(no subject)
Annie had been accepted to a real college - not that Greendale University wasn't a real college. But, well, you know. So naturally she was happy. So naturally she wanted to celebrate, though even she knew that those two words - "Annie" and "celebrating" - generally didn't go together. But she was 20 now, not the same girl she was at 18, and she could do what she wanted.
So she'd invited her group, her study group, her friend group, whatever you wanted to call it, out for drinks. It was true that she never really specifically told them that she was inviting them out to the only 18 and older club in Greendale because of the good news she'd shared with them a few weeks before. But they really should have known. It didn't take a scientist to connect the two things, did it?
So here she was, sitting on the lone lounge sofa in the place, a virgin appletini (apple juice?) in her hand, and her new blue dress on - the one she'd bought cause it was so un-Annie (but not slutty), with blue and satin and short sleeves and that cute banded mini skirt bottom that made her hips actually look roundish. The blue dress she'd stood in dressing room staring at herself in, imagining the look on Troy's face when he saw her in it, even though she was so over that. But old habits die hard and she really needed to erase the memory from her mind of his expression that terrible day in high school when she'd hit rock bottom and ran through a glass door, fleeing from evil robots.
So here she was.
And none of them showed.
She could already imagine Britta going on a rant about clubs and blah blah, and Shirley was perhaps a bit too conservative for this, and Abed and Troy were usually really busy with their side projects and Pierce ....
All of that was crap though, despite Annie's rationalization. They had forgotten. Clear as that. Forgotten her.
An hour after the time they were supposed to meet, Annie decides its just not worth it (and embarrassing, to boot) to still be sitting here. No one's even asked her to dance, though a few did come close, before being deterred by the close-to-tears expression on her face. People didn't want to put up with that at a club, they came to have fun, not console some sobbing girl who wasn't even going to go home with them.
She was in the process of gathering her bag when suddenly he was standing there. Jeff. Of course. Jeff, who was the only one of them who actually thought it was more polite to be late than to be on time.
He was wearing a suit, a nice one that looked tailored and he looked stylish and young and not at all like how someone like Pierce would look in a suit. He was wearing a suit she knew he must have bought before his spiral into "loserdom", as he called it. One black and cut in tighter at the waist and snug in all the right places, loose in all the others.
"Hey," he shouted over the music. Lady Gaga or something like that - Annie didn't know. It wasn't really her kind of thing.
Hey." Good heavens bejeebus, her voice sounded high and shrill.
"I'm sorry I'm late," he apologized. He sounded confused.
He stepped over her feet, flouncing all 6'4 of himself on the couch next to her. The cushion sunk under his weight. He still looked confused. He also had a very large wrapped gift in his hands.
"Where is everyone?" he asked.
He smelled nice. He looked nice. Annie tried not to stare. Feigning a nonchalance she didn't feel, she shrugged. "I guess they had something better to do."
Now he didn't look confused so much as uncomfortable. She was about to wave him away, release from any obligation or duty he felt to stay here and be lame with her, but as a passing waiter walked by, Jeff gestured him over and ordered a scotch on the rocks, winking playfully at her when he was asked to fish out his wallet from his back pocket to show them his id (his wallet was thin and Annie wanted to ask if it was the wallet he bought specifically for wearing tight pants, but didn't have the courage), and Annie knew he was settling in. God knows why, but he wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon.
After the waiter (Annie didn't really even know if they were called waiters in a club) walked away, Jeff leaned forward a bit, tugging on a piece of her hair (curled and bouncy and very old movie starry) and said: "You look... great." And she knew he meant it, cause he got that weird soft look he sometimes got with her (only her?). Then, after she'd looked away for a moment, breaking the connection, he held out that huge box, wrapped a bit messily and tied with a pink ribbon, and his expression was back to its acerbic and slightly patronizing normalness.
"Jeff," she giggled (she didn't mean to, it just happened with him sometimes, okay?!), "what is this for?"
"You're going off to a gen-u-wine unimaversity and all and I just figured you might need these for your active social life."
She gave him a confused look, a bit curious, and tore at the wrapping. When she finally managed to get his mass of tape (and a staple or two) apart, she ended up just staring at the contents, dumbfounded.
"You don't like them?" He sounded worried, which was unusual for him.
"You bought me shoes?" How strange.
"Ah," he corrected, "but not just shoes, my lady." He pulled one from the box. It was a 5-inch heel, studded and strappy and gorgeous. Annie had never worn anything higher then a modest 2 inches. Even now, she was wearing a cute pair of satin ballet slippers. "These," he informed her, all mock serious, "are bonafide women's shoes - sexy women's shoes. You're going to need them once you start going out to clubs every night and getting wasted."
