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lapacifidoraTitle: The Trouble with Omlettes (Or A Toothache, A Skirt and A Bad Egg) (3/?)
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
Word Count: 1,880
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
***
Several hours later, Jeff is sitting on Annie’s couch, sipping at a complicated iced coffee drink he bought on the way back to her apartment, after picking up her pain killer prescription and buying groceries – Just a few things. She didn’t even have any lunch meat, and the pharmacist was insistent the pills not be taken on an empty stomach. – and standing in floral department of the store for 10 minutes before deciding buying her a couple of reusable ice packs is just as thoughtful and probably more practical.
Annie’s TV is on, turned to a This Old House marathon on PBS, but Jeff’s only half paying attention. A copy of Esquire lies open on his lap, but he’s watching Annie sleep, one hand on her shin, thankful he remembered to cover her with a blanket when he’d brought her in earlier.
She shifts and groans quietly, blinking her eyes slowly and looking around her apartment before her gaze comes to rest on him. The smile she gives him is small and doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but it’s the first one he’s seen from her since – he racks his brain for a moment, wondering if she really hasn’t smiled at him since he gave in and got a double scoop of ice cream at the end-of-the-year hootenanny. He bites back a frown at using the word ‘hootenanny’ in his own head, and instead lets the corners of his mouth tilt upwards.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Annie croaks out and scoots up a little against the arm of the couch when he hands her a glass of water with a straw. She tries to sip through the straw but winces when the motion reminds her of the hole the dental surgeon dug in her jaw that morning. She pulls the straw out and carefully drinks the water, trying not to spill down her chin. When the glass is empty, she hands it back to Jeff and settles back against the pillow she finds behind her head. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Jeff sets his magazine down on her coffee table and turns to face her, resting his arm along the back of the couch. “When you’re hungry, let me know.” He gestures toward her kitchen. “I picked up some soup, and you can’t take the pain pills on an empty stomach.”
“OK.” She smiles again, and he realizes he’s relieved that the expression is genuine this time, though it’s still not what it used to be.
“OK.” He smiles back and pats her feet, looking down as he tucks the ends of the blanket under her heels. When he looks back at her, he’s angry, angrier than when he thought Rich might be a part of the group or when she told the dean Chang was a fraud or even when he realized Britta had only agreed to go out to dinner with him so he would fix that disastrous first study group meeting.
“Do you want to explain to me why the hell you decided to have major oral surgery and didn’t tell anyone so they could pick you up and take care of you?”
“Um.” Annie stares at him dumbly, wondering why he’s angry, why he’s yelling at her now, why he showed up in the first place, why he said ‘take care of you’ and not just ‘bring you home.’ “I-” She clears her throat when the words actually feel like they’re sticking in her throat. “I didn’t want to impose on anyone.”
“You didn’t want to- Jesus, Annie.” Jeff closes his eyes and turns away from her, shaking his head. He stands and crosses to her sink, taking her glass with him and refilling it. He returns to the couch, handing her the glass and perching on the edge of the coffee table. “I say this as someone used to imposing on people: Needing help after you’ve had even out-patient surgery? Not generally considered an imposition.”
Annie swallows some water, staring down into the glass, feeling worse somehow than when her parents had sat her down and told her, with the help of her school counselor and the vice-principal, that her cry for help had been heard, and she didn’t need to take the pills anymore.
(She’d never known how to explain to them that it wasn’t so much a cry for help as a way to take control of her life, to stop feeling, figuratively, small and hopeless. That she liked the way the pills made her feel and that they were easier to use than the other things she’d tried.)
But, as usual, the only thing she sees at the bottom of her water glass is the distorted image of her fingers holding it.
“I didn’t know who to call.” Annie responds, her voice still hoarse but this time Jeff suspects its less from disuse than from her trying to keep her emotions in check. (Not the first time this year, Jeff wishes she hadn’t learned not to use the Disney face as often. It might’ve been difficult to resist, but at least she was easier to read.) He realizes she’s speaking again and turns his mind back to the conversation. “- the baby and her other kids and she’s still trying to figure out where her ex-husband fits into everything. So, that’s Pierce and Troy and Shirley out.”
“Troy?”
