Pixie's song, because a poster in Britta's room in Anthropology 101 proved she's a fan of that band ;)
Jeff was always the person Britta called in situations like this. Okay, so he would have probably teased her, or complained that crawling around her apartment was going to ruin one of his expensive outfits, or whatever, but as her best friend, he would have shown up to help out. But it was thanksgiving, and out of nowhere, Jeff had announced he was visiting family. Why he’d chosen just now to decide he cared about the people who raised him, Britta was not sure. In fact, she had an idea that he wasn’t visiting family at all, that it was more likely he was spending the weekend with the girl who had recently transferred into their Anthropology 101 class, or just trying to get out of having to meet up with them for the break, but she wasn’t going to say as much. Either way, he wasn’t around, and it was two am and freezing outside, and there weren’t many people Britta could count on to come round at this time of morning to help her look for a lost cat. Luckily, she’d thought of someone else.
Britta sat in the front seat of her car, rubbing her hands together, wishing she’d thought to bring gloves. She wasn’t sure whether or not she should honk the horn or something, but she’d already sent a text message to say she was waiting outside, and a horn would wake the whole house. She groaned; what was taking him so long?! Of course, it was possible he had gone back to bed. It was a little mean of her to have rung him at this time of the morning and just expected him to be awake still. He’d answered with a bleary ‘what, I’m awake, what is it?’ that had made her smile, despite herself. He sounded adorable. But of course there were more important things to think about, so she’d pushed that thought aside, ready to deal with it later.
Finally, a light went on in the porch, and a figure stumbled out the door and over to the car. Britta leant across to open the passenger’s side door, and Troy slipped in. She’d given him a lift home on multiple occasions, so he didn’t even blink at the fact she still had her side mirror fixed with tape, or that the floor of her car was always full of rubbish like old receipts and cartons from the local vegan take out. She glanced over at him. He looked just as tired as she did, and it was obvious he’d thrown on clothes without really looking at them, chucked a coat on for good measure.
“Sorry for calling you at this time of night,” she told him, starting the engine so the heater would kick back into action, “I’m just really worried about him.”
Troy nodded, putting his hands flat on the dashboard and trying not to grimace at how freezing it was in her car, “it’s okay. I was only sleeping. Like, I can do that any time,” he flashed her a smile, and whilst it wasn’t completely convincing, it did serve the purpose of making her feel marginally better.
They drove in silence. Mostly because Britta was busy worrying, and trying not to think the worst, and Troy was trying not to fall asleep. And that was fine, it suited her. It was only about a ten minute drive from Pierce’s estate to her apartment anyway, and once they arrived, she quickly got out of the car and headed up the front steps, Troy trailing behind.
“I just want to make sure he’s not somewhere inside. I couldn’t reach to check above my closet, and the stool in my kitchen isn’t very sturdy,” she told him, unlocking the front door, “after that, I guess we’ll have to go look for him. We could make some posters?”
Troy didn’t look particularly enthusiastic, but he followed her inside anyhow, checked where she told him to, and upon seeing no signs of the crazy one eyed cat anywhere, retired to the kitchen. Britta put the kettle on, and it was pretty obvious she was trying not to get upset.
“I’m sure he’ll be okay,” Troy said, as he walked over to her. She was putting teabags into mugs, staring at what she was doing, and he could tell she was bordering on tears. There were a lot of things Britta Perry claimed to care about, but none of those meant anything in comparison to her cat. Troy twitched. He didn’t like her looking so sad, but he also didn’t really know what he was supposed to do about it. Maybe she ought to have invited Shirley or Annie over instead? He awkwardly reached across and patted her shoulder. She looked up at the odd, unexpected motion, and tried to smile. It was the thought that counted, right?
“Thanks,” she murmured, as the kettle pinged, and she began to pour water into the mugs, “I just don’t like the thought of him outside all alone. It’s so cold, and he left his little eye patch behind. What if he gets attacked or something?”
Troy waited whilst she poured soya milk into his mug, before taking it (without needing to be told which was his - he always had the same mug), and going over to the table. He perched on the end of a stool, leant on the table.
“Once, I saw this episode of like, CSI, or something, where this lady had been killed in her apartment and the only clue they had about who killed her was a cat scratch. Like, her cat had scratched the guy, and left behind fur for them to test. The cat was missing, but they matched the fur to the lady’s house,” he grinned, “cats are really smart. I don’t think you need to worry.”
Britta sat down opposite him, wrapped her hand around her steaming mug of tea, “what happened to the cat?”
