Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Spoilers: Up through S5
Author's Note at end
It doesn't mean anything.
It doesn't really mean anything.
That's what he tells himself as they bolt from the basement bunker to save Greendale.
It doesn't necessarily mean anything.
However harmless and sympathetic Borchert might be, he's still a crackpot, driven mad by years in isolation with nothing but his hand and that damn computer to keep him company. Who's to say if honestly knows how the damn thing works or what exactly it responds to - and even if he does, even if he's right about human passion being the electricity that fuels the computer, that doesn't mean that's what happened this time. It was probably just a coincidence – Jeff just happened to be looking at Annie, thinking about Annie, when there was a fluky power surge that wound up pushing through whatever juice was left in the system to open the door.
That makes just as much sense as any passion he might feel for one of his best friends being strong enough to power a damn computer.
Because that's the kind of the thing that only happens in stupid, cookie-cutter romantic comedies starring Reese Witherspoon or Kate Hudson that have absolutely no basis in reality.
So when they're dancing around the crowded cafeteria to celebrate their victory later, he writes off his racing heart, the hitch in his chest when he breathes out, and sweaty palms whenever he looks Annie's way as nothing more than residual adrenaline from the day, from the threat of almost losing this crazy place that's become home.
Near the end of the evening, though, he finds himself face to face with her as she sways to some lame song from the 80s he doesn't remember the name of (he can't stop himself from contemplating the fact that she wasn't even alive when this song came out, though he pushes the thought as far down in his racing mind as possible) and he can't come up with a single thing to say. It's the first moment they've had alone in over a day, since Greendale nearly became part of the Subway corporation, since he announced his engagement to Britta like it was actually good news. Annie tilts her head, smiling in a way that's some strange combination of shy and sly.
"I want to say I knew things would work out," she tells him. "But I started to panic there for a minute."
"You hid it very well," he says. "Because you seemed nothing but totally determined to save this place. Like you didn't think any other outcome was possible."
She shrugs, and he tries like hell to ignore the flush in her cheeks and along her collar bone.
"I put on a brave face but…" She sighs, shaking her head. "I'm just glad it all turned out the way it did."
He lifts his shoulders and struggles for a somewhat convincing smile.
"What's not to like about a happy ending, right?"
She starts to nod, but glances back over a shoulder for a moment to where Britta is dancing with Abed and Shirley. He's pretty sure that Annie wants to ask about all of that, but she's not going to – and he's definitely not about to bring it up himself.
"Yes," she declares, her voice going a little high and breathy. "Happy, happy, happy!"
She pumps her fist in the air a little awkwardly, and he wonders how long it's going to take for things to get back to normal between them.
But that's something to worry about for another day – he's got an entire summer to forget what happened with Britta, forget the way that Annie looked at him in that basement as she did her best to give him her blessing, forget how Borchert's computer reacted when he let his thoughts wander free.
And if there's one thing that Jeff Winger's gotten pretty good at over the course of his life, it's blocking out anything even vaguely uncomfortable, upsetting, or difficult to deal with.
Annie spins in front of him, her skirt twirling around her, and he has to look away.
A month into summer vacation, he's descended into the kind of selfish, indulgent laziness that marked his former life as a lawyer.
That's one point he definitely has to concede to this whole teaching thing – three months off in the summer, a month off at the holidays, and week off in spring. Plenty of vacation time to cultivate his self-centered slacker existence.
He doesn't set his alarm so he wakes up whenever he feels like it, goes for runs through the park or a training session at the gym, lounges on his building's rooftop patio in the afternoon to get a little sun, and spends a couple of hours on the couch watching Judge Judy and Dr. Oz or playing Candy Crush on his phone. Some nights, he stays in, eating low-carb dinners of grilled chicken and faux rice made from grated cauliflower. Other nights, he goes to one of the bars he likes and has a few of drinks.
Most of the time, he goes home alone, but there are a couple of nights where he's feeling a little too lonely and a little too edgy and he winds up tangled in some stranger's sheets. He doesn't have work, so it doesn't matter if he's hung over or exhausted from sneaking out of a nameless (Well, not nameless exactly – they have names, but they don't matter so he doesn't remember them) woman's apartment in the morning.
