There's Only One Girl In the World For You (30a/?)
Title: There’s only one girl in the world for you (30a/?)
Author: lapacifidora
Spoilers: Season 1 and into an AU Season 2
Rating/ Warnings: PG-13, for the time being
Word Count: 2,347 (4,299 total)
Disclaimers: Not mine. Although I think Dan Harmon knows this friend of mine and based Troy on her… The title comes from a Wreckless Eric song. The concept of ‘ice volleyball’ is courtesy of my dear friend, igotthepants.
Author’s note: This is for shan21non ’s Ficcy Friday prompt for Greendale’s inaugural study abroad program. I’d like to thank everyone who has commented, offered their thoughts and suggestions and been generally awesome over the course of this fic. Your interest, involvement and enthusiasm has been invaluable and lovely. This is, by far, the longest thing I’ve ever written, and certainly the longest fanfic I’ve ever even tried to write. (I had plans for a Buffy epic years ago, but they died faster than the Stanky leg.) In short, I’m thankful now that the “Bones” season finale sucked, as otherwise I never would’ve found this show, this fandom or y’all. Thank you.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 a/ b | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 a/ b | Chapter 21 a/ b | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 a/ b | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 |
***
When Charlotte Newman met Arnold Perry, she fully believed that the last of the glass ceilings were crossed through with cracks and barely holding on, ready to come crashing down in a shower of glittering shards.
By 1983, Charlotte had three boys, ages 8 and 6 (fraternal twins), and a fussy blonde moppet just this side of 2 years old.
In fact, it was on her daughter’s birthday that Charlotte was found, collapsed in the kitchen, a steak knife in one hand and the remnants of a pink and purple princess cake all around her on the floor.
Arnold was terrified his wife was dead. (She wasn’t.) He was deeply concerned she’d had a stroke or she was hiding a debilitating disease, suffering in silence. (He’d always felt she had a noble soul, that of a poet and a politician in one gorgeous wrapper.) He was concerned some type of cake bandit had quietly slipped into the house, destroyed his little girl’s cake and then knocked out his wife when she tried to stop the blackguard. (He knew this last one was unlikely, but, then, as a social work professor, he still used words like ‘blackguard,’ so anything was possible.)
Instead, Charlotte had become a little too friendly with Mother’s Little Helper; or, bluntly, she’d overdosed on sedatives. (Arnold was horrified to learn his wife was taking any kind of prescription meds; as he told the emergency room doctor, theirs was a happy marriage and Char had never said anything to the contrary.)
The Perry boys knew something was wrong with Mommy, and while the oldest wondered if it wasn’t The Baby’s fault, they did the best they could while Arnold took time off from work and sat at his wife’s bedside.
Three weeks after Charlotte came back from hospital, she started sleeping in the guest room.
Two months after that, she informed Arnold and the boys over Lucky Charms and orange juice that she was moving out.
A year after that, Arnold was served with notice that Charlotte was legally changed her name to ‘Apple Blossom Dove.’ (The courts denied her petition, explaining that a name had to at least sound like a name to avoid confusion in legal, medical or other emergency matters.)
And by the time little Britta Perry was six years old, Arnold and Charlotte were divorced.
Britta hated the taste of Lucky Charms, the smell of orange juice and lawyers, though she could never quite explain why.
***
Arnold Perry did the best he could. He’d never expected to be raising four children on his own.
(Charlotte, though denied her name change, had moved onto a commune, and being the mid-80s, communes were not considered exactly normal. However, a social work professor who also was a state consultant on high-risk cases was perceived as a more stable environment. The courts granted Arnold primary custody; Charlotte never contested the decision.)
His oldest son showed an early inclination toward science, and Arnold did what he could to provide for and support his son’s interests. (The day his son graduated pre-med was one of his proudest.)
The twin with the darker blond hair took to numbers with an amazing speed, and decided when he was 12 that he would become an economist, a financial analyst or an accountant. (Arnold always set aside a weekend to visit Boston for his son’s birthday, and loved to tour the college campus where his son taught economics.)
The twin with the lighter blond hair was the only one of the five Perrys with a green thumb, pushing his high school to create a kitchen garden and later winning a scholarship based on a composting system he’d devised. (Arnold always made sure to take whatever postcard his son had sent him to the barber shops, so he could get the facts right when he talked about the new ‘green’ building his boy was designing in New York or L.A. or Stockholm.)