“Because Pierce isn’t talking to any of us, and Abed’s out of town this week, and Troy doesn’t drive and the two people who would normally drive him anywhere – not counting me – couldn’t do it. Actually, that’s Pierce and Troy, Abed and Shirley out.” She twists some of the fringe on the blanket’s edge around her finger. “And Britta would’ve just hovered over me, but she’s also not great with sick people.” Annie looks him in the eye, her mouth twisting into a smirk for a moment. “Sometimes medication makes me sick, and Britta’s not great with other people’s vomit.”
“She’s not great with her own, either.” The words are out of Jeff’s mouth before he has a chance to think about them, and he curses inwardly. Annie simply looks at him askance and raises an eyebrow.
“Yet another thing I probably don’t want to know about.” The words are faintly accusatory but her tone isn’t as annoyed as he’d expected. “I didn’t know who to call.”
“What about me?” Jeff bites his tongue this time, hoping the pain will keep him from saying anything else he hasn’t planned. “I mean, I could’ve at least driven you the-”
“I know.” Annie finishes her water and rolls the glass back and forth between her palms. “But I didn’t want-” She pauses, taking a deep breath and shooting a glance at him from the corner of her eyes. Her words are rushed when she continues. “I didn’t want you to think I was expecting something when there’s no reason to expect you to show me any special consideration because there’s nothing betwe- because we’re just friends.”
Jeff looks at the flush climbing her cheeks and the way she avoids eye contact and, not for the first time in the last two months, wishes he’d said something different. (Whether he means during the fight where Abed outed him and Britta or when Annie confronted him in the men’s room, he’s not sure.) He nods and takes the glass from her hands, crossing to refill it. He sets it down where she can reach it and settles back into the other end of the couch, lifting her feet and settling them in his lap before turning the volume on the TV up.
They’re silent for a few minutes before he glances over at her.
“And if you’re still hungry after the soup, I also picked up some popsicles.”
***
Annie is dozing on the couch while Jeff putters in her kitchen.
She is sleepy and full of soup, her lips still pleasantly numb from the popsicle she’d finished while they watched The Philadelphia Story on the late-night movie PBS program.
The pain in her jaw has receded to a dull throb, thanks to exhaustion and the pain pill Jeff had given her with dinner several hours ago. The sedative has finally worn off, and she is alert enough to turn her head and watch him as he bends and shuffles food around in her fridge, looking for someplace to put their leftovers. (What he could possibly need to shuffle, she’s not sure: It’s not as though her kitchen is bursting at the seams. She usually has just enough to take her from paycheck to paycheck.) But she is aware enough to appreciate the line of his back as he leans over, his profile lit by the light coming from the fridge’s interior.
She knows she’s a little loopy, but she’s not out of it anymore: She was fully capable of walking to the bathroom earlier. (It doesn’t mean she didn’t want to hug him when she came out and realized he’d been wiping the same portion of countertop outside the bathroom door over and over again, in case she needed help.)
She’s definitely not out of it enough to pull him back into a hug when he sets her down on her bed and pulls the covers over her. She’s not out of it enough not to notice the hum of…something as the hug drags out or how her heart speeds up when his head shifts, his cheek brushing over her hair or the way he relaxes as he exhales.
Why she doesn’t let him pull away completely, why she smiles that smile up at him, why she closes the distance between them, placing her lips on his and holding them there till he responds, brushing his own mouth against hers – well, part of it is the pain pill. A small, almost insignificant part, at that.
But when he pulls away and stares down at her blankly, his hands tightening around her shoulders for a second before he releases her and stand quickly, and she blinks back tears and turns to face the opposite wall, pulling the sheets up under her chin – well, that, all of it, is her.
***
Jeff sits on Annie’s couch, watching an infomercial with the volume turned down low. He’s checked on her and changed the ice pack she held to her face, wrapping it carefully in a hand towel from her bathroom and brushing her hair from her face.
He knows he should just crash on her couch, wait for her to wake up tomorrow and try to talk to her over breakfast.
He knows he could lie down on the other half of her bed: Kissing him was a pretty clear indicator she wouldn’t mind.
He knows he would be responsible and have this discussion with her if he only had some idea what the hell he would say.
For once, the voice he hears nagging in the back of his head as he jogs down the stairs to the parking lot, gets in his car and drives home doesn’t sound like his mother.
The voice calling him a loser in his head sounds an awful lot like him, and he thinks it sounds guilty.