Most importantly, though, he isn't thinking about Annie.
He's absolutely not thinking about what he might feel for her and he's certainly not wondering what she's up to and he's definitely not remembering the look on her face as she stood across from him in Borchert's lab and essentially told him his happiness mattered to her in a way that it hasn't mattered to anyone in a long time.
So he ignores the fact that the two women he's slept with since school ended both have dark hair and a smart, little grin that might be vaguely familiar because, if anything, it's pure coincidence. God knows he's gone through phases before – all blondes for a month, nothing but redheads for another, and that inexplicable period where he had a thing for girls with braids – and they never meant anything in the grand scheme of his life before.
And anyway, the important thing is that he's not thinking of Annie – actually, he barely thinks of his friends at all, and that's a vacation all in itself.
Until the first week of June when Shirley calls while he's in the middle of a Law and Order: SVU rerun.
He knows immediately from the sound of her voice that something's wrong, even as she makes small talk about the beautiful weather they've been having and what a relief it was to see Abed post a photo of that postcard from Troy on Instagram so they don't need to worry about him as much anymore, so he's not entirely surprised when she tells him that she and Andre have legally separated – again.
"I don't know what's going to happen," she says. "That's in God's hands… but I can't bury my head in the sand and pretend it's just temporary anymore."
"You guys worked it out before," he reminds her. "You can do it again."
He's not sure he really believes what he's saying because part of him can see Andre and Shirley's future clear as day and it's nothing but a bleak cycle of coming together and pulling apart, over and over again. Shirley sighs raggedly, so maybe she sees it too.
"That's not… I didn't call for sympathy or a pep talk, Jeff. As part of the separation agreement, we have to sell the house and I'm here all by myself so I'm stuck cleaning it out and moving stuff into storage."
He manages to hold back a groan, frantically trying to come up with an excuse as to why he can't be a decent friend and help transport the contents of her life into a dingy, old storage unit. Shirley beats him to the punch, though.
"I know better than to ask for your help moving the stuff," she says. "But there are a ton of boxes and things in the basement I need to go through. Do you think you could stop by tomorrow and bring them into the garage for me? You're always bragging about how much you can bench-press – why not put it to use for a good cause?"
She promises that it won't take more than a couple of hours and she'll take him to dinner afterward as a thank you, so he can't really say no in good conscience.
He's ready to kick himself the next afternoon, though, when he strolls into Shirley's living room and finds Annie sitting on the couch, sorting through a plastic bin full of what looks like finger paintings and construction paper-cutouts of pumpkins and turkeys. She's wearing a teal tank top, cutoff shorts with frayed edges that lie tantalizingly against the creamy skin of her thighs, and sparkly black flip flops that show off the bright berry nail polish on her toes. There's also a label maker balanced precariously on her knee, which nearly slides to the floor when she shifts back against the cushions to look up at him.
It's only been a month since he last saw her, but somehow, he's forgotten how wide and bright her eyes are, how she smiles and something in the air around her crackles with heat.
"She roped you into helping too?" he teases.
Shirley clucks disapprovingly as she heads toward the basement door, but Annie just shrugs.
"I offered, actually." Her grin is teasing and self-satisfied. "That's the difference between you and me. I don't need to be guilted into being a good friend."
"I showed up, didn't I? That's gotta count for something."
Annie raises a dubious brow, but Shirley breezes back into the room and pats him on the arm.
"It counts for a lot, Jeff. Now if we could just stop with the chit chat and get to work…"
He throws his head back and lets out a heavy sigh, mostly for Annie's benefit – and she does just what he wants too - rolls her eyes with a kind of amused exasperation that makes him grin.
Down in the basement, there actually aren't too many boxes to move and he's thinking that Shirley overestimated needing two hours to get the job done – until he makes it to the garage and realizes that she expects him to take down a bunch of the boxes from the rafters and move an armoire that's heavy enough to be made of mahogany too. He tries not to think too much about the contents of the boxes that he's moving – the baby clothes and photo albums and what he thinks might be a wedding dress – because they only remind of what he's doing, moving all the things that make Shirley's life most precious to her for storage, which makes even a cold-hearted son of a bitch like him feel a little down.