Perhaps it wasn't the best thing to say to her. Annie had already had enough experience being wasted. But it was actually kinda nice that Jeff didn't even seem to remember that. That he was treating her like a normal girl - not one with an adderal addiction and experience in rehab.
"You know my size?"
He shrugged.
"I can't even wear these, Jeff."
"Pfft. Yes you can. Here." He reached down and slipped off her shoes, which was strange. And made Annie's stomach twist up with....something.
With his help (a lot of help, including ankles twisted around and her foot over his knee), she managed to get the things strapped on. Standing wasn't any easier. He had to help her up, holding her hands the whole time. She wobbled.
"Wow," he commented, smiling crookedly at her, "now you're almost to my shoulder."
"Jeff, I am not that short."
"Really, Edison?" He stood up straighter. "Even with these 10 inch monstrosities on, you still aren't eye to eye to me." Well, there really wasn't any arguing that.
She plopped back down on the couch (fell, actually, but she didn't think he noticed) and took the things off.
When she stood again, stupidly trying to prove her tallness to him, she realized it was a mistake. She was really, really, really short. Very short. So short she couldn't even imagine how she'd ever gotten up high enough to kiss him during that debate a year and half ago - though he was bowed a bit by the weight of Jeremy "Soulpatch" Simmons, and though he did help her out a bit by pulling her up, by leaning down, and though.....this was a dangerous train of thought.
"What were you saying, Edison?" he asked, more than a little smugly as she stared into his chest, a good foot shorter than him.
"Whatever, Winger. Being dainty is desirable in a lot of cultures."
"Sure." He sounded noncommittal. Though Annie supposed everyone seemed dainty to him.
He smiled and tugged her back down on the couch.
He took off his jacket (Annie didn't stare, not at all) and picked up his glass of scotch (which was apparently dropped off by the waiter during their impromptu tall-off) and settled back into the couch, very snugly, turning a bit towards her, and pulling her back into the crook of his underarm, one large hand hanging over her shoulder, precariously close to her chest. He sighed, almost ...contentedly.
"So," he drawled, "really, where is everyone?"
She didn't try to sound nonchalant this time. "They forgot, I guess."
He was quiet for a moment. His breath was rustling her hair a bit, warm against her scalp.
"Well, it's okay," he finally stated, with that cocky finality that was borderline adorable, "Jeff Winger is here, and that's better than all those losers combined. Right?"
"Anything you say."
He laughed.
They settled into a bizarrely comfortable silence. The ice in his glass tinkled when he moved, and she could hear (or maybe just feel) his chest moving up and down as he breathed. He was warm and solid and very man-sized. Annie found herself enjoying the silence (between them, that is, cause the music was still loud and fast a bit too techno for her).
But after a moment, Jeff spoke: "People suck."
"What?"
"People suck."
She rolled her eyes. How original of him. "Thanks for the life lesson."
"No," he inhaled deeply, and Annie knew she was in store for one of those rare heartfelt speeches he occasionally doled out at unexpected times, "I don't mean, like, they suck and are terrible people and the only way to survive this world is to crawl into some cave and only depend on yourself. I mean that people suck - everyone. Me. You. Them. Because everyone makes mistakes. Everyone says something they shouldn't. Thinks things they shouldn't. Forgets things they shouldn't. Sometimes people even forget about people they love."
"What's your point, Jeff?"
He sighed, shifted. She realized how close they were when she felt his hip move against hers. "They love you," his voice was soft, soothing, "Shirley and Britta and Abed and Troy and, yes, even Pierce."
"Yet only you showed up."
He was very quiet for a minute. She held her breath.
"That's because I'm awesome," he finally declared, "I'm not subject to such human weaknesses as 'forgetting'."
She wanted to say And because you love me more than they do, right? But she bit her tongue and just laughed instead.
They grew quiet once more. She tugged on his long fingers, playing with his hand. She heard him breathing, drinking, breathing.
"Do you like the shoes?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Are you going to learn to wear them?"
"Yes, Jeff. I'll practice."
"Naked?"
"Jeff!!"
"Sorry. Just trying to treat you like an adult."
She pulled roughly on his thumb. He yelped. "Is that how you talk to all adult women?"
"Kinda."
"That's sad." She tried to crane her head around to look at him. His face was close, too close, and she decided it was safer to stare at his hand. "How old are you, Jeff?"
He didn't seem to want to answer. But he relented, "35."
"Oh, I thought you were older."
