Them Young Girls They Do Get Wearied (1/?)
Aug. 9th, 2013 04:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lapacifidoraAuthor: agnes_bell
Spoilers: Through 4.13 “Advanced Introduction to Finality”, but AU from the get-go
Rating/ Warnings: PG-14, for themes and language. Trigger warnings for substance abuse (implied this part) and later discussion of disordered eating.
Word Count: 4,310
Disclaimers: If I owned this show, I’d probably be less pathological.
Author’s note: Hi! Long-time listener, first-time caller! Or something like that. I haven’t written fic for several years, but this idea kind of wouldn’t let me go. Essentially, I was inspired by this photoset from FYJeffandAnnie, but I tweaked it a little to fit with what I thought I could make into a story. There are changes to canon, but I hope you’ll stick with me long enough to explain anything confusing.No beta, so all flubs are mine, and any feedback would be greatly appreciated.
~*~
Pulling her camera into her lap, she ducked her chin and glanced across the street from the corner of her eye. She watched the bouncers who flanked the club doors and held her breath, waiting to see if they’d been alerted to her presence. When the pair of thick-necked giants continued to man their posts on either side of the dark wood doors, gazes fixed firmly in the middle distance, she let out her breath in a quiet whoosh. Reaching down between the door and the side of her seat, she fingered a control, shifting her seat back by a few inches. She peered around the edge of the central roll bar, which provided her more coverage in the new position and waited another minute, watching the club’s front doors.
Annie reached blindly into the bag in the passenger seat and pulled out a mini-digital recorder, pressing ‘record’ as she cut her glance over at the digital clock display.
“12:40 a.m. No sign of Professorberg yet, and if Spreck’s in there, he must have arrived sometime before the club opened yesterday.” She was quiet for a long moment as her finger hovered over the button that would cease recording. She bit her lip as she tried to order her thoughts. “We should follow up on the wait staff, as everyone on the security detail came up smelling like roses.” She looked over at the car’s clock again, dropped her gaze to her camera then turned her attention to the club doors once more. “Given the time-sensitive nature of the case, I’m making an executive decision to infiltrate the club and look for Professorberg myself. I don’t see any way around it. I’ll be wearing the Bardot get-up, in case you need to come looking for me. End recording.”
Tapping the ‘stop’ button on her recorder, Annie fished her cell phone from her bag and used a USB adapter to plug the recorder into her phone. She thumbed through her home screen to an app that would transfer the recorder’s MP3 file to her phone, then ran it through a secondary encrypting program that was a proprietary app developed for her by her monosyllabic tech expert at the local RadioShack. She attached the encrypted audio file to an email to her business partner as she absently rolled up her car window.
Careful not to draw attention to herself, Annie slid across to the passenger door, crouching low as she opened the backseat door. She placed her camera into its hard-shell case, snapping it closed as quietly as she could and brushing her thumbs over the combination locks. She pulled a small blue gym bag forward, untangling it from two other similarly sized bags stashed in the foot well behind the passenger seat. She moved back into the shadow of the industrial office block she was parked in front of and knelt to zip open the bag. She removed the hair band and bobby pins laying at the top and scraped her hair back from her face, securing it into a tight ponytail, which she then twisted and pinned at her crown.
Next she drew a silky, dark pink wrap top from the bag. She held its mandarin collar between her teeth, huffing a little with the effort of stripping off her sensible pea coat without standing and pulled her v-necked sweater off, tucking a wisp of hair that came loose as the garment cleared her head behind her ear. She shoved the sweater into the bag and slipped the wrap top on, pulling a light-weight blazer and a pair of ridiculously tall heels from the bag, draping the blazer over her knees and setting the shoes aside. She tossed the pea coat toward the backseat of her car, grumbling when it landed half on the seat and half in the gutter. She fastened the tie of her top, adjusting the neckline to show the appropriate amount of cleavage for a Greendale night club (midway between ‘flirting to get information in an office’ and ‘practical seduction’).