“Oh, the guy had taken it. He killed it and fed it to his dog and it was really gross,” he paused, noticing the horrified look on Britta’s face, “but that’s almost definitely not what’s happened to your cat.”
She offered him a small smile, sipping at her tea, ignoring the fact it was burning her tongue. In all honesty, she was glad Jeff was away. She knew she hadn’t just invited Troy over because he was tall enough to reach above her closet, or because she needed help putting out fliers: she needed cheering up. Troy, in his own little way, cheered her up, even when she was so low all she wanted was to curl up in a ball and consume as much ice cream as physically possible. He’d been there for her after the Tranny Dance, and he’d definitely earned his place as number two on her speed dial.
After they'd finished their tea, Troy suggested going outside to look for the cat. He asked where his usual hide outs were, which was a fairly intelligent question for Troy, but Britta had no answer. Crackity had never run off before, and in the years she'd had Susie B, she had never gone out of the apartment. It was difficult to get cats back inside when you lived on the third floor. It was also fairly difficult for them to go out in the first place, but she'd left the window open in a moment of idiocy. So, they decided to just check around the block, and if he wasn't there, they'd put posters up and call it a day. Britta was fairly sure he would be spooked enough to have not gone far, but as they went out, her confidence broke down more and more. As they went down to the children's play park on the corner, it began to rain. Britta finally gave in to the tears that had been gathering in her eyes, thinking that they wouldn't be noticeable with the rain, but found Troy staring at her. Her hair was getting stuck to her face, blown about by the wind, and all she wanted to do was go home and collapse in her bed. She felt Troy wrap an arm around her, silently guiding her back toward the stairs to her apartment. When they reached the front door, he took the key from her bag and slipped it into the lock, letting them in, and didn't even comment when she headed straight for her bedroom. A moment later, he heard the sound of the hair-dryer.
Troy sat down on the couch, feeling kinda awkward. He looked over at the flashing red digits of the clock on Britta's VCR player, and noted that it was almost four. They must have been looking for longer than he thought. He thought about turning the television on, but there would be nothing good on this time of night, and it was rude to just switch on appliances without asking. So he sat still, and eventually the buzz of the hair-dryer stopped. Troy waited for Britta to emerge, but she didn't. The longer he waited, the more awkward he felt, until eventually he got to his feet, walked over to the bedroom door, and knocked. He'd been in there once - earlier that night - and not been particularly surprised by the amount of clothes on the floor. Hell, the cat could have easily been hiding in one of the mountains of sweaters. He'd tried not to pry, forced himself not to look at anything that wasn't necessary. He could be respectful, occasionally. And he certainly knew better than to just barge into somebody's room without knocking.
After a moment, there was a mumble of 'come in' and Troy pushed the door open, wasn't particularly surprised when the door caught on a chair on the other side, and wouldn't open any further. He slipped through the gap and closed the door behind him.
“Are you okay?” he asked, relieved to realise her room was a lot warmer than the rest of the apartment, and he was still soaked through from the rain.
Britta was sat on the end of her bed, a throw cushion snuggled to her chest, her chin resting on a corner. Her hair was flat and life-less from the dryer, her make-up smudged. She was clutching a face wipe but she obviously hadn't used it, distracted by the tears that were making their way down her cheeks. She turned her face away from Troy, trying to compose herself.
“Hey, it's okay, he's probably hiding somewhere,” Troy told her, sitting down next to her on the bed.
Britta sniffed, swiping tears away, “I know. But it's so cold out, and it's raining, and he doesn't usually go out. I know you probably think I'm really lame for getting this upset about a pet but...”
“It's okay. I still miss Annie's Boobs,” she shot him a look, “the monkey. Abed let him go and I do miss him, even if he did poop all over my room and rip up one of my assignments. It was nice to have someone who relied on me, I guess.”
“Do you think Abed let him out somewhere safe? He realises he can't just open his cage and let a monkey out anywhere, right? This climate, and the lack of greenery for him to hide in,” she paused, rolled her eyes, “I know. You were trying to make me feel better.”
Troy nodded, taking the throw cushion from her and putting it down behind him. He shifted up so he was sitting right next to her, his knee touching hers, and put an arm round her shoulders. She was hesitant, but eventually relaxed next to him, her head resting on his shoulder.
“He'll be okay,” she said, “it's just, y'know, after Susie B...I don't think I can handle losing Crackity Jones too. Maybe I should take this as a sign. I can't look after myself properly, let alone a cat.”
“Hey! That's not true! You're, like, our Greendale Mom. You absolutely can look after yourself. Our group would be nothing without you,” he smiled down at her, suddenly realising just how close to his face hers was.
