Doof Nugget, an Austin and Ally one-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own Austin and Ally. I've been missing from the fandom for a while now, but this is for my pal "kim crawford," who still believes in me.
There's something about the awkward way her hand dangles there, pinky flitting towards him as if it's trying to grasp something, his hand, the courage.
The courage to hold his hand.
It's all sheathed by a layer of attraction, disguising that somehow flattering shyness as she moves her hand to tuck her hair behind her ears. For the third time in a row.
Either that's a stubborn hair or a stubborn hand. One that really should be interlocking with his. Or at the very least, tapping palms. No, not tapping. Touching. Skin to skin, calloused fingers gliding across the back of the hand.
Gripping until the knuckles are pink with stress, making sure she can't, won't, let go.
He pulls into the parking space, almost forgetting to take his car out of drive. They drift forward a second, and his arm flings out protectively to stop her from falling forward.
Probably should have flung to the gear shift first, huh?
She responds faster.
A car honks and flips him the bird, because accidents apparently never happen. As if he hadn't accidentally lost contact with her. As if he hadn't accidentally fallen back in love the moment he had seen her.
Love? Like. A very, very strong like that tip toes on the border of love and obsession.
Uh, like and love. (And obsession. It's really the latter.)
They'd been tight, and then she'd made the responsible decision and gone to college to get a job that she wasn't going to quit for the sake of touring through fall, and he'd gone on tour, in the fall, and webcams only went so far, and even had they gone farther, there were things he didn't need her eyes seeing. Not when they weren't done to her.
Though it'd be messed up to watch that happen to herself. A bit narcissistic, or like there were more than two sweaty bodies on the hotel mattress. There was a girl that had a thing for mirrors. Made him question the beauty of his shoulders for weeks after.
For the record, he has perfectly sculpted shoulders now, thank you. Ones he'd like to hover over her some time in the not forseeable future. Because he doesn't want her to be one of his groupie flings that dissolves when the city lights fade.
That, and she has a group of rowdy kindergarteners to face in the morning. Dating a gradeschool music teacher sucks.
Good thing he's not doing that. Simply on a not date, eating friendly cheeseburgers and fries, nice greasy food that'll make her hand all the more disgusting to hold. So he won't.
He is going to hold the door, however. And all of his urges to see if he should have gone with the curly fries after all. (Off her mouth, not her plate. He is totally going to steal one off her plate. Or three.)
She giggles and swats his hand away, and when she blinks, he swears her eyelashes sweep across her cheeks like an angel's. At any moment, she'll sprout wings and he will realize he's dead and this is all a mirage.
A beautiful, wonderful mirage. Did the bus catch on fire and he's dead in his heart speckled boxers? Better his heart be on his underpants than his sleeve.
Heck, if she's even casually observant, it's all over his freaking body, because he can't help but smile at the way she ordered extra pickles, and how they're sliding off her burger, because burgers can only hold so many pickles, unlike her appetite.
Another one hits the plate.
Sheepishly she sets her burger down and plucks it off the plate, shaking off the mustard coat it's bathed in. She pops it in her mouth.
He could give her something to pop in her mouth.
Oh God, no God, no. He cannot be having those thoughts about his friend, because as he's already established, half a dozen times before even locking the door to his apartment, she is not a play thing.
But the way she sucked that juice off her thumb.
She notices him looking at her, and he holds eye contact for half a second, redirecting his attention to his burger. The bite overwhelms his jaw. Chew chew, waste all the time.
He swallows, and she is expecting words. He's given her plenty, like hello, and I've missed you, and I am the biggest doof nugget in the galaxy for ever letting you slip from my grasp for these past six months.
Okay, not that last one. He'd never call himself a doof nugget.
Even if he is one. She'd called him such on the phone when he tried to apologize for the fourth time that conversation on how he couldn't wait to see her and rekindle their beautiful friendship.
You already said that, you doof nugget.
Maybe he thought if he said it enough, it'd be true. Honestly there were a few words he would have replaced in that sentence. Something more along the lines about how he wanted to see her, pull her into the most overwhelmingly love stuffed hug the world had ever experienced, and win her over using skills other than those newly shaped shoulders and songs that she'd written for him.
He wanted to learn how to win a girl for keeps. This girl was, is, worth keeping.
For like, ever.
He tells her how pretty she looks as she's shoving a fry in her mouth, and she has to quirk an eyebrow. Timing not right, though the compliment makes her face warm.
Or that fry was just way too hot.
She moves the conversation to something tame, and he is wide eyed, as if he's always had a passion for glorified toddlers chasing each other with clarinets like spears.
