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5 Clichés That Didn't Lead To A Kiss and 1 That Di	By : sinecure Category: 1 through F > Community Views: 1500 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Community and I make no money off of it.

Chapter List
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"Jeff! Thanks for coming over. I didn't know I'd have a family thing to take care of when I got her drunk."
"You're such a bad influence on these kids," Jeff chuckled, slipping into Annie's apartment as Britta grabbed her keys. "I'd ask how she is but I heard her yelling something about nipple rings and all-you-can-eat edible panties when I got here."
Britta snickered and glanced back to where Annie was kneeling on her bed in front of the open window. "Apparently there are a lot of announcements throughout the nights and she's doing her best Frank Sinatra."
"Spreading the news?"
"Yup. She's not feeling any pain, though, so, that's good. At least until she wakes up with a hangover the size of Canada." She glanced at her watch. "Crud. I really have to go. Are you-" she twisted her lips up in a grimace, tossing her gaze to Annie, "-gonna be okay?"
"Uh, yeah." He removed his eyes from the skin exposed between Annie's white tank top and the flannel pajama bottoms she wore; the part that wasn't covered in white gauze. "Why would you even ask that?"
"Oh, please. Mr. And Mrs. Googly-eyes. You're... ya know."
He straightened from the wall he'd leaned on. "No," he scoffed. "I don't know. And we're not anything. We're just friends. I have no plans to ravage her tonight or any other night. Besides, she has stitches and bruises and she was stabbed by a lemon zester."
"Whatever. Live in denial land. My brother's going to kill me if I'm not there, like, five minutes ago." She paused, stared hard at him as if she wanted to say something more, then shook her head and left the little purple and pink apartment.
Of course it was purple.
If he'd entertained any ideas about getting close to Annie while he was here-which he hadn't-the pink, purple, and pastel ribbons and flowers and-oh, god, sparkly butterflies-sure as hell changed his mind. She couldn't be more of a child in here.
"Free dildos for everyone!" she yelled out the window through her cupped hands. Giggling when someone on the street yelled back that he'd give her what she needed if the dildo wasn't helping, she geared up for another hearty shout. Orange neon light spilled over her bed and her figure as she leaned on the window.
"Hey," he called out, crossing over to her. "You're gonna fall out the window."
She turned toward him in surprise, swaying on her knees. "Jeff!" she called as if she was Cheers greeting Norm. Her grin was bright, stunning, and a little sloppy. "When'd you get here? And where's Britta? Britta. Brrr... itta. Brit- her name sounds stupid."
So very drunk.
"She had to go be a family person. Uh, be careful." He stood beside her bed, not quite sure what to do with himself. It was all so close and intimate, being in her bedroom, which was pretty much her entire apartment, but, still. Awkward. "If you fall out the window, I'm not scraping you up."
"Psh!" She smacked her flattened hand on the screen a few times, bouncing it. "There's a screen, duh."
"Kids fall through those all the time, and you're no kid." He wanted to take the words back as soon as they left his mouth. He shifted a little away from her and the bed and her big, blue eyes, which were focused on him.
"Oh," she snorted, dropping to the bed with a bounce. Everything on her bounced.
Eyes up, Winger.
"Could've fooled me. 'You're too young, Annie. You're just a kid, Annie. You're too little to-' okay, that last one might've been my dad."
Mood effectively ruined.
"That's a discussion for a time when you can see fewer than three of me."
She blinked at him. "There are only two of you. And can you believe I was-" she cleared her throat, declaring dramatically, "cut by my own diorama!" A giggle left her, interrupted by a snort.
"Channeling Britta circa the beginning of the year, lovely. Certainly one of my most favorite times of all."
"Brrritt- Brit- her name is really stupid. And she thought it was funny."
"And that should tell you something."
Annie sat up, shoving her hair out of her face. "I'm gonna name my first kid PUR. Or, or Culligan. Or Sink."
A snicker left him. "Okay, Annie, you're very pleasantly drunk right now. But pretty soon you're going to start to feel like crap. So, why don't you get some sleep while you still feel good?" If she slept, he could work on feeling more like himself and less like a perverted peeping Tom hoping to catch a glimpse of more than just her back and arms and shoulders and... really she wasn't covered up a whole lot.
He was just a pervert.
A pervert who'd already told himself several dozen times over the past 24 hours that he would not take advantage of Annie again. Not one more time. He wouldn't try to kiss her, wouldn't hug her, and wouldn't confuse the hell out of himself and her by not sticking to his own rules.
He'd almost kissed her just to prove he was healthy when he was as sick as a dog. Who did that?
And when he'd seen her lying on the ground, bleeding, looking vulnerable and hurt, and in need of comfort, what had he done? Gone in for a kiss. Again.
How was that comforting?
"M'not tired. I itch." She squirmed around, trying to scratch her back under the bandages and tape, but couldn't quite do it. "And there are bars on the window anyway."
