one more time with feeling
Title: one more time with feeling
Author: fandrastic
Spoilers: up S2 finale
Rating/Warnings: T for language
Word Count: 1,855
Disclaimer: the author owns nothing the reader recognizes
Summary: meaningless fluff, now enriched with second-person narrative pov! HOO-RAH! enjoy, my precious blueberries.
It all happens rather innocently, to be honest.
Turns out, taking blow-off classes two years straight meant taking actual classes the next two, classes with real textbooks and term papers and well, you’re not prepared for that kind of intense course load-even the Greendale version of it.
So you hire a tutor.
Well, you hire Annie.
It’s kind of stupid because you’ve been in a study group since day one… but to be truthful, you can’t really recall doing much studying with them. Arguing, yes, but learning? Not so much. And yet, Annie offers great rates because she’s your friend and wants you to succeed and doesn’t mind that your income is way lower than it used to be when you were a functioning member of society, so the pay is pretty basic, and you hire her in turn because she lives over a sex shop and gets her grocery money by sifting through the school trash to recycle cans, and it kind of bothers you. The arrangement benefits you mutually. Besides, there’s no ‘Annie of it All’ and you’re kind of gross, so no need to worry about any sort of… feelings or whatever. She’s just a tutor. End of story.
But it isn’t, of course.
It never is with you two.
Normally you meet in the library, because it’s quiet and has decent lighting and because Annie loves the smell of books or something dumb like that. She tells you that one time, when she’s halfway through explaining the first chapter in your textbook-no doubt thinking you’ll roll your eyes or scoff at her, throw out some witty barb, but for some reason you just nod and secretly tuck that information away. No reason. But you really sort of wonder about it, ponder it while she’s reading rapid fire definitions aloud. What are you supposed to do, go out and buy her books or something? And if so, what kind of books, anyway? Ridiculous. You don’t even know when her birthday is.
March, maybe? March.
What is wrong with you?
She regains your attention with a swat to your arm, but the smile on her face betrays any sort
of irritation her actions portrayed.
And everything seems to work out. Your grades get better and Annie smiles widely and it’s actually pretty great. But one time you have a legal consultation to help with at the firm and your session is bumped back and one time she’s stuck working as the sole member of the Fall Dance Decoration Committee and you both have to reschedule.
No big deal.
But then the library is filled with people cramming for midterms and the study room is booked by Pierce’s new study group. The cafeteria is too loud to work in comfortably and Abed’s dorm is hosting a film festival, so you move your meeting to your newspaper office.
Crisis averted.
Only now you both don’t have to whisper and you accidently (purposely) left most of your notes at your place and wow, she looks kind of crazy gorgeous in the low lighting of your crappy desk lamp and all you want to do is forget the biology work she’s trying to get you to memorize and instead see if her mouth is still as pliant as you remember.
She’s completely unaware of your train of thought and you’re just about to lean across the desk and test your theory when her phone rings. Just like in the movies. She excuses herself and takes the call-it’s nothing major, just reaffirming the meeting place for another one of her many extracurricular activities, but the moment is lost and you spend the rest of the session with your eyes glued guiltily to your textbook.
It’s easier this way, you suppose.
You extend the length of your tutoring sessions once finals roll around, because Annie is perpetually worried about her GPA and even she is starting to ever-so-slightly rub off on you. You find yourself actually writing down things to remember in your brand new agenda, trying not to roll your eyes at the proud look on Annie’s face. Of course, you lose the agenda somewhere in your car a few days later, because after all, you are Jeff Winger and this is Greendale and there will always be a part of you that just cannot muster up the will to care.
Annie tells you, her eyes tired from over-studying, that she’s debated staying overnight in the library for the entirety of finals week, which is dumb for a multitude of reasons. First of all, you both know she’ll be fine since no one’s GPA can hold a candle to hers, especially at Greendale. Secondly, the library isn’t even open twenty-four hours a day, not even during finals. She’d have to break in, and the last time she tried to break into school property… it didn’t end so well.
And thirdly, you both haven’t even been meeting up in the library since your first session in your newspaper office. So if anything, she’d be spending a straight week in your office.
It sounds weird even in your head, so you keep that thought to yourself.
But you do think about it more than once.