It was a pretty great story, he had to admit. Her eyes lit up, in sync with his heart.
The check arrived an hour later, because that's how long it takes to linger over a plate of cold fries when the love of your life, or in this case, he did not hope, the hour, is sitting across from you. She withdrew her wallet from her bag.
He pushed her cash back at her, slipping his card into the waiter's hand. You could treat a girl without it being a date. It's called friendship.
Really, satisfying friendship. That would be more satisfying if he had grabbed her hand once exiting the booth, but his nerves were making his hand perspire, and the door was right there. He needed to hold it open for her.
Her, and that old couple that tried to sneak through, but took their sweet ol' time, because her walker got stuck on the rug in the entry, causing his date to stand in the slow drizzle, waiting for him to unlock the door.
He double tapped his keys and signaled for her to go ahead. She waited, held the second door as the woman's husband unhooked her walker from its hindrance.
The drizzle turned to rain, yet she stood strong.
Stop giving him reasons to love you.
They finally made it to the car, and he checked the time. It was only seven. Only, because he wanted to keep her until the sun came up, until he had to release her to the children. He wasn't ready to go home.
Scrolling through his phone, he checked the times for the theater. She needed to be home by ten, she had said, and the next movie didn't start for an hour fifteen.
The next decent movie. He was not going to some humdrum movie to find an excuse to hold her hand. The one that was dangling there, again, begging his palm to keep it company.
He convinced her to come back to his place, as if she had a say, being held captive in his car. She didn't live too far and could have exited the car and bolted when they parked again.
Could have, didn't have.
That was not proper grammar in the least.
His head was too cloudy to find the right words for it.
He picked a movie he'd seen before, one that she hadn't. It'd been when he was away, and he knew the plot because it had played as background on his dates when the girls swore they were coming over to watch a movie and chill.
Things got pretty hot for wanting to chill with those girls around.
This was not a background noise moment. Well, in a way it was, because he knew there was no way he'd absorb it as he focused all his strength on not holding her hand. And by golly, he survived it, even when her head fell on his shoulder, and he had to tap her sleepy body to ask if she wanted to finish it another night.
Begrudgingly, so it looked to him, she had agreed. So he's happy that he's driving her home, hand still dangling, with a promise of a second date.
Cough, not date.
There is an urge for air quotes that he's going to squash with a series of head bangs on the wall when he gets home. His roommate is going to be so pissed. He needs to get up early for a shoot, and the last thing the director needs is an unsound night of sleep because his buddy can't find the courage to hold a girl's hand.
Hah, a girl.
The girl.
The one that he convinces out on the weekend, to the mall, because he hasn't been there in over a year, and he wants to see how much has changed when everything else in his life has shaken more than towels on tumble dry.
He could use a towel, to wipe the sweat off his palms.
They walk side by side, and her shoulder bumps his arm. She apologizes and scoots a bit to the left. He wants an excuse to move closer, and then, as if the magical fairies above have some sort of telepathy, he finds one. A fan screams their names, a shrill cry, and they need to run.
She of course makes the first move. Grabs his hand in a rush and drags him across the way, picking up the pace. This way they won't lose each other.
That's his thoughts on her thoughts. It's not like she could be struggling with the same emotions that he is, because that lack of communication swung both ways. He didn't call her as much as he should have, sure, but she wasn't leaving any voicemails either.
When they reached their safe haven, he didn't let go of her hand.
She didn't make him.
Palms to palms, he wished he had that stupid towel. That, or slightly less sweaty hands. Preferably that, so she didn't think that he was nervous, because she knew he wasn't out of shape and tired from the run.
He's more than a nice set of shoulders, you know. He respects leg day.
They wander around, still holding hands, until she goes to the bathroom, and she asks him to hold her phone. It'd be so easy to thumb through and see if she's been gushing over him, or if her reciprocity is all in his head.
He chooses not to invade her privacy.
He also chooses to take her hand again after a minute of awkward dangling and (he'll deny this if she asks) intentional banging into. He feels victorious.
And sweaty. Definitely sweaty.
They return to his apartment to finish the movie they'd started. She sits down, bowl of popcorn in the nook of her arm, hand round the bowl. The other is dejectedly sitting on her knee, and it looks welcoming, yet distant. Like he'd have to make it super obvious to hold it.
His hand twitches in his own lap. Slowly it drifts closer to her, waiting for something to happen. Anything.
Anything positive anyhow.
Her hand releases the bowl, still balanced in her side, and falls to the couch. His breathing hastens, and he's too preoccupied remembering how to slow down that he can't pick up on her own cues. The way her hand tilts towards his, without looking as if it has any kind of intention.