Annie stood, still bent in half and, with a wriggle, slipped her tights down her legs, toeing off her flats and slipping into the heels. Turning back, she dropped tights and flats into the gym bag as she picked it up and placed it back in the car. She slid on the blazer, shivering a little as the lining settled cool and slick on her bare arms. She drew a mirrored compact and a tube of ruddy pink lipstick from the bag and applied the color, grimacing a little at how it clashed with her brunette coloring.
Finally, Annie pulled out a gallon-size zip bag, which she opened and upended, shaking out a shoulder-length blonde wig. Bending forward, she slid the wig on, tugging it into place over her pinned hair. Then she straightened and shook the wig, pulling at the hair that fell around her ears and fluffing the bangs to mostly cover her darker eyebrows. She zipped up the gym bag, and closed the back car door. She retrieved her wallet, phone and keys from the bag in the front passenger seat and stepped back from the car, closing the door and running her thumb over the button that activated the alarm. The head and taillights flashed once, and she tucked her keys into her bra, shifting so they dug into her less uncomfortably.
With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and tilted her chin back, arranging her mouth into a smirk and letting her eyelids drop a little in what she hoped was a sexy, come-hither stare (rather than a ‘this stakeout has lasted longer than I thought, and I’m really tired’), and carefully stepped in the street between her Crown Vic and a shiny red Ford Fiesta as she crossed the street to the club.
As she approached the front door, Annie added a little extra swing to her hips, fighting to keep her smirk from becoming a grin as she noticed one of the bouncers eyeballing her legs as she mounted the curb. She continued toward the doors and cut her gaze at the bouncer who had checked her out as he opened one of the doors for her, giving him a wink as she strode across the threshold into the dark, noisy interior of the club. She paused just inside the doors, giving her eyes a moment to adjust as the door closed behind her, cutting off the ambient light from street lamps and the astringent brightness of the building’s exterior security lights. Annie drew a deep breath, ran a hand through the ends of her newly blonde hair and turned toward the bar.
~*~
“Baby, I don’t know what I would do without a man like you to keep me company.” A Rubenesque redhead leaned down as she wrapped her arms around the shoulders of the scruffy blonde 30-something in a black bespoke suit, letting her lips drag over the shell of his ear as she purred her come on. “What do you say to a dance, Baby? You, me, a private booth and the rhythm of the night?”
Jeff Winger rolled his eyes and slammed back the last of his bourbon. (The Creamery had a half decent bar for a club, but their scotch wasn’t worth a damn, let alone the $9.50 they charged for the only single malt on the menu. Their bourbon, on the other hand, wasn’t half bad, long as you didn’t pay it too much attention or try to linger over it.) He set the empty glass down on the sticky wood veneer table and glanced over his shoulder, quirking an eyebrow as the man in the suit awkwardly disengaged himself from the attentive redhead and stood, tossing down a $50 bill to cover his tab and tip. He turned without another look at the woman and headed for the doors.
Jeff turned his attention back to the woman, who watched the other man retreating with a tired frown on her face, and raised his hand to flag down a waitress as he called over to the redhead.
“Why don’t you come have a drink with me while you regroup and plan your next conquest, Vee?”
“I’m working, Winger.” The redhead glanced over at him as she crossed her arms over her ample chest, the movement drawing attention to the sweetheart neckline of her dark red dress.
“As your attorney, I strongly suggest you come sit your ass down and have a drink.” Jeff smirked and stretched a foot to kick out the chair opposite his. He waited as she stared at him through narrowed eyes, then let his smirk soften a little as she sighed heavily and crossed the corner of the crowded dance floor to sit down across from him. A waitress approached, looking from Jeff to his companion. “Another bourbon for me and a – what’re you drinking these days, Vee?”
“Can I get a sparkling water with a lime wedge?” Vee asked, returning the smile the blonde turned her way. “Thanks, Megan.” She waited as the waitress headed off to the bar, then turned her attention on the man opposite her. “What’s new, Winger?”
“Not much.” Jeff sighed and fiddled with a pepper shaker on the table, shaking out some flakes and then drawing his finger through them absentmindedly. “I got a landlord an extension on bringing the electrical in his buildings up to code. And I’m representing a stripper in a worker’s comp case tomorrow.” He sighed and looked up at the redhead. “What’s new with you, Vee?” He tilted his head toward the recently vacated table behind them. “No fish biting tonight?”