Bizarre and unfamiliar as it seems, you feel prepared when you sit down to take your final exam. You’ve been studying for weeks and know the material, and the only questions that really make you second guess yourself are the extra credit. You’re cautiously optimistic, and you haven’t felt this good about a potential job well-done in a ridiculously long time. Annie shoots you a hopeful look halfway through the test; a look that you find yourself returning. It feels almost foreign on your lips.
But it’s kind of cool, too.
When the results are posted up later that evening in the science hallway, Annie, of course, has the highest marks of the class and even you are amazed to see the A- next to your own name. It takes several re-reads of the score for it to really sink in. Seemingly out of nowhere, you feel the desire to share this news with her, hell, to practically shout it across campus. An A-. Holy crap.
You spot Annie off to the side of the hallway, practically glowing in the success of her own grades, and when she sees you her face lights up even more and wow, your chest feels weirdly tight all of a sudden.
It all happens rather innocently, to be honest.
It’s just, you basically aced your final for the first time ever and she’s smiling up at you like you’ve conquered the world or something equally miraculous and you just can’t help yourself.
So you kiss her; cup her face in your hands and kiss her deeply, as if only she is anchoring you in place. It’s impetuous and stupid but she kisses you back with that plush mouth that you remembered so vividly and it’s pretty damn perfect.
She tastes like lemon drops.
It’s not until she sighs against your lips that you realize that you’re kissing a girl fourteen years your junior in the middle of the hallway of your community college, where anyone could walk by at any time. Jerking back, you break the kiss and run a hand down your face, trying to regain some semblance of composure, while also decidedly not staring at how deliciously rumpled she looks in your arms.
You slam on the metaphorical brakes and put enough distance between the two of you so that you’re not tempted to pull her close once more. Because to be truthful, the look on her face makes it seem pretty tempting.
The first words out of your mouth are curses, words that make her wince slightly as she stands in the glow of the fluorescent lights. There’s an apology in there too, practiced phrases that sound even worse in front of her than they do when you rehearsed them in front of your bathroom mirror. Because to be honest, you’ve thought about this, agonized over it for weeks (months). How can one slip of a girl make you both smarter and dumber than you ever were?
She doesn’t look upset when she slips away from you, and when you turn to see if anyone has spotted the both of you, she’s already gone; vanished down another hallway without any pomp and circumstance.
You don’t look for her because you don’t know what you’d do if you found her.
Instead, you head home for winter break and spend the next two weeks drinking scotch you can’t really afford and staring at your cell phone like she’s going to call and confess something. You don’t know what, but you’d like to think you’re on the same page for once.
You don’t see her again until January.
Shirley’s made brownies to either celebrate or soften the blow of the new semester, and you see Annie helping the older woman carry the covered tray.
Annie’s wearing an unflatteringly heavy winter coat and wool stockings and wow, even snow boots, and despite that, all you can think about is her lips parted against yours and her fingernails against your shoulders.
You shiver.
She meets your gaze and smiles almost shyly. Her cheeks are red from the cold, but there’s a blush there that hits you straight in your gut and makes your palms itch. All you want to do is kiss her, but then Shirley’s shoving a tray into your hands and giving you directions, and your other wishes will just have to wait.
But you smile at her and she smiles at you and damn, so much for trying to fight it.
The new semester means new classes.
Biology is over and which means that Biology tutoring is over, and you’re not sure how that makes you feel. Well, it’s great because Biology sucks and it’s not like you’ll never see Annie again-you still have study group together, but you know that you’re going to miss holing yourself up in your newspaper office with her.
So, like an idiot, you steal her schedule out of her agenda when she’s chatting with Abed and stealthily memorize it like all the Biology work she forced you to learn last semester. You then have an uncomfortably close-quarters discussion with the Dean about dropping one of your classes to join a linguistics lecture that’s already full and has a waitlist-one that Annie’s going to be in (no doubt in the front row). To be honest, you don’t give a flying fuck about voiceless palatal fricatives or glottal stops, but you’re pretty sure all that talk about tongue placement is going to make for great tutoring.
And by tutoring you mean kissing.
Possibly (hopefully) more than kissing.
And when you tell Annie this, as you corner her in the study room after the rest of the group has filtered out, her face burns crimson but she twines her fingers through your belt loops in a totally non-tutor-like fashion.
At this rate, you’ll never take another blow-off class again.