So he doesn't think about it.
He moves the boxes and plastic bins with grim determination, slams his shoulder against the heavy wood furniture to move it one slow inch at a time across the dirty concrete floor, trying to avoid the spider webs, dust and grease that lurk around every corner.
Nearly an hour later, though, his t-shirt is still stained and damp with sweat. He opened the garage door before he started to get the air to circulate a little, but it's still hot and stale inside, almost oppressive really. He's using the bottom of his shirt to wipe at his face when he hears the screen door from the kitchen bang open and when he drops the fabric and looks up, Annie's wandering into the garage, looking as fresh as a damn daisy. She holds a bottle of water out to him wordlessly and leans back against an old workbench to watch as he nearly drains the entire thing in a single gulp.
"Shirley wanted me to bring you lemonade," she says. "But I knew all that unnecessary sugar wouldn't fly with you."
He huffs out a low laugh and shakes his head, but doesn't bother to deny it. She glances around the garage, at the boxes neatly piled for the moving company to take over to the storage unit tomorrow, and his eyes follow hers to the small box on top with a pile of worn blankets stacked inside. They're probably the boys' baby blankets, the quilts that Shirley wrapped them in their first nights home from the hospital, used to soothe them when they were sick or had a bad dream.
Annie cocks her head and sighs wearily.
"I feel so awful for Shirley," she practically whispers. "This must be so hard for her."
He nods, kicking at a crack in the concrete floor.
"Why are we the only ones here helping her out?" he asks. "She could probably use as many friends as she can get right now."
It's a little bit ridiculous, he knows - Jeff Winger talking about friendship and loyalty. But seriously, Shirley's friends should at least make an appearance and let her know she's not alone.
"Abed's in Denver at some screenwriting conference," Annie says. "He won't be back until Monday. And Britta… well, you know."
He squints at her and frowns.
"I know what?"
"She's in New Mexico." She hesitates when she realizes that it's news to him. "She's spending the summer building houses for Habitat for Humanity or some organization like that. I figured you knew…"
He knows Annie is well aware that he and Britta called off the whole engagement thing – Abed was eager to spread that news – but she must think that there's still something going on there. And he shouldn't feel guilty that she does, he shouldn't feel like an asshole, but he kind of does – and he hates that.
"No," he mutters. "I didn't know."
Annie bobs her head, trying hard to play it cool, and he watches as she picks up a wrench from the workbench beside her and idly turns it in her hands.
"I guess we all don't stay in touch that much during the summer, do we?"
He shrugs, because he doesn't really want to answer the question, to explain to her how important it is to him to get some space every once in a while and remind himself that he can live just fine all on his own.
"Maybe we can do something next week," she says, in a bright, cheerful voice that makes it a little too easy to imagine her as a cheerleader. "A movie or something."
He looks up at her, with her deep, glittering eyes and eager smile, and he feels his chest seize again, with that same panic and thrill that he felt in Borchert's basement. He turns in a hurry, pretending to fiddle with a box at his feet.
"Maybe," is all he says.
He doesn't see her again for almost three weeks.
In the meantime, she emails him the link to an article on the possible health risks associated with a long-term high-protein diet and texts to say that she thinks that they should do something to cheer up Shirley – which sets off a long chain of texts with Annie explaining that they shouldn't be obvious about it or Shirley might think they're pitying her and Jeff arguing that that's essentially what's going on and Annie quibbling over the true definition of pity and Abed chiming in that a trip to Elitch Gardens would definitely raise Shirley's spirits and Annie chastising him for using Shirley's situation just for a chance to ride some stupid new roller coaster and Jeff finally, desperately, suggesting dinner to put an end to whole thing.
So he winds up at Chili's on a random Tuesday night with Annie, Abed and Shirley, eating fajitas and keeping the conversation to safe, neutral topics that won't clue Shirley into the fact that this isn't just a friendly dinner for catching up.