“No.” Vee slumped back in her seat sullenly, crossing her arms again and staring out at the crowd on the dance floor. “I don’t know why not.” She shrugged and glanced at Jeff. “I don’t understand it. I mean, OK.” She shifted closer and leaned an elbow on the table top, then almost immediately peeled her arm up again, grimacing at the faint sticky noise it made. “Sure, maybe my pitch needs some work, a little freshening up.”
“It might help to quote not quote Debarge.” Jeff shrugged and leaned in as well, propping both elbows on the table edge. He paused as the waitress returned and set their drinks down before continuing on to another table. He drew his glass closer and stared into it contemplatively. “Maybe try Rihanna? Or, I don’t know, are there any dance songs that are deep?” He picked the glass up, swirling it gently before taking a sip. “Maybe Ke$sha?”
“Thanks.” Vee shook her head and poked at the lime wedge floating in her sparkling water with the tiny black straw. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“It might also be that this isn’t your usual hunting ground.” Jeff looked up at her and frowned. “I don’t want you showing up at my office next week with a solicitation charge.” He shook his head and lifted his glass again, downing half of it in one go. “I’m running out of defenses for you.”
“Don’t worry, Winger.” Vee took a long drink from her glass and smoothed a hand down the skirt of her dress. “I’m not going to show up on anyone’s radar tonight.”
“That’s what people always say, whether they get caught or not.”
“Winger, trust me.” Vee set her glass aside and leaned forward, glancing around quickly before catching his eye and letting her sulky façade slip for a moment. “The club’s hot tonight but it’s nothing to do with me or any of the other girls.” She met Jeff’s stare for several long moments, then let her lips quick into a smug smile when he set his glass aside and lean closer across the table.
“What have you heard?” Jeff arranged his expression into something as disinterested as he could manage after the day he’d had, but the tilt of his head and the arch of his eyebrow were tells that ruined his poker face. “I’d like to think, given our prior association, that you’d point me in the right direction if you think someone will shortly be in need of legal representation.”
“Ambulance chaser.” Vee’s tone was a sharp rebuke, but the shake of her head and the exasperated expression on her face were almost affectionate. She watched Jeff stare at her for a minute before he blinked rapidly.
“Courtesan.”
“You realize mine actually is an insult, whereas yours is an ambiguous term that is not always derogatory?”
“We’re not in school anymore, Vee.” Jeff tapped a finger on the tabletop. “Now spill: What have you heard?”
“Spreck’s here tonight.” Vee stated quietly, her eyes skating away from Jeff’s before come back to meet his, though she moved her chair closer to the table. “Little birds have been chirping lately that he’s up to his old tricks.”
“Vee, I hate to think of you repeating baseless rumors and gossip.” Jeff tilted his head forward, his brow throwing his eyes into shadow.
“You and I both know Stephen Spreck doesn’t let any information that isn’t true circulate about him.” She curled her lip in distaste. “He may be a cold-blooded bureaucrat, but I will give him this: He’s very good at managing his public image.”
“He also has a union lawyer, vetted by the state board of regents.” Jeff frowned. “Here I buy you a drink, and I think you’re going to be nice and give me something I can use in retu-”
“Winger.” Vee’s gaze abruptly darts over his right shoulder, and he tenses, watching her face carefully, waiting for any sign of distress. She lets out a shaky breath and shakes her head, returning her attention to her lawyer. “Look. Spreck’s here, and he has someone with him. I don’t know who; I don’t know why; and I don’t know where they are. But I do know if Spreck’s intimidating someone, they probably need someone in their corner – and they probably can’t afford anyone better than you.”
“Hey.” Jeff’s indignation is more rote reaction than an actual expression of anger. “I have a law degree from Columbia.”
“Yes.” Vee picks up her sparkling water and takes a long sip. “And then you had to get one from this country.”
“That was my line.” Jeff grumbles quietly, retrieving his bourbon and swirling the glass again before finishing off the remaining liquid in one gulp. He chokes a little as it burns a trail of heat down his throat and slips two fingers behind the knot in his tie, loosening it a little more. Vee’s snicker draws his attention and he glares at her for a moment before shrugging and shifting back a little in his chair. “Doesn’t help me at all if I don’t know who the intimidate-ee is.”
