The Trouble with Omlettes (1/?)
Sep. 14th, 2011 02:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lapacifidoraTitle: The Trouble with Omlettes (Or A Toothache, A Skirt and A Bad Egg) (1/?)
Author: lapacifidora
Spoilers: Minor spoilers for 3.01 and season 3, based on the TVLine interview. Assumes knowledge through ‘A Fistful of Paintballs’/ ‘For a Few Paintballs More’
Rating/ Warnings: PG-14 this chapter, for implied adult activities and language
Word Count: 1,942
Disclaimers: Not mine. Although I think Dan Harmon knows this friend of mine and based Troy on her…
Author’s note: You are all a bad influence. There was a time I was content with simply reading fic. I rather miss it. Also: The smutty bits will follow this part. It’s not as though I have much to work with; just what Beth remembered from her dream. This is getting a bit away from me – part two is turning into a lot of exposition – but I swear there will be smutty parts. I could even put in some smutty exposition, if y’all would like.
***
Once upon a time, when clothes were still made in the U.S. (and not only by American Apparel), there was a skirt.
It was a time of myths, which were at that time called ‘propaganda,’ and great tyrants, who looked perfectly normal until they began flinging accusations of treason like a great lot of angry monkeys flinging, well, what monkeys tend to fling.
But, despite the myths and tyrants – or perhaps because people felt a duly elected tyrant, content with a facsimile of power, was better than one who imagined himself an emperor and rained down death like a zealous gardener with a hose – it was also a time of prosperity.
The skirt in question could have been made of nearly any material, in any style.
A tweed pencil skirt, to be paired with a smart blouse and a jacket in that French style. (Chanel wasn’t a word yet known to many.)
A swingy wool six- or eight-gored number, flaring about the knees and moving as the wearer walked across a campus quad, littered with crunchy leaves or lined with bunches of daffodils.
A kilt, fashioned from some new synthetic, worn with saddle shoes and an embroidered blazer or cardigan.
Perhaps a flouncy A-line in linen or chiffon, with a carefully starched crinoline beneath.
Or even a clingy, floor-length swath of silk, flowing, water-like, from the hips until it pooled at the feet at a crucial moment.
Our skirt, though, was constructed from sturdy denim, when that long-lasting fabric was transitioning from the stuff of camping gear to a novelty for everyday wear. And our skirt might have done alright for itself, becoming a staple in some young woman’s wardrobe until it frayed at the hem and wore soft enough to wear to drag on in the dark hours of the early morning.
But our skirt wasn’t to be so lucky. Too early for the mini and too late for consideration as part of a swimming costume – as soaked denim tended to bind or chafe – our skirt drifted to the back of closet and dresser, taken out with surprise whenever it was discovered and its persistence remarked upon before being tossed back into the depths until next year or the year after.
The skirt passed from sister to sister; from friend to friend; from cousin to cousin; from mother to daughter; from sister to sister, again; and from aunt to cousin to (much later) niece, around and again for years that became decades. Not one remembered if she’d worn it to the beach when she was 16 and come home sunburned and with four different phone numbers; or if that was what she’d been wearing to the party where she’d made out (she thought) with Jack. Or was it Jackie? Each time it changed hands, it was washed and dried, sometimes carefully folded, sometimes stuffed into the bottom of a basket or a suitcase, every time forgotten or overlooked.
One windy, slightly damp day, a volunteer working in the glorified garage called the ‘donation processing center’ at a thrift store on the edge of Denver pulled the skirt from a garbage bag and shook it out, rubbing a thumb across the pebbled denim and flipping it over speculatively, examining the unworn hem and testing the zipper and button. He held it up to his own narrow hips, pouting when he saw how short the skirt was and sighed in disappointment before flinging the skirt in the direction of the ‘like new’ pile.
The skirt was priced and hung up for a few months in the store, where it was overlooked and drifted to the end of the rack of jean skirts every time. A different volunteer, this one holding it up to her own figure while closing up one evening and glancing wistfully toward a full-length mirror, imagined herself 50 pounds lighter and threw it in to the basket for dispersal to a thrift store farther out. Out of sight, out of guilt range the next time she unwrapped a candy bar.