She scoffed, “like anybody ever listens to a word I say.”
“Exactly,” he laughed, “just like a real mom.”
That seemed to cheer her up momentarily, but they soon lulled back into silence, and after a while he thought she might have fallen asleep. Her breathing had evened out, and she wasn't quite as tensed up. But then she lifted her head and he realised he was wrong, and unwrapped himself from around her, allowing her to stand up. She stretched, dropping the unused face wipe onto her dresser, and began rearranging the cushions on her bed.
“I guess that's my cue to go,” he said, feeling awkward again.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, “um... would you mind staying? Until I get off to sleep? Just, I usually have Crackity on the bed so...”
Britta sounded so unsure of herself that he had to agree. She was usually so confident that it made his insides knot to see her still so upset. He remembered the night after the Tranny Dance, in Abed's dorm room. He'd fallen asleep curled up with her on the bottom bunk, after she'd cried solidly for a few hours. They hadn't spoken about it, and he knew better than to bring it up. There were very few people Britta allowed to see her in that state, and he felt privileged to be one of them. He didn't want to blow it.
He watched her pull back the covers and climb into the bed, not bothering to shed her wet-clothes, just kicking off her shoes. He did the same, and hesitantly clambered into the bed. For a moment it was awkward, and it was a long moment at that. Britta lay on her side and he lay flat on his back with a space that could fit another person between them. Britta rolled over so she was facing him.
“I don't bite,” she said, laughing nervously, “you don't have to sleep half hanging out of the bed.”
Troy swallowed, shifting a little further into the bed. Eventually, Britta seemed content, because she rolled over onto her other side again. He waited until he figured she was asleep, before shifting closer and wrapping an arm around her waist. He felt her tense against him, and realised with alarm that she hadn't been sleeping after all. He was about to move away again when she relaxed, curling a hand round one of his arms, and sighing.
When they woke up the next morning, Crackity was mewing at the bedroom door, waiting to be let in.
Fandom/Characters: Community - Britta/Troy (with some mentions of Britta/Jeff)
Summary: There weren’t many people Britta could count on to come round at this time of morning to help her look for a lost cat.
Notes: I should warn you that myself and Mickie (-sundaysmile @ tumblr) have our own personal canon for these two, which includes stuff that you've read in some of my other fics, as well as stuff which we've come up with together on stories that haven't been published as of yet. The stuff that happened after the Tranny Dance is the only thing that really effects this story, I think, and it's explained. Anywhoodle, this is another one-shot. I'm like a machine. I need to stop writing these. The cat's name comes from Pixie's song, because a poster in Britta's room in Anthropology 101 proved she's a fan of that band ;)
Jeff was always the person Britta called in situations like this. Okay, so he would have probably teased her, or complained that crawling around her apartment was going to ruin one of his expensive outfits, or whatever, but as her best friend, he would have shown up to help out. But it was thanksgiving, and out of nowhere, Jeff had announced he was visiting family. Why he’d chosen just now to decide he cared about the people who raised him, Britta was not sure. In fact, she had an idea that he wasn’t visiting family at all, that it was more likely he was spending the weekend with the girl who had recently transferred into their Anthropology 101 class, or just trying to get out of having to meet up with them for the break, but she wasn’t going to say as much. Either way, he wasn’t around, and it was two am and freezing outside, and there weren’t many people Britta could count on to come round at this time of morning to help her look for a lost cat. Luckily, she’d thought of someone else.
Britta sat in the front seat of her car, rubbing her hands together, wishing she’d thought to bring gloves. She wasn’t sure whether or not she should honk the horn or something, but she’d already sent a text message to say she was waiting outside, and a horn would wake the whole house. She groaned; what was taking him so long?! Of course, it was possible he had gone back to bed. It was a little mean of her to have rung him at this time of the morning and just expected him to be awake still. He’d answered with a bleary ‘what, I’m awake, what is it?’ that had made her smile, despite herself. He sounded adorable. But of course there were more important things to think about, so she’d pushed that thought aside, ready to deal with it later.
Finally, a light went on in the porch, and a figure stumbled out the door and over to the car. Britta leant across to open the passenger’s side door, and Troy slipped in. She’d given him a lift home on multiple occasions, so he didn’t even blink at the fact she still had her side mirror fixed with tape, or that the floor of her car was always full of rubbish like old receipts and cartons from the local vegan take out. She glanced over at him. He looked just as tired as she did, and it was obvious he’d thrown on clothes without really looking at them, chucked a coat on for good measure.