Probably.
Author: fandrastic
Spoilers: up S2 finale
Rating/Warnings: T for language
Word Count: 1,855
Disclaimer: the author owns nothing the reader recognizes
Summary: meaningless fluff, now enriched with second-person narrative pov! HOO-RAH! enjoy, my precious blueberries.
It all happens rather innocently, to be honest.
Turns out, taking blow-off classes two years straight meant taking actual classes the next two, classes with real textbooks and term papers and well, you’re not prepared for that kind of intense course load-even the Greendale version of it.
So you hire a tutor.
Well, you hire Annie.
It’s kind of stupid because you’ve been in a study group since day one… but to be truthful, you can’t really recall doing much studying with them. Arguing, yes, but learning? Not so much. And yet, Annie offers great rates because she’s your friend and wants you to succeed and doesn’t mind that your income is way lower than it used to be when you were a functioning member of society, so the pay is pretty basic, and you hire her in turn because she lives over a sex shop and gets her grocery money by sifting through the school trash to recycle cans, and it kind of bothers you. The arrangement benefits you mutually. Besides, there’s no ‘Annie of it All’ and you’re kind of gross, so no need to worry about any sort of… feelings or whatever. She’s just a tutor. End of story.
But it isn’t, of course.
It never is with you two.
Normally you meet in the library, because it’s quiet and has decent lighting and because Annie loves the smell of books or something dumb like that. She tells you that one time, when she’s halfway through explaining the first chapter in your textbook-no doubt thinking you’ll roll your eyes or scoff at her, throw out some witty barb, but for some reason you just nod and secretly tuck that information away. No reason. But you really sort of wonder about it, ponder it while she’s reading rapid fire definitions aloud. What are you supposed to do, go out and buy her books or something? And if so, what kind of books, anyway? Ridiculous. You don’t even know when her birthday is.
March, maybe? March.
What is wrong with you?
She regains your attention with a swat to your arm, but the smile on her face betrays any sort
of irritation her actions portrayed.
And everything seems to work out. Your grades get better and Annie smiles widely and it’s actually pretty great. But one time you have a legal consultation to help with at the firm and your session is bumped back and one time she’s stuck working as the sole member of the Fall Dance Decoration Committee and you both have to reschedule.
No big deal.
But then the library is filled with people cramming for midterms and the study room is booked by Pierce’s new study group. The cafeteria is too loud to work in comfortably and Abed’s dorm is hosting a film festival, so you move your meeting to your newspaper office.
Crisis averted.
Only now you both don’t have to whisper and you accidently (purposely) left most of your notes at your place and wow, she looks kind of crazy gorgeous in the low lighting of your crappy desk lamp and all you want to do is forget the biology work she’s trying to get you to memorize and instead see if her mouth is still as pliant as you remember.
She’s completely unaware of your train of thought and you’re just about to lean across the desk and test your theory when her phone rings. Just like in the movies. She excuses herself and takes the call-it’s nothing major, just reaffirming the meeting place for another one of her many extracurricular activities, but the moment is lost and you spend the rest of the session with your eyes glued guiltily to your textbook.
It’s easier this way, you suppose.
You extend the length of your tutoring sessions once finals roll around, because Annie is perpetually worried about her GPA and even she is starting to ever-so-slightly rub off on you. You find yourself actually writing down things to remember in your brand new agenda, trying not to roll your eyes at the proud look on Annie’s face. Of course, you lose the agenda somewhere in your car a few days later, because after all, you are Jeff Winger and this is Greendale and there will always be a part of you that just cannot muster up the will to care.
Annie tells you, her eyes tired from over-studying, that she’s debated staying overnight in the library for the entirety of finals week, which is dumb for a multitude of reasons. First of all, you both know she’ll be fine since no one’s GPA can hold a candle to hers, especially at Greendale. Secondly, the library isn’t even open twenty-four hours a day, not even during finals. She’d have to break in, and the last time she tried to break into school property… it didn’t end so well.
And thirdly, you both haven’t even been meeting up in the library since your first session in your newspaper office. So if anything, she’d be spending a straight week in your office.
It sounds weird even in your head, so you keep that thought to yourself.
But you do think about it more than once.