And so our skirt made its way to a thrift store on a busy stretch of highway between Riverside and Greendale, where it sat for months.
If the skirt had been an orphan or an animal or a plant – or perhaps a toy – surely the decades of neglect would have made it bitter and maladjusted.
But clothing is a collection of fibers: It doesn’t hold a grudge.
It doesn’t spend decades plotting mischief.
***
It – which is what Annie was calling the situation, still, six weeks in – had started innocently enough.
Extra-curricular activities might build her resume, but they didn’t cover her rent or her car insurance payments. Collecting cans might put money in her pocket, but it didn’t put soup and peanut butter in her cupboards or milk in her fridge.
And now, after the cafeteria, after City College and the scene in the library, she couldn’t rely on the kindness of strange people.
She scoured the classifieds and spent three days putting in applications. With a spotty employment record – thanks to her court-mandated community service – she hadn’t expected to get many call backs.
Annie’s low expectations served her well: She wound up with more interviews than she’d thought she would, but only a few made her nervous.
Lucky for her, a luxury car body and mechanic shop out on a busy stretch of highway between Greendale and Riverside needed a receptionist and office assistant. (When Annie asked about the last person to hold the position, she was told Tricia had been hit by a car. The good news was that the car was a Benz, owned by a single real estate agent who spent half the year in St. Tropez.)
As it turned out, Jeff had been wrong – or, at least, not entirely right: Her misguided attempt to look like a professor didn’t only make her look like a travel agent.
It also made her look like a receptionist for a luxury car body shop.
***
It was Annie’s one-month anniversary (the owners, customers and other staff having decided she was an asset, a real peach and a fine piece of ass, respectively) when a black Lexus pulled up in front of the garage doors and Jeff Winger strolled into the waiting room.
Under any other circumstances, it would’ve been what Abed would call a second-chance meet cute: That scene where two characters, who’d been at cross purposes or had a false start, run into each other as a sweetly pleading indie pop song swells in the background and the screen fades to black.
Under these circumstances, Annie had a pencil stuck behind each ear, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, her shirt clinging to her back while a repair technician tried to get the air conditioning working at full power and her ass in the air, as she knelt underneath her desk and wrapped colored labels around different cords.
Jeff wasn’t sure how long he stood at the counter, enjoying the way the black material of the receptionist’s skirt stretched and shifted as she moved or the way her shirt had ridden up a little in back, revealing a swath of pale skin. Finally, he cleared his throat and hooking his sunglasses over the collar of his t-shirt. The receptionist started, a thud coming from the underside of the desktop, followed by a string of muttered curses as she backed out from the depths.
“Now, now, Tricia, there’s no call for that kind of language.” Jeff leaned forward over the desk, looking for the candy dish the bony brunette always kept.
“Not. Tricia.” Annie huffed as she stood, tugging down her shirt and brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead with the back of one hand.
Later, neither one was sure who connected the dots first. Annie wouldn’t say she would probably recognize his voice even if she didn’t hear it even once in the next 70 years. Jeff couldn’t say he’d spent more time thinking about Annie’s ass than was normal or healthy or right or even legal, this close to Utah.
When she turned to face him, there was the requisite gaping and jaw flapping. Annie collapsed back into her chair. Jeff’s hands gripped the edge of the desk, and he wondered briefly if he should check CNN’s breaking news feed for news of a earthquake in the Denver area. The silence was shot through with threads of tension and awkwardness new to them.
“Ah, Mr. Winger!” One of the owners walked out of his office and clapped Jeff on the back, shaking his hand and breaking the quiet. “Wonderful to see you, sir, wonderful. Have you met our new gal Friday?” He turned to Annie, shaking his head at her disheveled appearance. “Poor dear. They haven’t got the air working yet?”
“No.” Annie blinked and cleared her throat, standing and fumbling with the pencils in her hair before dropping them to the desk top. She smoothed her hands over her hair and plastered a smile on her face. “No, Mr. Finnerty, the technician said he’d have it fixed by end of business today, but not before.”