But he never quite knew what to do with Britta. He enrolled her in ballet classes when she asked, but switched her to Tai kwon do after the ballet instructor expelled her for decking another little girl.
(“Sweetheart, violence is not a viable option.”
“But Daddy, she called me elluhgitermerate.”
“Illegitimate.”
“Yeah!”
“Britta. Listen to me: You are not illegitimate. Your mother and I are divorced, but that doesn’t make you any less special or worthy of respect.”
“OK. Daddy?”
“Yes, Sweets?”
“Can we have corn chips with the burgers?”)
He left her alone when she came storming in one afternoon early in her eighth grade year, but took her a glass of milk and a toasted peanut butter sandwich when she hadn’t emerged by 7 p.m. He held her while she cried and raged at her classmates, and told her that he couldn’t offer her a solution, but he could offer her his undivided attention.
(“But, Dad, they-”
“Britta, please don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“They said I had to be stuffing my bra!”
“Sweets, they’re jealous. That’s what people do when they envy what you have: They try to knock you down.”
“But I’m not stuffing!”
“Why don’t you calmly confront them and ask them what they’re issues are with your body and their own physical development?”
“Shyeah. Cause that’ll go over so well.”)
But when Arnold came home early one afternoon and found Britta picking at a bowl of brown rice and tofu when she ought to still have been in school - in her AP prep classes, to be exact - he truly didn’t know what to do.
(“What do you mean you dropped out?”
“I looked it up: If you’re older than 16, they can’t force you to continue to go to school.”
“Maybe they can’t, but I’m your father, and you’re going.”
“Arnold.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Ugh. Fine. Dad. What am I going to learn in school that I can’t learn in life?”
“This is his influence, isn’t it?”
“Whose?”
“Mutton Chops.”
“He has a name, you know.”
“Britta, guys like him don’t go by names - or they go by one name, like that Prince character you used to like when you were younger. And if you let him influence you now, you’re just going to set yourself up for a string of disappointments in the years to come.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.”)
So, Arnold told her either to go back to school the next morning or get out. He never expected his little girl to be gone the next morning. He checked her closet and her dresser, checked her desk and her craft basket, checked her emergency box - no clothes, no wallet, no yarn, no money. Arnold called in sick that day, and spent it curled around a bottle of vodka as he lay on the floor of the living room. (That’s where his oldest found him that evening.)
And when, later that first year, Mutton Chops (Britta couldn’t even remember his name anymore) had taken her cash and left her at Burning Man, and she’d had to call her father and ask for him to come get her, she reflected that for all the things he did wrong and all the mistakes he’d made in raising her, at least Arnold Perry had done one thing right when she was asked to leave tai kwon do for being too aggressive: He’d pulled her out of that class and put her in an after-school craft program where she learned to knit.
When Arnold Perry pulled up in front of the truck stop Britta had called him from, she had his Christmas present - a dark red scarf knit in hand-spun Alpaca - nearly finished.
***
The group was sleepy and slow as they ate a leisurely breakfast late Saturday morning. Even Professor Whitman hadn’t perked up after two cups of coffee. Or perhaps it was that he was simply distracted, checking his phone every few minutes.
“What are we gonna dooo?” Britta’s question ended in a yawn as she stretched and scratched her side.
“I don’t want to walk anywhere.” Troy whined. “So I vote we find some place with bumper cars. Or sherpas.”
“Sherpas?”
“Yeah. They carry stuff, right?”
“I had a dream about carrots.” Abed looked a little pale as he turned to look at Troy. “I don’t think we should’ve eaten that last piece of candy.”
“Really?” Troy shrugged. “I had a dream about ice volleyball.”
Jeff looked up from the piece of toast he was pushing around on his plate, knowing he would regret his next words. “Ice volleyball?”
“Yeah.” Troy leaned forward and began gesturing wildly, prompting Abed and Pierce to move their cups of coffee away. “It’s like beach volleyball, right? Except it’s on ice.”
“Do you wear ice skates?” Annie looked confused.
“No! That’s the best part. You wear sneakers and regular knee pads. It’s exactly like regular volleyball. Except it’s on ice.”
“Pierce, what time is the hockey game this afternoon?” Shirley asked, hoping to bring the conversation back to a normal topic.
“Well, my agent said the game is at 7. And apparently they’re playing the Sabres.” Pierce folded the newspaper he’d been reading. “And I suppose there’ll be food there, as well.”