Bizarre and unfamiliar as it seems, you feel prepared when you sit down to take your final exam. You’ve been studying for weeks and know the material, and the only questions that really make you second guess yourself are the extra credit. You’re cautiously optimistic, and you haven’t felt this good about a potential job well-done in a ridiculously long time. Annie shoots you a hopeful look halfway through the test; a look that you find yourself returning. It feels almost foreign on your lips.
But it’s kind of cool, too.
When the results are posted up later that evening in the science hallway, Annie, of course, has the highest marks of the class and even you are amazed to see the A- next to your own name. It takes several re-reads of the score for it to really sink in. Seemingly out of nowhere, you feel the desire to share this news with her, hell, to practically shout it across campus. An A-. Holy crap.
You spot Annie off to the side of the hallway, practically glowing in the success of her own grades, and when she sees you her face lights up even more and wow, your chest feels weirdly tight all of a sudden.
It all happens rather innocently, to be honest.
It’s just, you basically aced your final for the first time ever and she’s smiling up at you like you’ve conquered the world or something equally miraculous and you just can’t help yourself.
So you kiss her; cup her face in your hands and kiss her deeply, as if only she is anchoring you in place. It’s impetuous and stupid but she kisses you back with that plush mouth that you remembered so vividly and it’s pretty damn perfect.
She tastes like lemon drops.
It’s not until she sighs against your lips that you realize that you’re kissing a girl fourteen years your junior in the middle of the hallway of your community college, where anyone could walk by at any time. Jerking back, you break the kiss and run a hand down your face, trying to regain some semblance of composure, while also decidedly not staring at how deliciously rumpled she looks in your arms.
You slam on the metaphorical brakes and put enough distance between the two of you so that you’re not tempted to pull her close once more. Because to be truthful, the look on her face makes it seem pretty tempting.
The first words out of your mouth are curses, words that make her wince slightly as she stands in the glow of the fluorescent lights. There’s an apology in there too, practiced phrases that sound even worse in front of her than they do when you rehearsed them in front of your bathroom mirror. Because to be honest, you’ve thought about this, agonized over it for weeks (months). How can one slip of a girl make you both smarter and dumber than you ever were?
She doesn’t look upset when she slips away from you, and when you turn to see if anyone has spotted the both of you, she’s already gone; vanished down another hallway without any pomp and circumstance.
You don’t look for her because you don’t know what you’d do if you found her.
Instead, you head home for winter break and spend the next two weeks drinking scotch you can’t really afford and staring at your cell phone like she’s going to call and confess something. You don’t know what, but you’d like to think you’re on the same page for once.
You don’t see her again until January.
Shirley’s made brownies to either celebrate or soften the blow of the new semester, and you see Annie helping the older woman carry the covered tray.
Annie’s wearing an unflatteringly heavy winter coat and wool stockings and wow, even snow boots, and despite that, all you can think about is her lips parted against yours and her fingernails against your shoulders.
You shiver.
She meets your gaze and smiles almost shyly. Her cheeks are red from the cold, but there’s a blush there that hits you straight in your gut and makes your palms itch. All you want to do is kiss her, but then Shirley’s shoving a tray into your hands and giving you directions, and your other wishes will just have to wait.
But you smile at her and she smiles at you and damn, so much for trying to fight it.
The new semester means new classes.
Biology is over and which means that Biology tutoring is over, and you’re not sure how that makes you feel. Well, it’s great because Biology sucks and it’s not like you’ll never see Annie again-you still have study group together, but you know that you’re going to miss holing yourself up in your newspaper office with her.
So, like an idiot, you steal her schedule out of her agenda when she’s chatting with Abed and stealthily memorize it like all the Biology work she forced you to learn last semester. You then have an uncomfortably close-quarters discussion with the Dean about dropping one of your classes to join a linguistics lecture that’s already full and has a waitlist-one that Annie’s going to be in (no doubt in the front row). To be honest, you don’t give a flying fuck about voiceless palatal fricatives or glottal stops, but you’re pretty sure all that talk about tongue placement is going to make for great tutoring.
And by tutoring you mean kissing.
Possibly (hopefully) more than kissing.
And when you tell Annie this, as you corner her in the study room after the rest of the group has filtered out, her face burns crimson but she twines her fingers through your belt loops in a totally non-tutor-like fashion.
At this rate, you’ll never take another blow-off class again.
Probably.