“Shame.” Mr. Finnerty shook his head again as he pulled a bill fold from his wallet and peeled off a few notes, which he handed to Annie. “After you help Mr. Winger here, pop next door and get yourself a cold drink.” He turned back to Jeff. “As you may have guessed, this is our new receptionist, Annie.” He tilted his head to Jeff’s and continued in a stage whisper. “Dear old Tricia met her new husband the old fashioned way – He ran her down with his Mercedes. – but it was a pure stroke of luck we found this little pearl.” He chuckled and nodded as he took a step back. “Now, Annie, I want you to do whatever will make Mr. Winger happy. He’s one of our best customers, do you understand?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Finnerty.” Annie smiled brightly at her employer as he turned and wandered back into his office. The smile dimmed as she turned to face Jeff, whose look of bemusement had only grown. “Good Afternoon, Mr. Winger. How can I help you?”
“If you wanted to be run down by a luxury car, you could’ve just asked me.” Jeff shrugged and smirked. “I’m sure I know plenty of lousy drivers who’d be happy to help.” He watched as Annie sat back down and began typing at her computer.
“I see your vehicle is scheduled for its regular maintenance.” Annie looked up at him, her lips pursed in an imitation of a smile. “Is there anything in particular you’d like the mechanics to check today?”
“Annie.” Jeff made a noise of exasperation and scratched at the back of his head.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’” Annie typed something into the form on her monitor and clicked a button, sending the printer at her elbow shuddering to life. She gathered the pages, stapled them and marked the signature line with an ‘X.’ “If you’ll just sign here, please.” She placed the papers in front of him, bending her head to find a pen among the desk detritus and just missing the sway of his face toward her hair.
Jeff blinked dumbly when Annie held a pen out to him, but took it and signed the paperwork, handing over his keys and watching as she turned and stalked through a door into the garage.
The feeling that welled in his chest when she didn’t throw him a smile over her shoulder, as she had for the last two years, felt an awful lot like disappointment.
But that didn’t make sense.
***
Author: lapacifidora
Spoilers: Minor spoilers for 3.01 and season 3, based on the TVLine interview. Assumes knowledge through ‘A Fistful of Paintballs’/ ‘For a Few Paintballs More’
Rating/ Warnings: PG-14 this chapter, for implied adult activities and language
Word Count: 1,942
Disclaimers: Not mine. Although I think Dan Harmon knows this friend of mine and based Troy on her…
Author’s note: You are all a bad influence. There was a time I was content with simply reading fic. I rather miss it. Also: The smutty bits will follow this part. It’s not as though I have much to work with; just what Beth remembered from her dream. This is getting a bit away from me – part two is turning into a lot of exposition – but I swear there will be smutty parts. I could even put in some smutty exposition, if y’all would like.
***
Once upon a time, when clothes were still made in the U.S. (and not only by American Apparel), there was a skirt.
It was a time of myths, which were at that time called ‘propaganda,’ and great tyrants, who looked perfectly normal until they began flinging accusations of treason like a great lot of angry monkeys flinging, well, what monkeys tend to fling.
But, despite the myths and tyrants – or perhaps because people felt a duly elected tyrant, content with a facsimile of power, was better than one who imagined himself an emperor and rained down death like a zealous gardener with a hose – it was also a time of prosperity.
The skirt in question could have been made of nearly any material, in any style.
A tweed pencil skirt, to be paired with a smart blouse and a jacket in that French style. (Chanel wasn’t a word yet known to many.)
A swingy wool six- or eight-gored number, flaring about the knees and moving as the wearer walked across a campus quad, littered with crunchy leaves or lined with bunches of daffodils.
A kilt, fashioned from some new synthetic, worn with saddle shoes and an embroidered blazer or cardigan.
Perhaps a flouncy A-line in linen or chiffon, with a carefully starched crinoline beneath.
Or even a clingy, floor-length swath of silk, flowing, water-like, from the hips until it pooled at the feet at a crucial moment.