“You have an agent?” Britta cracked her neck audibly as she stared at Pierce.
“Yes. He’s also my lawyer, but he takes care of a number of things for me.” Pierce shrugged. “What else should I call him?”
Britta shook her head. “Uh, well I was wondering if anyone else wanted to come with me today? I was hoping to go find that yarn store I mentioned.”
“Oh, that sounds nice.” Shirley nodded. “My sister crochets, and I was trying to think of something to take back for her.”
“Ugh. Crocheting.” Britta’s nose scrunched up.
“What’s wrong with crochet?” Shirley looked surprised.
“Oh. Nothing.” Britta tried to cover up her distaste.
“You’re a craft snob.” Abed piped up from the other side of the table, where he was carefully cutting the crust off a piece of toast that he handed to Troy. “In a tradition best exemplified by the friendly rivalries between carpenters and electricians depicted on home makeover shows, you feel that your form of needlecraft is somehow better than crochet, despite the fact that both involve making rows of knots with string.” He looked up, meeting Britta’s annoyed gaze. “It’s alright. If I imagined things like that, I’d imagine crocheters think knitters are Philistines.”
“Professor, didn’t you say that Queen Street West area was a shopping place?” Jeff nodded silently at the orange juice carton, taking it from Annie as he passed her two packets of sweetener for the cup of coffee she had just poured. She emptied one and half into her mug, then handed the other half back to Jeff, who added it to his empty mug and stood to refill it.
“Whowhathuh?” Whitman looked up from his phone and glanced around wildly.
“Is Queen Street West one of the shopping districts you mentioned?” Annie spoke, taking the piece of toast off Jeff’s plate, spreading some marmalade on it and handing it back to him with a stern look. “Stop playing with your food.”
“Ah, yes, Miss Edison, it is indeed. Why? Had you decided you’d like to explore that area today?” Whitman directed his last question to the table at large.
“Well, Brittles here wants to go fondle some overpriced string.” Pierce gestured at the blonde, who frowned but didn’t speak. “And I’d like to find something for Chrissy; her birthday is the beginning of December.”
“Aww. That’s sweet. What day is it?” Shirley asked, smiling encouragingly at Pierce.
“I don’t know. That’s why I said the beginning of December.” Pierce frowned as Shirley glared at him. “Look, I explained to her I wasn’t good with dates, and she said she’d call me to remind me. But I figure if I buy something now and mail it, it’ll be there early enough.”
“Typical.” “Men.” Shirley and Britta nodded at each other.
“I’ll need to look at a map, but I’d be more than- OH!” Whitman stopped abruptly as his phone chirped. He tapped at it for a moment, getting a silly grin on his face as he read something. “Ahem. I’m afraid you Brave New World-ers will be on your own today. I- ah- I just remembered I have anthropology quizzes from Greendale to grade. If you’ll pardon me.” He stood, walking toward the hallway. “Ah, Mr. Winger: The keys, if you’ll be so good as to drive?” Whitman handed the van keys to Jeff, who nodded as he exchanged bemused looks with his friends. “I’ll see all of you this evening at Air Canada Centre.”
“Will you need us to come back and pick you up, Professor?” Annie asked.
“Ah, no, no, that won’t be necessary, Miss Edison. I’m sure I can manage to get there on my own. Thank you.” Whitman answered distractedly, actually bumping into the doorframe before he headed down the hall toward his room.
“Aww.” Shirley sighed. “That’s so sweet: He’s like a teenager with his first crush.”
“I don’t think he’s going to get past first base.” Jeff muttered to his coffee, belatedly realizing that six people were now staring at him.
“And what would make you say that, Jeffrey?” Pierce looked at him askance. “I still don’t think the professor’s your sort of man.”
“Pierce, what’s it going to take to convince you I’m not gay?” Jeff rubbed at his temple, glaring at the older man. “And that’s not what I meant. I just meant, y’know, they haven’t seen each other in 12 years. Besides, I don’t think they were like that when they knew each other before.”
“How would you know?” Britta scoffed. Jeff shrugged, reluctant to relay the story Whitman had told him the previous day.
“I say: Booty call!” Troy laughed and held up a fist. “Can I get a ‘hell, yes’?”
“Hell yes.” Abed bumped Troy’s fist with his own and turned back to evening out the layer of blueberry preserves he’d put on his toast.
***