Fortunately, Annie's willing to do most of the heavy lifting conversation-wise. She's working at her old pharmaceutical company for the summer, so she's full of stories about her co-workers and the unethical things that are done to get doctors to push certain drugs. The lighting is dim in the restaurant, but there's no mistaking the glow in her eyes as she speaks, that spark of something that he doesn't think he's ever seen in anyone else.
"And my boss keeps trying to talk me into coming back full-time," she says, stirring a straw through her margarita. "He's even talking about a 15% raise, which is … well, considering my financial situation, it's pretty tempting."
Jeff frowns down into his black beans, but Shirley's the one who actually huffs in disappointment.
"You're not really thinking about doing it, are you?"
Annie lifts her shoulders, smiling tightly.
"I don't know. Not really. It's just … I'm trying to figure out if I'm wasting my time. You know, getting my forensics degree. Maybe it's just a silly, little dream and I should just be out there, making money and …"
She trails off, and Jeff tries to ignore the tight feeling in his gut that has nothing to do with the spicy salsa he's eating. He remembers the year they spent mostly apart, how easy it was to drift out of each other's lives, and wonders if that's what they're all destined for no matter how much they might want to pretend otherwise.
"Why is it a silly dream?" Abed asks. "Doing something you're actually interested in isn't silly. Besides, you just helped save Greendale a couple of months ago. I don't think your story is done there just yet."
Annie nods absently, staring down into the bottom of her glass, and Jeff thinks of all the times that he's pushed her away or ran away from her, how everything in his life seems a little off center when he doesn't see her nearly every day, without her know-it-all voice in his ear and her bright, indigo eyes watching over him. She drives him crazy on the regular, but he even likes that most of the time, the way she can unravel him with just a word or a frown or a haughty, little flip of her hair.
He feels something slide across his shin then and he realizes that it's the tip of her foot. He looks up in surprise, and she's watching him with an expression that's something between concerned and amused.
"Are you okay, Jeff?"
For a moment, he honestly doesn't know how to answer.
"Oh," he finally manages. "Yeah. Fine. Just a little tired."
Her eyes scan his face, trying to determine if he's telling the truth. But he must actually look a little weary because she smiles after a moment and nods. He pushes the beans around on his plate with a fork and wonders how much longer he has to stay.
It's maybe a week later when she texts and asks if he's free the next afternoon at one.
It's simple and to the point, but he reads over the message at least fifteen times, trying to parse the deeper meaning behind it. His first instinct is to say he's busy – he's felt uncomfortable every time he's seen her since the whole thing with Borchert's computer and he doesn't like it, doesn't like feeling like he's teetering on the edge of something unknowable and uncontrollable. There's probably a perfectly innocent reason that she wants to see him, like a powwow about something annoying Abed's done or whether they should plan a party for when Britta gets back from her do-gooding trip, but that doesn't make him feel any better. He should just claim a doctor's appointment or a visit with his mom, something that even Annie couldn't fault him for.
But then, he thinks, reading over the text for what has to be the twenty-first time, maybe it's better to see her.
Maybe the only way to get rid of whatever residual weirdness there is from the whole computer thing is to spend time with her, to get back to the solid footing that they were on just the day before they met Borchert.
So he tells her that he doesn't have anything too pressing to do and waits for her response.
Not that he needs to see her or anything; it's not that. He can admit that maybe he wants to see her, but there's nothing wrong with that – she's his friend so it only makes sense.
Annie responds less than a minute later with Great! and he smiles almost in spite of himself.
Until a second text comes through.
Abed had to bring his laptop to Geek Squad to fix some problem with the hard drive. It's going to be ready tomorrow afternoon but I can't take him because I'm working. You'll take him?
He wants to believe it's just annoyance that he's feeling, but there's something dark and edgy to the twisting in his stomach. He's good and stuck now, though, because he's already told her that he's free and it's nearly impossible to weasel his way out of things with her anyway.
Still, he texts back Why didn't he ask me? for no good reason, and all she sends back is a winking emojii.
He doesn't know what the fuck to make of that.
And it is annoyance, plain and simple, that he feels when he spends most of the night trying to figure it out.
