It happens like this: she brings him coffee. And it's not a thing, because she brings coffee for the whole study group, but she hands him a cup and her eyes flit over him with a smile, a slightly preoccupied smile, and it's the same smile she gives Troy and Shirley and everyone else, and he doesn't like it.
It happens like this: Annie throws Jeff a smile over a coffee cup, and he considers falling at her feet and begging for her mercy, because all his protective layers have suddenly fled, vanished in an instant, and here he is. Just him. And here's the thing: the layers are him, the layer make him. Just him, just what's inside, has never done anyone much good.
Britta is talking about her cat and Britta is getting the real Annie smile, so he says, "Should we get on with studying?" and it's a test and Annie holds up her hand and says "One minute," and she doesn't even glance at him, and she's passed the test but not in a good way.
Well, not for him. Good for her, though. Good for her. Right? Right. So, he gets through the day and he goes home, and he works out, and he eats a three hundred calorie salad for dinner, and he stares at the phone. Because he's been off all day, and when he's like that she'll call, and she'll say, "I just wanted to make sure everything's okay," and he says, "What could possibly be wrong with me?" and he can hear her roll her eyes over the phone and she has this laugh, something between a chuckle and a giggle, and he likes to hear it, no idea why, it's just nice. Sometimes she says, "Would you like me to drop by?" and he thinks, sure, why not, yes, please, God, please, but he says, "Jeff Winger needs no man, Annie. Jeff Winger is an island." Then she laughs at him, and sometimes she says, "You should get a dog for company," or "Fine, wanna watch Criminal Minds together on the phone? It freaks me out," but the last time she said, "You'll never change, Jeff," and there was fondness there, sure, but also resignation and maybe realization, and he tried not to think about it because he didn't want to think about it, so he didn't think about it, because he is so good at not thinking about things.
Anyway, she doesn't call.
He does this thing sometimes, where he drinks bottle after bottle of water, drinks and drinks until he feels sick. It feels terrible and nice, like everything.
He calls her because why not.
She says, "Jeff? It's four in the morning. It's Saturday," and her voice is scratchy with sleep and he laughs silently to hear it because it's a new thing about her, her voice in the middle of the night, and she told him that she switches her cell phone to silent at night, except for family, and she answered, and it's the middle of the night.
"Jeff? I can hear you breathing."
He doesn't say anything because what is there to say?
"Have you been drinking?" she asks.
"Just water," he says, "just some water."
"Water," she says.
"Just water."
He can hear her sitting up in her bed, so he can close his eyes and think of her in her bed. He wonders what she's wearing. "What are you wearing?"
She doesn't laugh. "Sweats."
"Annie..."
"I'm awfully tired," she says, and yeah, maybe he's not the most astute, but even he can read the subtext there.
"I know," he says, "I know."
She sighs. "Do you want a bagel?"
He says, "I want to watch you eat a bagel," and he thinks it might mean something close to I love you or you're a person I need in my life or I like your shiny hair.
She says, "Then bring me a bagel."
He brings a dozen. But when he opens the door (left unlocked for him, he supposes) to Annie and Troy and Abed's apartment, the only light comes from the flickering of the television. And Annie is curled up in an impossibly small ball in Abed's armchair.
He tries to sit quietly in the chair next to her, but she must hear him because she sits bolt upright and gasps out loud.
"It's me," says Jeff, "relax, it's just me."
"Pierce does this," she says, abruptly.
"Does what?"
"Calls me in the middle of the night when he wants attention. I make him bring food, too."
Jeff feels something unpleasant bubble up in his stomach. He watches Annie shove a lock of hair (still shiny) out of her face and she rubs her eyes with the back of her hand and she yawns widely and it's all too much, it's too much.
"You look panicked," she says.
He nods.
"Okay," she says, "all right. Come with me." She leads him by the hand to her bedroom. "Stand still." She unbuttons his shirt, slowly, and she's looking up at him with wide eyes and a small smile.
"Annie..." he says.
She grins. "Calm down. The shirt is coming off but the pants stay on. You're tired."
"I am tired," he says, because yeah, he hasn't clocked much sleep lately but it's never really registered because it happens so often.
"I know," Annie says, and climbs into bed. She holds up the covers and gestures for him to follow. So he does.
He can hear her breathing next to him.
"Jeff?"
He turns to face her and she scoots closer, so their heads are resting on the same pillow and he can feel her breath on his face. "Yeah?"
"You don't have to stay awake all night just because you're tired. You don't have to fight everything."
He nods and it brings his face infinitesimally closer to hers, and nothing has really changed, not really, but everything feels different. He reaches to grip her hip under the covers and he thinks he'll say I love you or I like you or thank you but before he can say anything, she giggles. She wiggles closer and wraps his arm around her body. "Pierce also likes to cuddle when he's sad," she says into his chest, and yeah, this is friends-sleeping-in-the-same-bed and yeah, she does this all the time, apparently. He wonders if Abed likes to cuddle.
"Good night, Jeff," she murmurs, and he can feel her eyelids flutter against his chest and he opens his mouth but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything at all.