Our skirt, though, was constructed from sturdy denim, when that long-lasting fabric was transitioning from the stuff of camping gear to a novelty for everyday wear. And our skirt might have done alright for itself, becoming a staple in some young woman’s wardrobe until it frayed at the hem and wore soft enough to wear to drag on in the dark hours of the early morning.
But our skirt wasn’t to be so lucky. Too early for the mini and too late for consideration as part of a swimming costume – as soaked denim tended to bind or chafe – our skirt drifted to the back of closet and dresser, taken out with surprise whenever it was discovered and its persistence remarked upon before being tossed back into the depths until next year or the year after.
The skirt passed from sister to sister; from friend to friend; from cousin to cousin; from mother to daughter; from sister to sister, again; and from aunt to cousin to (much later) niece, around and again for years that became decades. Not one remembered if she’d worn it to the beach when she was 16 and come home sunburned and with four different phone numbers; or if that was what she’d been wearing to the party where she’d made out (she thought) with Jack. Or was it Jackie? Each time it changed hands, it was washed and dried, sometimes carefully folded, sometimes stuffed into the bottom of a basket or a suitcase, every time forgotten or overlooked.
One windy, slightly damp day, a volunteer working in the glorified garage called the ‘donation processing center’ at a thrift store on the edge of Denver pulled the skirt from a garbage bag and shook it out, rubbing a thumb across the pebbled denim and flipping it over speculatively, examining the unworn hem and testing the zipper and button. He held it up to his own narrow hips, pouting when he saw how short the skirt was and sighed in disappointment before flinging the skirt in the direction of the ‘like new’ pile.
The skirt was priced and hung up for a few months in the store, where it was overlooked and drifted to the end of the rack of jean skirts every time. A different volunteer, this one holding it up to her own figure while closing up one evening and glancing wistfully toward a full-length mirror, imagined herself 50 pounds lighter and threw it in to the basket for dispersal to a thrift store farther out. Out of sight, out of guilt range the next time she unwrapped a candy bar.
And so our skirt made its way to a thrift store on a busy stretch of highway between Riverside and Greendale, where it sat for months.
If the skirt had been an orphan or an animal or a plant – or perhaps a toy – surely the decades of neglect would have made it bitter and maladjusted.
But clothing is a collection of fibers: It doesn’t hold a grudge.
It doesn’t spend decades plotting mischief.
***
It – which is what Annie was calling the situation, still, six weeks in – had started innocently enough.
Extra-curricular activities might build her resume, but they didn’t cover her rent or her car insurance payments. Collecting cans might put money in her pocket, but it didn’t put soup and peanut butter in her cupboards or milk in her fridge.
And now, after the cafeteria, after City College and the scene in the library, she couldn’t rely on the kindness of strange people.
She scoured the classifieds and spent three days putting in applications. With a spotty employment record – thanks to her court-mandated community service – she hadn’t expected to get many call backs.
Annie’s low expectations served her well: She wound up with more interviews than she’d thought she would, but only a few made her nervous.
Lucky for her, a luxury car body and mechanic shop out on a busy stretch of highway between Greendale and Riverside needed a receptionist and office assistant. (When Annie asked about the last person to hold the position, she was told Tricia had been hit by a car. The good news was that the car was a Benz, owned by a single real estate agent who spent half the year in St. Tropez.)
As it turned out, Jeff had been wrong – or, at least, not entirely right: Her misguided attempt to look like a professor didn’t only make her look like a travel agent.
It also made her look like a receptionist for a luxury car body shop.
***
It was Annie’s one-month anniversary (the owners, customers and other staff having decided she was an asset, a real peach and a fine piece of ass, respectively) when a black Lexus pulled up in front of the garage doors and Jeff Winger strolled into the waiting room.
Under any other circumstances, it would’ve been what Abed would call a second-chance meet cute: That scene where two characters, who’d been at cross purposes or had a false start, run into each other as a sweetly pleading indie pop song swells in the background and the screen fades to black.