The next afternoon, he distracts himself by looking at Best Buy's cell phone offerings while Abed deals with the guy from Geek Squad. He should just wait until the next version of the iPhone comes out, but he's tempted to pick out something now, because he wants something new to play with. Abed strolls up with his reclaimed laptop before Jeff can connect with a salesman, though, so he figures it's not meant to be.
"All set?"
Abed nods.
"I maxed out a credit card to pay for it, but they were able to retrieve all my files so …"
"Need me to chauffer you anywhere else?" Jeff asks, trying not to sound too sarcastic.
"Nope." Abed pauses, cocking his head. "And I appreciate the ride. I know there's tons of other stuff you'd rather be doing."
Jeff doesn't bother disagreeing as they head out of the store. His friends know him; they know exactly who he is, so there's no point in pretending. It's kind of a liberating feeling when he thinks about, considering he used so much energy faking out everyone in his former life.
"I'm not going to ask," Abed says, just as they reach the car. "I've decided I'm not going to ask. I thought you should know."
Jeff looks at him blankly, thumbing open the locks.
"Huh?"
"Borchert's lab," Abed says. "What you did to get the computer up and running."
It's easy to avoid Abed's eyes by fiddling with the seatbelt and rearview mirror, so Jeff manages not to react in any obvious way.
"I've thought about it," Abed continues. "And I've been wanting to ask, but I'm thinking that it's probably something you want to deal with privately. And really, that's probably the best way for the whole thing to play out. On your timetable."
Jeff exhales a little sharply, but he'd like to think the sound of the engine coming to life as he starts the car hides it well.
"I don't… it's not… Abed, it was just a fluke." He shrugs, hands clutching the steering wheel tightly. "A last bit of juice through the system that just happened to coincide with me putting that stupid headset on. That's all."
There are still some days when he can honestly believe that, when he tells himself that's the most logical explanation. But it's getting harder and harder to cling to that idea – every time he sees Annie, it's like some wall inside him is being knocked down brick by brick and he can't restack them fast enough.
"So why did you ask us to turn around?" Abed asks, in that accusation-less tone that only he can manage. "You expected something to happen, Jeff. That's why you did it. You suspected there was something you felt passionately enough about to reboot the system."
Jeff pulls out of the parking lot, clenching his teeth and gripping the wheel with white knuckles.
"Or maybe it's the opposite." Abed nods to himself, like he's just come to an unexpected but satisfying conclusion. "Maybe you wanted to prove to yourself that you didn't feel that kind of passion about something… but you miscalculated."
At a stop light, Jeff turns to him with a frown.
"You said you weren't going to ask about it. Talking about it is pretty much the same thing."
Abed nods.
"You're right. Forget it."
Jeff steers the car like it's his mission in life, forcibly blocking out any thoughts beyond speed limits and traffic lights. He turns the radio on too, so they're not sitting in the kind of uncomfortable silence that makes people blurt out things that they shouldn't. Abed bobs his head along to whatever pop song is playing, as carefree as always – and Jeff kind of wants to punch him in the damn face.
"Annie's not taking that job with her old company," he offers suddenly, and Jeff's foot slips on the gas pedal just a bit, the car stuttering along the road for a moment. "Her boss made one last ditch effort to convince her, but she didn't go for it. She's thinking about taking a part-time position that'll work around her classes, though."
Jeff nods because he knows he has to have some kind of reaction - he feels Abed studying him from the passenger seat, but he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the road.
"I think that's a good thing," Abed says. "Her staying at Greendale and finishing up her forensics degree. It's what she really wants, it's what would make her happy, and it would be disappointing if she gave up on it just because it's not the easiest path."
There's familiar scenery blurring past just outside the car window, but Jeff isn't sure he'd be able to name the street that they're on right now. He wants to tell Abed to shut up, though then he'd have to explain why. He adjusts the air vents on either side of him so more of the cool air blows directly in his face.
"Besides," Abed muses. "Her story would be pretty boring if she resigned herself to a life as a pharmaceutical rep. And Annie's always had major potential as a complex but root-able heroine."
Jeff eases the car to a stop at another light and looks over at his friend. Abed stares at him almost expectantly.
"Don't you think?"