(It totally does, in case you're wondering.)
He swipes a kernel to chase his pride with. Swallowing both, the back of his hand makes its way into her palm.
His hand flips over.
His thumb falls next to hers, next to her pointer finger too, right where someone is supposed to grab if he wants to hold her hand. In a flash that feels like an eternity, they're holding hands.
He wants to look over and see if she notices. He wants to see if her heart is beating out of her chest like his is, and he thanks his lucky stars he's not a cartoon character, because it has surpassed beating out of his chest and has sailed across the room to the television, where the movie is still playing.
Her body moves closer, shoulders touching.
For a guy who makes a living on having stage presence and making it look easy, it is really difficult for him to summon his powers at the moment.
He turns to her and she looks at him. This would be the perfect time to kiss her.
"I love this part."
She gives her attention to the screen as he mentally screams at himself for being such an idiot. He gave her every reason to turn away. And now her hand is shifting in his grasp. Man, he royally jacked things up.
He really doesn't love this part.
She scratches her other arm and slips her hand back under his.
No wait, between his. That's where all the fingers are going. He finally mustered up the courage, and his heart is doing double time.
Her hand isn't pulling away. That shoulder is becoming her full arm, and they're so intertwined that the popcorn is going stale with neglect. As if that's going to stop him. He reaches his hand across to take a handful of popcorn.
The less convenient hand on the other side of his body, because he is not letting go of that hand.
Her nose scrunches in momentary confusion, but she seems to shrug it off.
When the credits roll black he knows he has to take her home, because those gosh danged kindergarteners have to practice their scales in the morning, and she has to practice her patience.
Their hands disconnect so she can slip into her booties. Taking the keys from the table, he goes to escort her, hand on the small of her back, to the car. He feigns locking up to take a moment to study his reflection in the mirror, and to wipe his palms on his shorts.
He backs out of his space, and into her lot far quicker than he's pleased with. They linger in the car, and she comments about how she really should retire for the evening, failing to open her unlocked car door.
She's leaning in.
They should do this again. The not date, hand holding, cuddling thing. He likes this.
Her phone buzzes and she dismisses it. The expression on her face changes though, he notes, and she gives him a half hug. Not half hearted, just all she can manage in a cramped car.
It takes too long to let go.
On the third day, or rather day out, because they've been texting through the entirety of the week, even though she knows that he's not waking up until hours after her, and the conversations stretch for days, she drops a bombshell.
It's casual, as if she hasn't been hiding this piece of the puzzle for the length of forever.
She's going on a date tomorrow, with her boyfriend. He works in the cafeteria, and he always gave her an extra pickle with her sandwich until she realized that was his backward way of flirting.
(He had to spell it out for her, and then promptly asked her out.)
All the signals, had they been nothing? The not dates, had they really been just that?
She's driving this time, which is good, because he would have swerved and gotten them killed out of shock. She picks up on this and asks him what's wrong.
He squashes his feelings down and shakes his head, claiming it's nothing.
It's totally something.
She seems tense, like there's something she wants to say something. However, she remains quiet, and it's too quiet. He can hear all of his thoughts. They scream to abort mission. Abort, abort.
He asks how long they've been together.
It's been three months. Two happy, one not, because pickles aside, the conversation only stretches so far, and her boyfriend can't sense her pulling away, because she thinks she may have found hope elsewhere.
Crap, he's doomed.
He asks why she stays with him if she's not happy, and she gives a handful of answers, all vague and somewhat insincere, though he hesitates to think she's doing that on purpose. She's just protecting herself.
It'll work its way out on the piano knowing her.
The rest of the not date he holds her nearby, not close. He can see it hurts her, and he thinks she may be sensing his sullen vibe, especially when she calls him out on it and he denies it, twice. They don't worry about the time, as she drops him off while the sun still shines.
She tells him to call her when he wants to tell her how he really feels. It's a bit out of character, but her frustration radiates so strongly, and she peels away as his feet hit the pavement.
He doesn't call. He drafts texts, deletes them as his thumb struggles to hit the key. She reaches out to him a week later, and he wants to respond. So badly.
If he speaks up, he ruins it. If he stays mute, he ruins it.
Either way, his heart is going to break.
He breaks hers first. He doesn't reply, and when he sees her, a run in at the grocery store, he gives her terse answers before telling her he needs time away from her. He still wants her to write music, but he needs time to sort out things in his head that he tells her have nothing to do with her.
They have everything to do with that cafeteria worker, and how he makes her stifle her potential to be happy. How he could make her be her best her, the one that smiles, and laughs, and holds his hand when he gosh darn feels like it.