"Ignoring the bit of information adding to a conversation we're no longer having, don't scratch at it." Feeling the exact opposite of attracted to her at that moment-at least, that's what he told himself-he sat beside her and took her hands in his, holding them down. "You'll open your stitches and bleed all over my-"
"Designer blah-blah-blah, yeah." Jerking her hands free, she slumped on the bed, falling against his arm. "Alcohol is amazing. I feel... amaaaaaaaaaazing. Forget drugs. This," she told him, looking up at him from near his shoulder, "this is the good stuff. No pain. No hurt. No feelings except happy ones. No sadness like on Troy's birthday." She sighed and the happiness suddenly deflated. "Except, now there's sadness."
"Hey." He really hoped she wasn't going to turn into a maudlin drunk. "What's to be sad about? You're with an awesome person in your... very purple apartment, which happens to have a poster of a butterfly and some dude who looks like a chick, and you're drunk off your ass." His hand had a life of its own because it was suddenly cupping her cheek and his thumb was stroking her chin, rubbing lightly on her lower lip. Her eyes fluttered shut and she breathed in deeply, contentment bright on her face for a moment before it, too, was gone.
"You make me sad, Jeff Winger. And I hate being sad. I just wanna be happy again." She pulled her legs up and settled against his side. "When can I be happy again?"
Jeff wasn't the type of man whose heart bled for others; he was a lawyer. Despite two years at Greendale-the people, his friends, all of it-despite those things, he was still just Jeff Winger. He made women cry.
So, when his heart started to hurt for Annie, it-
He hung his head.
-didn't surprise him. These people were killing him.
Pressing his cheek against the top of her head, he inhaled deeply, smelling Annie and freshness. His arm curled loosely around her back, not wanting to hurt her and not wanting her to notice the comforting touch. "I'm sorry, Annie. I don't mean to hurt you." This was why he'd decided they were better off as friends. He didn't have many friends, and he wanted to keep the ones he did have.
Women were a dime a dozen for him. Friends were golden.
Scoffing, he stared at the wall across from the bed, burning the purple paint into his mind to keep from sliding down that slope that was looking more and more inviting. Her apartment actually sparkled. It put things into perspective in a way that simple decisions couldn't. Telling himself she was too young wasn't a deterrent for long. Seeing her frilly things and the innocence of those things was.
"Jeff?"
He blinked down at her. "Yeah?"
Her big blue eyes were bright on him. She raised a hand and touched his cheek, sending all of his denials and protestations and excuses out the window. Women didn't touch him tenderly. They didn't stare into his eyes. It was always about sex, never about sweet touches or caresses that made his stomach tighten in a completely wussy way.
"I think I really like you," she whispered and he found his eyes focusing on her lips.
Found himself leaning toward her.
Jerking back, he dropped his arm from her back.
Good, god, could he not kiss her just once? Just one time? Why did he keep allowing himself to take that step forward, to get into her personal space and allow her into his? He shouldn't even want that, let alone allow it.
But it was never about liking.
In his recent Greendale history, he'd had one girlfriend, and that'd ended badly. He'd had Britta, and though they'd stopped sleeping together, that'd been as close to being in a relationship as he'd come since Michelle. He didn't love either of them, because he was pretty sure he was incapable of that, but there was something to be said about liking and respecting the woman he was having sex with.
But with Annie, he sensed there could be more to it than that and it scared the hell out of him.
Having sex with tenderness mixed in... actually sounded like a good thing. It sounded pretty awesome.
And that was dangerous, because Annie was 20 and he was 33, and there just wasn't a happy ending for them.
She slumped against him and he realized she'd fallen asleep. Catching her before she fell off the bed, he picked her up, trying to think of anything other than the fact that he was holding Annie in his arms and carrying her to bed. Think of Chang. Chang in a Speedo. Chang in a Speedo with the anus flag on it.
He shuddered and stooped to lay her down.
She blinked up at him. Lying on her side, still watching him, she smiled such an innocent smile that he felt ashamed for having ever entertained dirty thoughts about her.
His lips curved up in response and words left his mouth without thought, without intention. "I like you, too."
She closed her eyes and settled more comfortably on the pillows. "I know. 'night, Jeff."
It was true, he realized.
He liked Annie Edison. He liked talking to her; arguing, laughing, spending time together. Just... being with her. Though he wanted her so badly sometimes that he was forced to leave the study group last, he wanted more than that. He liked her more than that. A comfortable silence between them beat two hours of conversation with almost anyone else.
If he were truthful with himself-and he usually was, except when it came to Annie-he not only wanted to touch her, hold her, kiss her, and make love to her, but also talk to her and sit companionably beside her. And he wanted the ability to touch her whenever he felt like it. To brush back the strands of hair that fell over her shoulder. To kiss her goodbye or hello. To drag her into his bedroom and-
Shooting to his feet, he stared down at Annie.
She looked so peaceful, while his heart was beating almost painfully hard in his chest.
"I like you, too," he repeated, voice low and husky with the realization that he actually was capable of love.
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5 Clichés That Didn't Lead To A Kiss and 1 That Di