And, more than he’s willing to admit, that makes 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
Word Count: 1,880
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
***
Several hours later, Jeff is sitting on Annie’s couch, sipping at a complicated iced coffee drink he bought on the way back to her apartment, after picking up her pain killer prescription and buying groceries – Just a few things. She didn’t even have any lunch meat, and the pharmacist was insistent the pills not be taken on an empty stomach. – and standing in floral department of the store for 10 minutes before deciding buying her a couple of reusable ice packs is just as thoughtful and probably more practical.
Annie’s TV is on, turned to a This Old House marathon on PBS, but Jeff’s only half paying attention. A copy of Esquire lies open on his lap, but he’s watching Annie sleep, one hand on her shin, thankful he remembered to cover her with a blanket when he’d brought her in earlier.
She shifts and groans quietly, blinking her eyes slowly and looking around her apartment before her gaze comes to rest on him. The smile she gives him is small and doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but it’s the first one he’s seen from her since – he racks his brain for a moment, wondering if she really hasn’t smiled at him since he gave in and got a double scoop of ice cream at the end-of-the-year hootenanny. He bites back a frown at using the word ‘hootenanny’ in his own head, and instead lets the corners of his mouth tilt upwards.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Annie croaks out and scoots up a little against the arm of the couch when he hands her a glass of water with a straw. She tries to sip through the straw but winces when the motion reminds her of the hole the dental surgeon dug in her jaw that morning. She pulls the straw out and carefully drinks the water, trying not to spill down her chin. When the glass is empty, she hands it back to Jeff and settles back against the pillow she finds behind her head. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Jeff sets his magazine down on her coffee table and turns to face her, resting his arm along the back of the couch. “When you’re hungry, let me know.” He gestures toward her kitchen. “I picked up some soup, and you can’t take the pain pills on an empty stomach.”
“OK.” She smiles again, and he realizes he’s relieved that the expression is genuine this time, though it’s still not what it used to be.
“OK.” He smiles back and pats her feet, looking down as he tucks the ends of the blanket under her heels. When he looks back at her, he’s angry, angrier than when he thought Rich might be a part of the group or when she told the dean Chang was a fraud or even when he realized Britta had only agreed to go out to dinner with him so he would fix that disastrous first study group meeting.
“Do you want to explain to me why the hell you decided to have major oral surgery and didn’t tell anyone so they could pick you up and take care of you?”
“Um.” Annie stares at him dumbly, wondering why he’s angry, why he’s yelling at her now, why he showed up in the first place, why he said ‘take care of you’ and not just ‘bring you home.’ “I-” She clears her throat when the words actually feel like they’re sticking in her throat. “I didn’t want to impose on anyone.”
“You didn’t want to- Jesus, Annie.” Jeff closes his eyes and turns away from her, shaking his head. He stands and crosses to her sink, taking her glass with him and refilling it. He returns to the couch, handing her the glass and perching on the edge of the coffee table. “I say this as someone used to imposing on people: Needing help after you’ve had even out-patient surgery? Not generally considered an imposition.”
Annie swallows some water, staring down into the glass, feeling worse somehow than when her parents had sat her down and told her, with the help of her school counselor and the vice-principal, that her cry for help had been heard, and she didn’t need to take the pills anymore.
(She’d never known how to explain to them that it wasn’t so much a cry for help as a way to take control of her life, to stop feeling, figuratively, small and hopeless. That she liked the way the pills made her feel and that they were easier to use than the other things she’d tried.)
But, as usual, the only thing she sees at the bottom of her water glass is the distorted image of her fingers holding it.
“I didn’t know who to call.” Annie responds, her voice still hoarse but this time Jeff suspects its less from disuse than from her trying to keep her emotions in check. (Not the first time this year, Jeff wishes she hadn’t learned not to use the Disney face as often. It might’ve been difficult to resist, but at least she was easier to read.) He realizes she’s speaking again and turns his mind back to the conversation. “- the baby and her other kids and she’s still trying to figure out where her ex-husband fits into everything. So, that’s Pierce and Troy and Shirley out.”
“Troy?”