"Thanks." And there was the sarcasm.
"It's just that people always act like you're so much older than. . . " she almost said me but that would have pushed them right over into that dangerous minefield of age gaps and kisses and the impossibility of her sweater clad chest and his cotton covered muscles hugging or touching in any platonic way. ".... Like....I don't know, so much older than that," she said instead. Then: "You're not old."
"Thanks." And there was the sincerity.
"You have large hands." Why, oh why, did she say that? Just because it was true, just because his hands were abnormally large, especially next to hers, did not mean it was an appropriate thing to say. It was also asininely stupid. She braced herself for sarcasm, or a dirty joke, or the myriad of other clever things Jeff could think up.
But instead, he just stopped breathing. She knew he didn't realize she could feel it, but the moment he stopped inhaling, exhaling, she knew it. And so she stopped too, instinctively, going still like a trapped animal trying not to attract the attention of a predator. Not that Jeff was a predator. No, in fact, Annie was becoming more and more convinced that despite Britta's goodytwoshoesness, and Abed's supernatural understanding, and Shirley's kindness, Jeff was actually the most compassionate of the whole group, the most caring. After all, he'd shown up to a lame 18 and older club just to make her happy. And no one else had.
Yes, he was definitely the kindest.
And the tallest. And he smelled really good. And his hands were very, very large.
After an eternity of tense stillness, he pushed himself up from the couch, jostling them both out of their comfortable lounging. Annie's heart fell - he was leaving, because of her stupidity and her big mouth that didn't know when to not say things that danced on the border of being flirty or whatever.
But no. Instead he held out a hand (one big hand) and said: "Let's dance."
"No, Jeff!" she protested, "I don't' know how."
'I've seen you dance. In fact, we've danced together."
"But not here!"
"Here? What? Not here around a bunch of strangers who are drunk? Who cares what they think?"
"I do." But she had already taken his hand, tugging discreetly at the hem of her dress, which had ridden up. His eyes flickered to her hand, and for a moment he looked downright blushy, but then he tugged her up and almost into his arms.
"Why?" he asked. When she had no answer, no coherent, logical answer, besides a feeling of embarrassment and nervousness, he tugged her a little closer. So close her nose nearly brushed against his grey skinny tie. "Hey," he whispered, very close to her ear, "don't you trust me?"
No.
"No."
"Well," he had that arrogant smirk on again. She didn't have to see it, she could practically hear it, "then that just makes it more exciting, doesn't it"
So she'd invited her group, her study group, her friend group, whatever you wanted to call it, out for drinks. It was true that she never really specifically told them that she was inviting them out to the only 18 and older club in Greendale because of the good news she'd shared with them a few weeks before. But they really should have known. It didn't take a scientist to connect the two things, did it?
So here she was, sitting on the lone lounge sofa in the place, a virgin appletini (apple juice?) in her hand, and her new blue dress on - the one she'd bought cause it was so un-Annie (but not slutty), with blue and satin and short sleeves and that cute banded mini skirt bottom that made her hips actually look roundish. The blue dress she'd stood in dressing room staring at herself in, imagining the look on Troy's face when he saw her in it, even though she was so over that. But old habits die hard and she really needed to erase the memory from her mind of his expression that terrible day in high school when she'd hit rock bottom and ran through a glass door, fleeing from evil robots.
So here she was.
And none of them showed.
She could already imagine Britta going on a rant about clubs and blah blah, and Shirley was perhaps a bit too conservative for this, and Abed and Troy were usually really busy with their side projects and Pierce ....
All of that was crap though, despite Annie's rationalization. They had forgotten. Clear as that. Forgotten her.
An hour after the time they were supposed to meet, Annie decides its just not worth it (and embarrassing, to boot) to still be sitting here. No one's even asked her to dance, though a few did come close, before being deterred by the close-to-tears expression on her face. People didn't want to put up with that at a club, they came to have fun, not console some sobbing girl who wasn't even going to go home with them.
She was in the process of gathering her bag when suddenly he was standing there. Jeff. Of course. Jeff, who was the only one of them who actually thought it was more polite to be late than to be on time.
He was wearing a suit, a nice one that looked tailored and he looked stylish and young and not at all like how someone like Pierce would look in a suit. He was wearing a suit she knew he must have bought before his spiral into "loserdom", as he called it. One black and cut in tighter at the waist and snug in all the right places, loose in all the others.
"Hey," he shouted over the music. Lady Gaga or something like that - Annie didn't know. It wasn't really her kind of thing.
Hey." Good heavens bejeebus, her voice sounded high and shrill.