“Sorry for calling you at this time of night,” she told him, starting the engine so the heater would kick back into action, “I’m just really worried about him.”
Troy nodded, putting his hands flat on the dashboard and trying not to grimace at how freezing it was in her car, “it’s okay. I was only sleeping. Like, I can do that any time,” he flashed her a smile, and whilst it wasn’t completely convincing, it did serve the purpose of making her feel marginally better.
They drove in silence. Mostly because Britta was busy worrying, and trying not to think the worst, and Troy was trying not to fall asleep. And that was fine, it suited her. It was only about a ten minute drive from Pierce’s estate to her apartment anyway, and once they arrived, she quickly got out of the car and headed up the front steps, Troy trailing behind.
“I just want to make sure he’s not somewhere inside. I couldn’t reach to check above my closet, and the stool in my kitchen isn’t very sturdy,” she told him, unlocking the front door, “after that, I guess we’ll have to go look for him. We could make some posters?”
Troy didn’t look particularly enthusiastic, but he followed her inside anyhow, checked where she told him to, and upon seeing no signs of the crazy one eyed cat anywhere, retired to the kitchen. Britta put the kettle on, and it was pretty obvious she was trying not to get upset.
“I’m sure he’ll be okay,” Troy said, as he walked over to her. She was putting teabags into mugs, staring at what she was doing, and he could tell she was bordering on tears. There were a lot of things Britta Perry claimed to care about, but none of those meant anything in comparison to her cat. Troy twitched. He didn’t like her looking so sad, but he also didn’t really know what he was supposed to do about it. Maybe she ought to have invited Shirley or Annie over instead? He awkwardly reached across and patted her shoulder. She looked up at the odd, unexpected motion, and tried to smile. It was the thought that counted, right?
“Thanks,” she murmured, as the kettle pinged, and she began to pour water into the mugs, “I just don’t like the thought of him outside all alone. It’s so cold, and he left his little eye patch behind. What if he gets attacked or something?”
Troy waited whilst she poured soya milk into his mug, before taking it (without needing to be told which was his - he always had the same mug), and going over to the table. He perched on the end of a stool, leant on the table.
“Once, I saw this episode of like, CSI, or something, where this lady had been killed in her apartment and the only clue they had about who killed her was a cat scratch. Like, her cat had scratched the guy, and left behind fur for them to test. The cat was missing, but they matched the fur to the lady’s house,” he grinned, “cats are really smart. I don’t think you need to worry.”
Britta sat down opposite him, wrapped her hand around her steaming mug of tea, “what happened to the cat?”
“Oh, the guy had taken it. He killed it and fed it to his dog and it was really gross,” he paused, noticing the horrified look on Britta’s face, “but that’s almost definitely not what’s happened to your cat.”
She offered him a small smile, sipping at her tea, ignoring the fact it was burning her tongue. In all honesty, she was glad Jeff was away. She knew she hadn’t just invited Troy over because he was tall enough to reach above her closet, or because she needed help putting out fliers: she needed cheering up. Troy, in his own little way, cheered her up, even when she was so low all she wanted was to curl up in a ball and consume as much ice cream as physically possible. He’d been there for her after the Tranny Dance, and he’d definitely earned his place as number two on her speed dial.
After they'd finished their tea, Troy suggested going outside to look for the cat. He asked where his usual hide outs were, which was a fairly intelligent question for Troy, but Britta had no answer. Crackity had never run off before, and in the years she'd had Susie B, she had never gone out of the apartment. It was difficult to get cats back inside when you lived on the third floor. It was also fairly difficult for them to go out in the first place, but she'd left the window open in a moment of idiocy. So, they decided to just check around the block, and if he wasn't there, they'd put posters up and call it a day. Britta was fairly sure he would be spooked enough to have not gone far, but as they went out, her confidence broke down more and more. As they went down to the children's play park on the corner, it began to rain. Britta finally gave in to the tears that had been gathering in her eyes, thinking that they wouldn't be noticeable with the rain, but found Troy staring at her. Her hair was getting stuck to her face, blown about by the wind, and all she wanted to do was go home and collapse in her bed. She felt Troy wrap an arm around her, silently guiding her back toward the stairs to her apartment. When they reached the front door, he took the key from her bag and slipped it into the lock, letting them in, and didn't even comment when she headed straight for her bedroom. A moment later, he heard the sound of the hair-dryer.