“Because Pierce isn’t talking to any of us, and Abed’s out of town this week, and Troy doesn’t drive and the two people who would normally drive him anywhere – not counting me – couldn’t do it. Actually, that’s Pierce and Troy, Abed and Shirley out.” She twists some of the fringe on the blanket’s edge around her finger. “And Britta would’ve just hovered over me, but she’s also not great with sick people.” Annie looks him in the eye, her mouth twisting into a smirk for a moment. “Sometimes medication makes me sick, and Britta’s not great with other people’s vomit.”
“She’s not great with her own, either.” The words are out of Jeff’s mouth before he has a chance to think about them, and he curses inwardly. Annie simply looks at him askance and raises an eyebrow.
“Yet another thing I probably don’t want to know about.” The words are faintly accusatory but her tone isn’t as annoyed as he’d expected. “I didn’t know who to call.”
“What about me?” Jeff bites his tongue this time, hoping the pain will keep him from saying anything else he hasn’t planned. “I mean, I could’ve at least driven you the-”
“I know.” Annie finishes her water and rolls the glass back and forth between her palms. “But I didn’t want-” She pauses, taking a deep breath and shooting a glance at him from the corner of her eyes. Her words are rushed when she continues. “I didn’t want you to think I was expecting something when there’s no reason to expect you to show me any special consideration because there’s nothing betwe- because we’re just friends.”
Jeff looks at the flush climbing her cheeks and the way she avoids eye contact and, not for the first time in the last two months, wishes he’d said something different. (Whether he means during the fight where Abed outed him and Britta or when Annie confronted him in the men’s room, he’s not sure.) He nods and takes the glass from her hands, crossing to refill it. He sets it down where she can reach it and settles back into the other end of the couch, lifting her feet and settling them in his lap before turning the volume on the TV up.
They’re silent for a few minutes before he glances over at her.
“And if you’re still hungry after the soup, I also picked up some popsicles.”
***
Annie is dozing on the couch while Jeff putters in her kitchen.
She is sleepy and full of soup, her lips still pleasantly numb from the popsicle she’d finished while they watched The Philadelphia Story on the late-night movie PBS program.
The pain in her jaw has receded to a dull throb, thanks to exhaustion and the pain pill Jeff had given her with dinner several hours ago. The sedative has finally worn off, and she is alert enough to turn her head and watch him as he bends and shuffles food around in her fridge, looking for someplace to put their leftovers. (What he could possibly need to shuffle, she’s not sure: It’s not as though her kitchen is bursting at the seams. She usually has just enough to take her from paycheck to paycheck.) But she is aware enough to appreciate the line of his back as he leans over, his profile lit by the light coming from the fridge’s interior.
She knows she’s a little loopy, but she’s not out of it anymore: She was fully capable of walking to the bathroom earlier. (It doesn’t mean she didn’t want to hug him when she came out and realized he’d been wiping the same portion of countertop outside the bathroom door over and over again, in case she needed help.)
She’s definitely not out of it enough to pull him back into a hug when he sets her down on her bed and pulls the covers over her. She’s not out of it enough not to notice the hum of…something as the hug drags out or how her heart speeds up when his head shifts, his cheek brushing over her hair or the way he relaxes as he exhales.
Why she doesn’t let him pull away completely, why she smiles that smile up at him, why she closes the distance between them, placing her lips on his and holding them there till he responds, brushing his own mouth against hers – well, part of it is the pain pill. A small, almost insignificant part, at that.
But when he pulls away and stares down at her blankly, his hands tightening around her shoulders for a second before he releases her and stand quickly, and she blinks back tears and turns to face the opposite wall, pulling the sheets up under her chin – well, that, all of it, is her.
***
Jeff sits on Annie’s couch, watching an infomercial with the volume turned down low. He’s checked on her and changed the ice pack she held to her face, wrapping it carefully in a hand towel from her bathroom and brushing her hair from her face.
He knows he should just crash on her couch, wait for her to wake up tomorrow and try to talk to her over breakfast.
He knows he could lie down on the other half of her bed: Kissing him was a pretty clear indicator she wouldn’t mind.
He knows he would be responsible and have this discussion with her if he only had some idea what the hell he would say.
For once, the voice he hears nagging in the back of his head as he jogs down the stairs to the parking lot, gets in his car and drives home doesn’t sound like his mother.
The voice calling him a loser in his head sounds an awful lot like him, and he thinks it sounds guilty.
And, more than he’s willing to admit, that makes sense.
***