Jeff's voice is low, but he murmurs his agreement. Abed nods once, like it wasn't open to much debate anyway, and then starts yammering on about how he's already bought his ticket for the Guardians of the Galaxy movie next week and his hopes for it are sky-high, so Jeff can sort of tune him out. He keeps his hands tight on the wheel and drives.
He isn't bored with his summer vacation – the mere idea is ridiculous – but he's getting sick of staring at the same four walls of his apartment all day, so when he's been to the mall a few more times than his credit card can probably handle and he's pumped all of the iron at his gym a few dozen times over, he finds himself in his office at Greendale.
The fall semester doesn't start for another three weeks, but he figures that it's a good time to get the place ready. Hickey's taken a job at a school in New York to be closer to his family there, so Jeff's going to have the entire place to himself – there are a few perks to being the Dean's very favorite person – so he figures it's time to make himself more at home.
Mainly that involves stocking his desk with a box of protein bars, a few tins of Altoids, a bottle of scotch, a couple of spare pairs of sunglasses, and an extra charger for his phone – in other words, the essentials – so it only takes a few minutes, and then he's able to kick back, prop his feet up on his desk, and smoke one of the Cuban cigars Hickey so graciously left behind.
There's nothing so bad about his life, he tells himself.
So he's got a crappy job at a crappy school that barely pays him enough to cover rent and his designer jeans budget – that just means there's little pressure involved and he can coast along, nice and easy, without having to worry about really proving himself.
And he's still relatively young and been blessed with the kind of good looks that guys even half his age would envy.
Nothing to complain about, obviously.
There's a firm little knock against his open office door then, and he lazily turns his head to find Annie standing on the threshold. Her hair's in a ponytail and she's wearing some little yellow sundress with sunglasses hooked in the neckline to tug it down a little more than he can handle. He grips the armrest of his chair a little tighter and tries to sit up straight.
"Cigars are just as bad for you as cigarettes, you know," she says.
He grins around the cigar in question.
"I smoke like two a year so I think I'll risk it." He watches as she shakes her head disapprovingly and steps into his office. "What're you doing here?"
He tries not to sound panicky or accusatory or anything but casual and disinterested.
"I had a meeting with the Dean. He somehow managed to find a little over $4000 in scholarships for me, which is really going to help ease the whole financial burden of only being able to work part-time."
"That's the least he could do. Considering how much you've done for this place."
She shrugs, studying the floor, but Jeff doesn't miss the pleased flush that colors her cheeks.
"Anyway… I saw that your door was open so I thought I'd say hi."
"Just getting things ready for the new semester," he says.
She cocks her head, pinning him with her bright eyes and smart smile.
"Making sure you have enough scotch in your desk you mean?"
He smirks back at her.
"You'll be grateful I did the first time something at this circus masquerading as a community college drives you to drink. Which I predict will be no later than hour three of the first day of the semester."
She shakes her head but doesn't bother to disagree. He watches as she glances around the room, her eyes lingering on Hickey's abandoned desk.
"Well, you must be happy," she says. "Having this place all to yourself. It must be just like your old office at the law firm back in the day."
"Oh, yeah, right," he laughs. "Just like it. You know, except the part with my chair missing a wheel, the windows being painted shut, and the unmistakable scent of stale meatloaf and taco surprise lingering in the air."
She smiles, in a small, almost secret way that somehow makes the room seem smaller and warmer.
"That's Jeff Winger. Always looking on the bright side."
She's only teasing, but he looks away anyway, smashing the end of his cigar into the dirty coffee mug he's using as an ash tray. He hates how hard it is to look her in the eye these days, how he feels himself crumbling under the weight of something he still doesn't understand, that he doesn't really want to understand.
"I should go," Annie says, her voice going a little high as she gestures back toward the hall – and he wonders if she feels the strange tension lingering in the air between them now, if she can sense that things are different somehow. "You know, let you get back to prepping for the semester."
He smiles tightly and gives her a halfhearted wave as she turns for the hallway, but he goes back to contemplating the ashes in his coffee cup almost immediately so he doesn't have to watch her go.
Fuck.
It means something.