"I'm sorry I'm late," he apologized. He sounded confused.
He stepped over her feet, flouncing all 6'4 of himself on the couch next to her. The cushion sunk under his weight. He still looked confused. He also had a very large wrapped gift in his hands.
"Where is everyone?" he asked.
He smelled nice. He looked nice. Annie tried not to stare. Feigning a nonchalance she didn't feel, she shrugged. "I guess they had something better to do."
Now he didn't look confused so much as uncomfortable. She was about to wave him away, release from any obligation or duty he felt to stay here and be lame with her, but as a passing waiter walked by, Jeff gestured him over and ordered a scotch on the rocks, winking playfully at her when he was asked to fish out his wallet from his back pocket to show them his id (his wallet was thin and Annie wanted to ask if it was the wallet he bought specifically for wearing tight pants, but didn't have the courage), and Annie knew he was settling in. God knows why, but he wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon.
After the waiter (Annie didn't really even know if they were called waiters in a club) walked away, Jeff leaned forward a bit, tugging on a piece of her hair (curled and bouncy and very old movie starry) and said: "You look... great." And she knew he meant it, cause he got that weird soft look he sometimes got with her (only her?). Then, after she'd looked away for a moment, breaking the connection, he held out that huge box, wrapped a bit messily and tied with a pink ribbon, and his expression was back to its acerbic and slightly patronizing normalness.
"Jeff," she giggled (she didn't mean to, it just happened with him sometimes, okay?!), "what is this for?"
"You're going off to a gen-u-wine unimaversity and all and I just figured you might need these for your active social life."
She gave him a confused look, a bit curious, and tore at the wrapping. When she finally managed to get his mass of tape (and a staple or two) apart, she ended up just staring at the contents, dumbfounded.
"You don't like them?" He sounded worried, which was unusual for him.
"You bought me shoes?" How strange.
"Ah," he corrected, "but not just shoes, my lady." He pulled one from the box. It was a 5-inch heel, studded and strappy and gorgeous. Annie had never worn anything higher then a modest 2 inches. Even now, she was wearing a cute pair of satin ballet slippers. "These," he informed her, all mock serious, "are bonafide women's shoes - sexy women's shoes. You're going to need them once you start going out to clubs every night and getting wasted."
Perhaps it wasn't the best thing to say to her. Annie had already had enough experience being wasted. But it was actually kinda nice that Jeff didn't even seem to remember that. That he was treating her like a normal girl - not one with an adderal addiction and experience in rehab.
"You know my size?"
He shrugged.
"I can't even wear these, Jeff."
"Pfft. Yes you can. Here." He reached down and slipped off her shoes, which was strange. And made Annie's stomach twist up with....something.
With his help (a lot of help, including ankles twisted around and her foot over his knee), she managed to get the things strapped on. Standing wasn't any easier. He had to help her up, holding her hands the whole time. She wobbled.
"Wow," he commented, smiling crookedly at her, "now you're almost to my shoulder."
"Jeff, I am not that short."
"Really, Edison?" He stood up straighter. "Even with these 10 inch monstrosities on, you still aren't eye to eye to me." Well, there really wasn't any arguing that.
She plopped back down on the couch (fell, actually, but she didn't think he noticed) and took the things off.
When she stood again, stupidly trying to prove her tallness to him, she realized it was a mistake. She was really, really, really short. Very short. So short she couldn't even imagine how she'd ever gotten up high enough to kiss him during that debate a year and half ago - though he was bowed a bit by the weight of Jeremy "Soulpatch" Simmons, and though he did help her out a bit by pulling her up, by leaning down, and though.....this was a dangerous train of thought.
"What were you saying, Edison?" he asked, more than a little smugly as she stared into his chest, a good foot shorter than him.
"Whatever, Winger. Being dainty is desirable in a lot of cultures."
"Sure." He sounded noncommittal. Though Annie supposed everyone seemed dainty to him.
He smiled and tugged her back down on the couch.
He took off his jacket (Annie didn't stare, not at all) and picked up his glass of scotch (which was apparently dropped off by the waiter during their impromptu tall-off) and settled back into the couch, very snugly, turning a bit towards her, and pulling her back into the crook of his underarm, one large hand hanging over her shoulder, precariously close to her chest. He sighed, almost ...contentedly.
"So," he drawled, "really, where is everyone?"
She didn't try to sound nonchalant this time. "They forgot, I guess."
He was quiet for a moment. His breath was rustling her hair a bit, warm against her scalp.
"Well, it's okay," he finally stated, with that cocky finality that was borderline adorable, "Jeff Winger is here, and that's better than all those losers combined. Right?"
