COMMUNITY - the weather man's still on vacation
Title: the weather man's still on vacation
Pairing: Jeff/Annie
Word Count: 791
Rating: PG
A/N: Written for ozmissage for The Five Acts Meme.
Summary: The thing about Annie Edison is that she is always prepared.
The thing about Annie Edison is that she is always prepared. She was a Girl Scout, you know. (At least, she was a Girl Scout for four years before she realized it wouldn't make much of a difference on her college applications and nixed it in favor of the Model UN.) When she was ten years old she sold one hundred and fifty boxes of Thin Mints in two months and got a measly certificate for her pains. She kept the left-over boxes in back of the freezer in the basement and when she was thirteen and stressed out of her mind because Algebra II (accelerated, yes) was kicking her ass she binged on three boxes before she realized how long they'd been there and called Poison Control. That's not the point, though--the point is the principle of it, which is that Annie is persistent, hard-working, and always, always prepared for the worst-case scenario. It's a rule. It is, as her mom likes to say, a way of life.
Well. If her year at Greendale has taught her anything, it's that there are exceptions to every rule.
It's the first day of the new semester (Vaughn didn't work out, sad to say. Annie can't stand a man without a backbone.) and instead of being safely ensconced in the arms of her hey-there-sweetie-oh-my-god-your-tan-looks-amazing!-shut-up-Pierce Spanish II study group she is mourning the demise of her brand-new back-to-school sweatshirt. Maybe she'll write an obituary. Teal green cardigan, two weeks old, tragically drowned in a shocking late August monsoon. Survived by no one. No donations, thank you. Annie could kick herself for forgetting to check the weather report. She'd been so intent on getting here that she even forgot her umbrella. She never forgets her umbrella. She really could just kick herself for being so stupid. Well, technically she couldn't, it'd look weird, and god forbid Annie attract attention. (There isn't a lot of judgment at Greendale, though, which helps Annie get through the days when she feels like smashing a plate glass door or two. Annie is no weirder than any other Human Being, which is nice, if occasionally unsettling.)
It's eleven-oh-two in the morning, but the sky is so dark with storm clouds that Annie can't even see across the parking lot to the library. She spits out a mouthful of wet hair. At least her books are unscathed. If there's a flood and she's swept away and suffocated by the waves at least she will have the comfort of knowing that her textbooks are comfortably settled in her waterproof flame-resistant navy blue backpack.
(Flame-resistant? Really? She'll have to try that out sometime.)
When she finally succeeds in swimming across the parking lot to the door she tries it and it jams. She tries it again. Stuck. She pushes and pulls but the damn thing (yes, Annie Edison swears) is machine-gun-glued shut and she's just about ready to smash it straight through and set off the alarms when she hears a low, familiar (way-too-familiar) voice right behind her. Right behind her.
Annie drops her backpack and screams.
"You," Jeff says, "are crazy."
Yeah. Just like that. Thanks a lot. Thanks a lot, Jeff I'm-a-drowned-rat-in-more-ways-than-one Winger.
When she doesn't say anything he just pulls his (disgusting, ratty, I'm-a-handsome-hobo) hoodie down further over his eyes. She doesn't look at him. It isn't awkward. It isn't awkward at all. (Annie is a believer in the power of positive thinking.)
"Class is canceled," he offers brightly.
"I hadn't noticed." Annie curls her lip and focuses on looking haughty. When she made this face at him last year (she can't remember why, but it was serious. It was definitely important.) Britta told her she looked like Queen Elizabeth "or whatever, that lady on all the Canadian stamps." She picks up her backpack and gets ready to stomp--no, stalk--away.
"I've got an umbrella."
He draws the last syllable out for a good five seconds, all sing-song and whiny like Troy's cell-phone ringtone. She stops. Closes her eyes. Pretends that her mascara isn't running down her face in a twin set of coal-colored tracks. (Dignity, you see, is all in the mind.) And turns around. "You do?"
"No, I don't." He smiles enticingly. "But I know where we can find one."
You see, this is why it sucks (to be colloquial) to not be prepared. Because then you end up owing Jeff your-face-makes-me-cringe-in-embarrassment-because-I-am-inappropriately-interested-in-you Winger. And then your life ends.
(The voices in her head tell her that she never had much of a life to begin with. Annie tells the voices to shut up.)