Which is quite often, in case that wasn't clear.
The parents of her students catch wind of who she is, that she wrote all the songs they still loop in their car, and sing along to when they think no one is looking while they wait in line to pick up their children in the afternoon. They beg her to let him guest teach.
She pretends that she can't ask him, that the principal has to approve such matters, and he's such a busy man that she'd hate to bother him. He acts delighted by the situation.
A week later, he walks into her classroom.
They blink at each other, as if changing lens, that one of them will be rose colored and everything will be okay. Four blinks and counting.
There is civil interaction, and she makes it through the day, sleeping through lunch to avoid her boyfriend. It's the final red flag he needs to know that their relationship is going downhill.
As if the first hundred weren't plenty.
Her man breaks it off with her, saying she needs to take time to find herself again. That she's been floundering in self pity and that he's sick of seeing her like this. That he needs to be around someone who isn't such a drag.
Excuse her for having anxiety and depression over losing one of her best friends for no apparent reason. Give her a moment to turn off her humanity, will you?
Her head bangs against her desk as a knock comes to the door. She lifts it to see that he's there, and he can see the death daggers that she is sending his way. He points to the clock, and she nods.
The wrinkles of her dress get smoothed out. If only smoothing out the giant wrinkles called her life worked like that.
She takes a pill for migraines. Hopes it will eat the pain away. It concerns him, because that stupid thing in his chest that they call a heart is still beating fast for her.
He wants to take her hand and ask if she is okay. His gaze lingers a beat longer than it's supposed to.
The children scream.
His heart is doing the same as she excuses herself to the bathroom, and comes back eyes redder than when she'd left.
His phone vibrates, and he sees the name on the screen. That smiling face, the one he's been chasing, trying to forget the girl sniffling in the room that has emptied out for the day.
Call ended.
He peers in the doorway, and she is fluttering about, picking up the sheet music scattered, forgotten on the desks. Her eyes come up to connect with his. She holds his stare and looks away.
He dials his phone.
It's too sore to go back.
He gets a surprise visit from her best friend, which shouldn't come as much of a surprise, because she is dating his best friend, who knows where he lives, because he was his roommate until he moved out to get engaged. (Ugh, how dare people have successful love lives.) She punches the door, walks in on him in boxers and a guitar.
He's plucking sad songs, ones that match his sad heart. He has a pretty girl chasing him. He should be happy.
But it's not the right pretty girl.
There are words said that make him question if he needs to get his hearing tested, and she repeats them twice, at increasing volumes as if it'll better penetrate that thick skull of his.
She likes you back, you twit.
Correction, he's a doof nugget. Get it right.
He breathes, way too many deep breaths to calm down, and he feels light headed. He needs to sit down. Wait, he is sitting down.
He needs to stand up. He needs to find her, chase her.
The heart and legs are in an argument with each other.
The legs win.
Their eyes connect again that next week, and his heart must have learned to negotiate, because his legs are taking orders, walking closer to her. He stops in front of her desk, and his phone vibrates again.
It's that girl. The not girl. Reject.
"Hi."
"Hey."
The phone buzzes again, and he tears away to reply as the kids filter in.
And when he's sitting on his couch with that girl, and her hand starts to glide towards his, he sticks his hand in the popcorn. Then propped under his head, where she can't yank it away.
She, confident in her ability to pick up on social cues, asks if she did something wrong. If he's not looking for a fun fling like she is, because she's only twenty two, and not ready for something steady.
He tells her he wants something secure. He's old enough to settle down.
She's not willing to budge.
He's not asking her to. (He won't confess this, but it seems like a way to dismiss the interruption in his endgame storyline playing out in his head.)
Being single again sucks.
He arrives early to the next session, and taps her on the shoulder, startling her. It's the first physical contact they've had in a while, and his body tingles at the familiar sensation.
"Sorry."
"It's fine." She picks up the dropped chalk and erases her jagged line.
He takes the chalk from her hand and spins her around.
"No, Ally. I'm sorry." He looks her dead in the eyes, refusing to break until he has to, because if he doesn't hug her, try to squeeze out the pain, he won't make it through the lesson.
His hand rubs her side, pulling away, and she looks at him with cold eyes. He hurt her, badly. Withdrew his heart, without explanation.
Fingers interlock with hers.
"Are you free tonight?"
And for the first time in weeks, his heart lightens.
Because she says yes.
It lightens when she smiles at him and lets it linger. It lightens when she doesn't let her hand just dangle next to his and she scoops up his hand, tightly clasped in her grasp.
It lightens when she kisses him goodnight.
And more when she kisses him good morning.
And good night again.
And again.