"Anything you say."
He laughed.
They settled into a bizarrely comfortable silence. The ice in his glass tinkled when he moved, and she could hear (or maybe just feel) his chest moving up and down as he breathed. He was warm and solid and very man-sized. Annie found herself enjoying the silence (between them, that is, cause the music was still loud and fast a bit too techno for her).
But after a moment, Jeff spoke: "People suck."
"What?"
"People suck."
She rolled her eyes. How original of him. "Thanks for the life lesson."
"No," he inhaled deeply, and Annie knew she was in store for one of those rare heartfelt speeches he occasionally doled out at unexpected times, "I don't mean, like, they suck and are terrible people and the only way to survive this world is to crawl into some cave and only depend on yourself. I mean that people suck - everyone. Me. You. Them. Because everyone makes mistakes. Everyone says something they shouldn't. Thinks things they shouldn't. Forgets things they shouldn't. Sometimes people even forget about people they love."
"What's your point, Jeff?"
He sighed, shifted. She realized how close they were when she felt his hip move against hers. "They love you," his voice was soft, soothing, "Shirley and Britta and Abed and Troy and, yes, even Pierce."
"Yet only you showed up."
He was very quiet for a minute. She held her breath.
"That's because I'm awesome," he finally declared, "I'm not subject to such human weaknesses as 'forgetting'."
She wanted to say And because you love me more than they do, right? But she bit her tongue and just laughed instead.
They grew quiet once more. She tugged on his long fingers, playing with his hand. She heard him breathing, drinking, breathing.
"Do you like the shoes?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Are you going to learn to wear them?"
"Yes, Jeff. I'll practice."
"Naked?"
"Jeff!!"
"Sorry. Just trying to treat you like an adult."
She pulled roughly on his thumb. He yelped. "Is that how you talk to all adult women?"
"Kinda."
"That's sad." She tried to crane her head around to look at him. His face was close, too close, and she decided it was safer to stare at his hand. "How old are you, Jeff?"
He didn't seem to want to answer. But he relented, "35."
"Oh, I thought you were older."
"Thanks." And there was the sarcasm.
"It's just that people always act like you're so much older than. . . " she almost said me but that would have pushed them right over into that dangerous minefield of age gaps and kisses and the impossibility of her sweater clad chest and his cotton covered muscles hugging or touching in any platonic way. ".... Like....I don't know, so much older than that," she said instead. Then: "You're not old."
"Thanks." And there was the sincerity.
"You have large hands." Why, oh why, did she say that? Just because it was true, just because his hands were abnormally large, especially next to hers, did not mean it was an appropriate thing to say. It was also asininely stupid. She braced herself for sarcasm, or a dirty joke, or the myriad of other clever things Jeff could think up.
But instead, he just stopped breathing. She knew he didn't realize she could feel it, but the moment he stopped inhaling, exhaling, she knew it. And so she stopped too, instinctively, going still like a trapped animal trying not to attract the attention of a predator. Not that Jeff was a predator. No, in fact, Annie was becoming more and more convinced that despite Britta's goodytwoshoesness, and Abed's supernatural understanding, and Shirley's kindness, Jeff was actually the most compassionate of the whole group, the most caring. After all, he'd shown up to a lame 18 and older club just to make her happy. And no one else had.
Yes, he was definitely the kindest.
And the tallest. And he smelled really good. And his hands were very, very large.
After an eternity of tense stillness, he pushed himself up from the couch, jostling them both out of their comfortable lounging. Annie's heart fell - he was leaving, because of her stupidity and her big mouth that didn't know when to not say things that danced on the border of being flirty or whatever.
But no. Instead he held out a hand (one big hand) and said: "Let's dance."
"No, Jeff!" she protested, "I don't' know how."
'I've seen you dance. In fact, we've danced together."
"But not here!"
"Here? What? Not here around a bunch of strangers who are drunk? Who cares what they think?"
"I do." But she had already taken his hand, tugging discreetly at the hem of her dress, which had ridden up. His eyes flickered to her hand, and for a moment he looked downright blushy, but then he tugged her up and almost into his arms.
"Why?" he asked. When she had no answer, no coherent, logical answer, besides a feeling of embarrassment and nervousness, he tugged her a little closer. So close her nose nearly brushed against his grey skinny tie. "Hey," he whispered, very close to her ear, "don't you trust me?"
No.
"No."
"Well," he had that arrogant smirk on again. She didn't have to see it, she could practically hear it, "then that just makes it more exciting, doesn't it"