Under these circumstances, Annie had a pencil stuck behind each ear, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, her shirt clinging to her back while a repair technician tried to get the air conditioning working at full power and her ass in the air, as she knelt underneath her desk and wrapped colored labels around different cords.
Jeff wasn’t sure how long he stood at the counter, enjoying the way the black material of the receptionist’s skirt stretched and shifted as she moved or the way her shirt had ridden up a little in back, revealing a swath of pale skin. Finally, he cleared his throat and hooking his sunglasses over the collar of his t-shirt. The receptionist started, a thud coming from the underside of the desktop, followed by a string of muttered curses as she backed out from the depths.
“Now, now, Tricia, there’s no call for that kind of language.” Jeff leaned forward over the desk, looking for the candy dish the bony brunette always kept.
“Not. Tricia.” Annie huffed as she stood, tugging down her shirt and brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead with the back of one hand.
Later, neither one was sure who connected the dots first. Annie wouldn’t say she would probably recognize his voice even if she didn’t hear it even once in the next 70 years. Jeff couldn’t say he’d spent more time thinking about Annie’s ass than was normal or healthy or right or even legal, this close to Utah.
When she turned to face him, there was the requisite gaping and jaw flapping. Annie collapsed back into her chair. Jeff’s hands gripped the edge of the desk, and he wondered briefly if he should check CNN’s breaking news feed for news of a earthquake in the Denver area. The silence was shot through with threads of tension and awkwardness new to them.
“Ah, Mr. Winger!” One of the owners walked out of his office and clapped Jeff on the back, shaking his hand and breaking the quiet. “Wonderful to see you, sir, wonderful. Have you met our new gal Friday?” He turned to Annie, shaking his head at her disheveled appearance. “Poor dear. They haven’t got the air working yet?”
“No.” Annie blinked and cleared her throat, standing and fumbling with the pencils in her hair before dropping them to the desk top. She smoothed her hands over her hair and plastered a smile on her face. “No, Mr. Finnerty, the technician said he’d have it fixed by end of business today, but not before.”
“Shame.” Mr. Finnerty shook his head again as he pulled a bill fold from his wallet and peeled off a few notes, which he handed to Annie. “After you help Mr. Winger here, pop next door and get yourself a cold drink.” He turned back to Jeff. “As you may have guessed, this is our new receptionist, Annie.” He tilted his head to Jeff’s and continued in a stage whisper. “Dear old Tricia met her new husband the old fashioned way – He ran her down with his Mercedes. – but it was a pure stroke of luck we found this little pearl.” He chuckled and nodded as he took a step back. “Now, Annie, I want you to do whatever will make Mr. Winger happy. He’s one of our best customers, do you understand?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Finnerty.” Annie smiled brightly at her employer as he turned and wandered back into his office. The smile dimmed as she turned to face Jeff, whose look of bemusement had only grown. “Good Afternoon, Mr. Winger. How can I help you?”
“If you wanted to be run down by a luxury car, you could’ve just asked me.” Jeff shrugged and smirked. “I’m sure I know plenty of lousy drivers who’d be happy to help.” He watched as Annie sat back down and began typing at her computer.
“I see your vehicle is scheduled for its regular maintenance.” Annie looked up at him, her lips pursed in an imitation of a smile. “Is there anything in particular you’d like the mechanics to check today?”
“Annie.” Jeff made a noise of exasperation and scratched at the back of his head.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’” Annie typed something into the form on her monitor and clicked a button, sending the printer at her elbow shuddering to life. She gathered the pages, stapled them and marked the signature line with an ‘X.’ “If you’ll just sign here, please.” She placed the papers in front of him, bending her head to find a pen among the desk detritus and just missing the sway of his face toward her hair.
Jeff blinked dumbly when Annie held a pen out to him, but took it and signed the paperwork, handing over his keys and watching as she turned and stalked through a door into the garage.
The feeling that welled in his chest when she didn’t throw him a smile over her shoulder, as she had for the last two years, felt an awful lot like disappointment.
But that didn’t make sense.
***
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Date: 2011-09-15 01:01 am (UTC)