Troy sat down on the couch, feeling kinda awkward. He looked over at the flashing red digits of the clock on Britta's VCR player, and noted that it was almost four. They must have been looking for longer than he thought. He thought about turning the television on, but there would be nothing good on this time of night, and it was rude to just switch on appliances without asking. So he sat still, and eventually the buzz of the hair-dryer stopped. Troy waited for Britta to emerge, but she didn't. The longer he waited, the more awkward he felt, until eventually he got to his feet, walked over to the bedroom door, and knocked. He'd been in there once - earlier that night - and not been particularly surprised by the amount of clothes on the floor. Hell, the cat could have easily been hiding in one of the mountains of sweaters. He'd tried not to pry, forced himself not to look at anything that wasn't necessary. He could be respectful, occasionally. And he certainly knew better than to just barge into somebody's room without knocking.
After a moment, there was a mumble of 'come in' and Troy pushed the door open, wasn't particularly surprised when the door caught on a chair on the other side, and wouldn't open any further. He slipped through the gap and closed the door behind him.
“Are you okay?” he asked, relieved to realise her room was a lot warmer than the rest of the apartment, and he was still soaked through from the rain.
Britta was sat on the end of her bed, a throw cushion snuggled to her chest, her chin resting on a corner. Her hair was flat and life-less from the dryer, her make-up smudged. She was clutching a face wipe but she obviously hadn't used it, distracted by the tears that were making their way down her cheeks. She turned her face away from Troy, trying to compose herself.
“Hey, it's okay, he's probably hiding somewhere,” Troy told her, sitting down next to her on the bed.
Britta sniffed, swiping tears away, “I know. But it's so cold out, and it's raining, and he doesn't usually go out. I know you probably think I'm really lame for getting this upset about a pet but...”
“It's okay. I still miss Annie's Boobs,” she shot him a look, “the monkey. Abed let him go and I do miss him, even if he did poop all over my room and rip up one of my assignments. It was nice to have someone who relied on me, I guess.”
“Do you think Abed let him out somewhere safe? He realises he can't just open his cage and let a monkey out anywhere, right? This climate, and the lack of greenery for him to hide in,” she paused, rolled her eyes, “I know. You were trying to make me feel better.”
Troy nodded, taking the throw cushion from her and putting it down behind him. He shifted up so he was sitting right next to her, his knee touching hers, and put an arm round her shoulders. She was hesitant, but eventually relaxed next to him, her head resting on his shoulder.
“He'll be okay,” she said, “it's just, y'know, after Susie B...I don't think I can handle losing Crackity Jones too. Maybe I should take this as a sign. I can't look after myself properly, let alone a cat.”
“Hey! That's not true! You're, like, our Greendale Mom. You absolutely can look after yourself. Our group would be nothing without you,” he smiled down at her, suddenly realising just how close to his face hers was.
She scoffed, “like anybody ever listens to a word I say.”
“Exactly,” he laughed, “just like a real mom.”
That seemed to cheer her up momentarily, but they soon lulled back into silence, and after a while he thought she might have fallen asleep. Her breathing had evened out, and she wasn't quite as tensed up. But then she lifted her head and he realised he was wrong, and unwrapped himself from around her, allowing her to stand up. She stretched, dropping the unused face wipe onto her dresser, and began rearranging the cushions on her bed.
“I guess that's my cue to go,” he said, feeling awkward again.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, “um... would you mind staying? Until I get off to sleep? Just, I usually have Crackity on the bed so...”
Britta sounded so unsure of herself that he had to agree. She was usually so confident that it made his insides knot to see her still so upset. He remembered the night after the Tranny Dance, in Abed's dorm room. He'd fallen asleep curled up with her on the bottom bunk, after she'd cried solidly for a few hours. They hadn't spoken about it, and he knew better than to bring it up. There were very few people Britta allowed to see her in that state, and he felt privileged to be one of them. He didn't want to blow it.
He watched her pull back the covers and climb into the bed, not bothering to shed her wet-clothes, just kicking off her shoes. He did the same, and hesitantly clambered into the bed. For a moment it was awkward, and it was a long moment at that. Britta lay on her side and he lay flat on his back with a space that could fit another person between them. Britta rolled over so she was facing him.
“I don't bite,” she said, laughing nervously, “you don't have to sleep half hanging out of the bed.”
Troy swallowed, shifting a little further into the bed. Eventually, Britta seemed content, because she rolled over onto her other side again. He waited until he figured she was asleep, before shifting closer and wrapping an arm around her waist. He felt her tense against him, and realised with alarm that she hadn't been sleeping after all. He was about to move away again when she relaxed, curling a hand round one of his arms, and sighing.
When they woke up the next morning, Crackity was mewing at the bedroom door, waiting to be let in.