“All I know is it’s someone from Greendale,” Vee pauses as she and Jeff exchange a look that shouts ‘big surprise there’ before continuing. “And I do have a name, though I didn’t recognize it, which makes me think it’s as fake as my Ralex here.” She lifts one arm, pointing at the wrist with what looks like a diamond-encrusted watch.
“Vee.” Jeff smiles, trying to toe the line between sincere and sleazy and well aware he’s not quite managing either. “Vee, have I ever told you Christina Hendricks has nothing on you?”
“Save your breath, Winger.” Vee purses her lips and shakes her head, though the strobe lights on the dance floor indicate she’s blushing, at least a little. “I don’t need your flattery.” She picks up a cocktail napkin and holds out a hand to Jeff, snapping her fingers when he doesn’t provide a pen quickly enough. She quickly prints a name on the napkin, then folds it in half once, twice and hands it and the pen to him. She meets his skeptical look with a stern expression and flattens her lips into a straight line. “I don’t know that name. You don’t know that name. And, if you did know it, you didn’t get it from me.” She pauses, drawing two fingers down the side of her glass and collecting condensation, which she then flicks at Jeff, who startles as the drops land on his nose and cheek. “Got it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Vee.” Jeff nods once and tucks the pen and napkin into the inside breast pocket of his sport coat. “We were only sitting here, talking about the weather and how sad it is The Breeders will never go on a reunion tour.”
“The who?”
“Forget I said anything.” Jeff wiped at a lingering spot of wetness on his cheek, brushing his fingers against his pant leg as he muttered to himself. “Like I need something else to make me feel old.”
“Thanks for the drink, Winger.” Vee stands, finishing off her drink in a few long sips and fishing the lime wedge from the glass. “And for the company.” She pops the fruit between her lips and her cheek hollow as she sucks the sour sweet juice from the flesh, then she spits the wedge back into her glass. “See you soon.”
“Not too soon, I hope.” Jeff holds still as she leans down and plants a kiss on his stubbled cheek, the acid from the lime making the spot tingle. He turns to watch her totter off in her heels toward an older man with an ostentatious gold watch. “I mean it: I don’t want to see you next week, Vee.” He calls out after her, shaking his head when she wiggles the fingers of one hand over her shoulder in a wave. He chuckles and stands, making his way to the bar, where he plans to order a cup of coffee and settle his tab.
The only spot is next to a petite blonde wrapped in an outfit he’s certain his assistant would refer to as ‘sexcretary casual.’ He gives her a cursory once over as he leans an elbow on the bar, waiting for one of the bartenders to work toward this end. A rowdy couple on the other side of the blonde knock into her, which in turn sends her stumbling back into his chest. He straightens away from the bar slightly, widening his stance for stability and lays a careful hand on the woman’s upper arm as he pushes her away.
She stiffens and glances at him over her shoulder, and Jeff is abruptly and absurdly grateful he only had two drinks and isn’t as out of his head as he might be any other Thursday evening. He’s not sure why, as the woman is another blue-eyed blonde, which are a dime-a-dozen in Colorado, as close as it is to California and with Aspen within driving distance, even if it’s a bit far for a day trip. The woman, who has already returned her attention to the bartenders, serving a large party about five people away, should not be memorable or make an impression; but there is something familiar in the set of her eyes and the curve of her dark brow beneath the sheen of her blonde bangs.
Jeff nearly chokes on his next breath as his mind conjures an image of a petite brunette, hair carefully pulled away from her face, clad in a cardigan, demure skirt and colorful flats. He shifts his weight back onto the bar, leaning forward to try and catch another glimpse of the blonde’s profile, but she is determinedly ignoring him in favor of a bartender who’s free now that the large group further down the bar has migrated to a table. The young man approaches, smooth smile firmly in place as the blonde turns bodily to face him, arms crossed and elbows resting on the bartop as she leans forward, her cleavage (Jeff would put it somewhere between ‘fishing for information’ and ‘Black Widow on assignment’.) drawing the bartender’s attention. Jeff’s focus is on the line of her nose and the jut of her chin, as the club is too loud to hear her well as she orders a drink. The bartender turns away for a cocktail shaker, and Jeff takes the opportunity to lean down so his mouth is level with the woman’s ear.