"Well," she says, "okay," because it's the end of the world as it is and she might as well just roll with it.
Pairing: Jeff/Annie
Word Count: 791
Rating: PG
A/N: Written for ozmissage for The Five Acts Meme.
Summary: The thing about Annie Edison is that she is always prepared.
The thing about Annie Edison is that she is always prepared. She was a Girl Scout, you know. (At least, she was a Girl Scout for four years before she realized it wouldn't make much of a difference on her college applications and nixed it in favor of the Model UN.) When she was ten years old she sold one hundred and fifty boxes of Thin Mints in two months and got a measly certificate for her pains. She kept the left-over boxes in back of the freezer in the basement and when she was thirteen and stressed out of her mind because Algebra II (accelerated, yes) was kicking her ass she binged on three boxes before she realized how long they'd been there and called Poison Control. That's not the point, though--the point is the principle of it, which is that Annie is persistent, hard-working, and always, always prepared for the worst-case scenario. It's a rule. It is, as her mom likes to say, a way of life.
Well. If her year at Greendale has taught her anything, it's that there are exceptions to every rule.
It's the first day of the new semester (Vaughn didn't work out, sad to say. Annie can't stand a man without a backbone.) and instead of being safely ensconced in the arms of her hey-there-sweetie-oh-my-god-your-tan-looks-amazing!-shut-up-Pierce Spanish II study group she is mourning the demise of her brand-new back-to-school sweatshirt. Maybe she'll write an obituary. Teal green cardigan, two weeks old, tragically drowned in a shocking late August monsoon. Survived by no one. No donations, thank you. Annie could kick herself for forgetting to check the weather report. She'd been so intent on getting here that she even forgot her umbrella. She never forgets her umbrella. She really could just kick herself for being so stupid. Well, technically she couldn't, it'd look weird, and god forbid Annie attract attention. (There isn't a lot of judgment at Greendale, though, which helps Annie get through the days when she feels like smashing a plate glass door or two. Annie is no weirder than any other Human Being, which is nice, if occasionally unsettling.)
It's eleven-oh-two in the morning, but the sky is so dark with storm clouds that Annie can't even see across the parking lot to the library. She spits out a mouthful of wet hair. At least her books are unscathed. If there's a flood and she's swept away and suffocated by the waves at least she will have the comfort of knowing that her textbooks are comfortably settled in her waterproof flame-resistant navy blue backpack.
(Flame-resistant? Really? She'll have to try that out sometime.)
When she finally succeeds in swimming across the parking lot to the door she tries it and it jams. She tries it again. Stuck. She pushes and pulls but the damn thing (yes, Annie Edison swears) is machine-gun-glued shut and she's just about ready to smash it straight through and set off the alarms when she hears a low, familiar (way-too-familiar) voice right behind her. Right behind her.
Annie drops her backpack and screams.
"You," Jeff says, "are crazy."
Yeah. Just like that. Thanks a lot. Thanks a lot, Jeff I'm-a-drowned-rat-in-more-ways-than-one Winger.
When she doesn't say anything he just pulls his (disgusting, ratty, I'm-a-handsome-hobo) hoodie down further over his eyes. She doesn't look at him. It isn't awkward. It isn't awkward at all. (Annie is a believer in the power of positive thinking.)
"Class is canceled," he offers brightly.
"I hadn't noticed." Annie curls her lip and focuses on looking haughty. When she made this face at him last year (she can't remember why, but it was serious. It was definitely important.) Britta told her she looked like Queen Elizabeth "or whatever, that lady on all the Canadian stamps." She picks up her backpack and gets ready to stomp--no, stalk--away.
"I've got an umbrella."
He draws the last syllable out for a good five seconds, all sing-song and whiny like Troy's cell-phone ringtone. She stops. Closes her eyes. Pretends that her mascara isn't running down her face in a twin set of coal-colored tracks. (Dignity, you see, is all in the mind.) And turns around. "You do?"
"No, I don't." He smiles enticingly. "But I know where we can find one."
You see, this is why it sucks (to be colloquial) to not be prepared. Because then you end up owing Jeff your-face-makes-me-cringe-in-embarrassment-because-I-am-inappropriately-interested-in-you Winger. And then your life ends.
(The voices in her head tell her that she never had much of a life to begin with. Annie tells the voices to shut up.)
"Well," she says, "okay," because it's the end of the world as it is and she might as well just roll with it.