“I think I like you better as a brunette.” He pulls back and meets her surprised look with a grin, which only grows when her eyes narrow and her apparent shock turns to annoyance.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replies, her voice not raised but her tone indicating he should drop whatever it is he thinks he has.
“Oh, I think you do.” Jeff responds loudly before leaning in, shooting a glance at the bartender who is still making her drink. “Greendale Community College, Spanish 101. And Spanish 102. I may not remember your name, but I don’t think I’d forget the face of the girl who screwed me out of the credit I should have earned for those classes, or for putting up with Ben Chang, at the very least.” He tilts his head back enough to meet her eyes, which are bright with anger though the rest of her face is calm, if his peripheral vision is anything to go by.
“I’m sorry. I think you have me confused with someone else.” The woman – a distant part of his brain has dredged up the letter ‘A’ from a memory he’d forgot he had, and is flipping through possible ‘A’ names – turns to pick up her drink as it’s placed on the bar in front of her. She lays down a $10, motions the bartender to keep the change, and steps away from the bar and Jeff, slipping through the throngs carefully.
Jeff watches her for a moment, then turns back to the bartender before the young man can be distracted by another customer, ordering a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup and settling his tab at the same time. He takes his coffee and moves to follow the petite woman, his brain waffling between ‘Ashley,’ ‘Annie’ and ‘Aubergine’ – he pauses and blinks, knowing at least one of those isn’t even a name – when a flurry of movement from the far side of the dance floor catches his attention.
A door at the back of the club, where the public areas of the club end and the administrative parts begin, opens, and Stephen Spreck, a tall, stark figure in shades of charcoal and pale green, emerges, three men following him. Two of them look like rejects from an open casting call for ‘brainless goon,’ while the third is out of place in a disheveled dress shirt, corduroy blazer with suede elbow patches and jeans. There is something vaguely familiar about the man, though Jeff knows he’ll need several more cups of coffee if he wants to even try putting his finger on it. The goons are dragging the disheveled man through the crowd as they follow Spreck, who seems oblivious to the crowd or the thumping bass of the dance music.
A flash of yellow and pink draws Jeff’s attention, and he spots his mystery woman making her way toward Spreck, her gait unsteady and exaggeratedly weaving, though her drink looks untouched from this distance. He feels an unfamiliar and, frankly, unwanted flare of concern in his chest as his mind skips ahead several steps to the inevitable outcome of his mystery woman plus Spreck’s immaculate suit, multiplied by whatever game she’s playing and the contents of her glass. Jeff begins to force his way through the crowd, ignoring the angry cries of the people he leaves in his wake. He’s nearly even with Spreck and the woman when a flailing bride, neon pink faux veil planted atop her head, knocks his nearly empty coffee cup from his hand. Her screeching apology draws Spreck’s attention, and Jeff isn’t too proud to admit – at least to himself – that he panics.
He brushes off the bride with a quick ‘congrats’ and a kiss on the cheek, and steps away from Spreck, toward the mystery blonde. The blonde slows as Jeff crosses between her and a ceiling-mounted strobe light, his height casting her into shadow. He glances over at Spreck, whose face is expressionless except for frown lines around the eyes, and he worries the other man will recognize him as a graduate of City College’s biggest rival. He knows he has a small window to make his move and hopefully deflect Spreck, and his nerves gather in his hand, crushing the Styrofoam cup as his fingers clench in a fist.
So, Jeff does what he expects any other man – or at least Bruce Willis in Moonlighting – would do in this situation: He wraps one arm around the blonde’s waist, pinning the hand with the drink against his side, cups her cheek with his other hand, and kisses her.
(He knows he’s setting himself up for a lawsuit; a painful bruise as her hand lands on the back of his neck, her nails pressing into his skin; and a hell of dry cleaning bill. So he figures he might as well make it worth it, and dips her a little, just for kicks.)
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Date: 2013-08-09 02:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-11 04:58 am (UTC)Please update more soon to distract me from studying!
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Date: 2013-08-11 07:07 pm (UTC)