Jumpstarting Borchert's computer probably means something because Annie is the only woman he's ever know who makes him feel like this.
It definitely means something.
He thinks about the bottle of scotch, temptingly full, in the bottom drawer of his desk, and curses the day he ever set foot on the campus of this poor excuse for a community college.
It might have something to do with his age – which he really doesn't like admitting, but if it's only to himself, then it doesn't really count - but sometimes, it's actually better to drink with a buddy than some nameless woman in a tight dress who's always twirling a strand of dyed hair around her finger and never laughs at the right times.
Sometimes, it's even preferable to drinking alone in the corner of a dark bar or on his sofa with the TV playing soundlessly in front of him.
So when Duncan calls and suggests a pub crawl of sorts on a dull Wednesday night, Jeff sees no reason not to go.
The plan is to hit three or four of Duncan's favorite watering holes, but they sprawl out so comfortably in a booth at the first place that they reach an unspoken agreement to stay put – particularly when they start commiserating about Greendale in a way that they couldn't have a couple of years ago because back then, Jeff wasn't stuck teaching there too. It's not just about paycheck delays and a Dean who spends more time planning sequined costume changes than actually administrating the school either – those are actually small details that are easy to laugh about with enough free-flowing alcohol.
It's about something deeper than that, a kind of failure that Jeff doesn't even think he can fully articulate, that he could never explain to someone who doesn't know the same feeling.
"But there are benefits," Duncan insists, tapping his nearly empty glass against the sticky tabletop. "We could show up there tomorrow, completely hung over, and it's not just that no one would be shocked. They wouldn't even blink. Because it's just par for the course at that place."
Jeff nods, watching the amber liquid in his glass reflect the light as he swirls it around.
"And we probably need to be honest with ourselves," Duncan slurs. "I mean, we're sitting here whinging about the place like whiny little kids when we actually helped save it. You even more so than me, Jeff. Because if we really hated Greendale so much, why didn't we just tell Pelton and that whole bloody committee to get stuffed?"
It's pretty dark in the bar, but Jeff can see the manic gleam in his friend's eyes, a look that says he's not going to let this topic drop without a fight.
"What's your point?" Jeff asks a little testily.
"*My point*," Duncan declares, waving his glass through the air. "My point is that maybe it's something else that's got us feeling so gutted. Something we're missing somewhere else and it's easier to just blame Greendale."
Jeff slumps a little further down in the booth, the cracked vinyl creaking beneath him, and drains his glass. He thinks about his old life, with its plush corner office, five star expense account lunches, and $25,000 year-end bonuses – he was always so certain he was happy back then, that he wanted for nothing. But there were nights like this then too, if he's honest. They were really easy to write off as a bad day, though, just bumps in an otherwise easy road.
He signals the bartender for another round and shrugs.
"This conversation's getting a little too deep for me. Or maybe I'm not drunk enough for it. One or the other."
Duncan isn't paying him much attention, though. He's staring off at the bar, head cocked thoughtfully, so Jeff lazily turns to see what's got him so interested – but there isn't much to look at. Just a middle-aged couple at the bar, in a suit and cocktail dress like they've come from some place nicer than this dump. He can hear them laughing, playfully arguing over who's going to call the babysitter and tell her they're running late but Duncan's watching them like they're the best show in town.
"I'm getting old," he says mournfully. "I must be getting old because these days, I think that's what I want." He gestures toward the couple with his glass, splashing a few drops of scotch on the table. "Not some hot little dish to take home for the night. Someone to go home with every night. Someone who notices if you don't come home at all. Someone who actually cares if you come home… doesn't that sound appealing?"
Jeff chuckles, but the sound seems strangled and strained even to his own ears.
"Not really, buddy."
Duncan's eyes cut back to him, brows raised skeptically over his glasses.
"Do I need to remind you that you were going to marry Britta not that long ago? I imagine there had to be something appealing about the prospect."
"No," Jeff laughs again, a little more naturally this time. "Not really. That was just …"
He trails off, not sure how to finish the thought.
"Insanity?" Duncan helpfully supplies.
Jeff smiles, nodding slowly.
"Yeah. Something like that."
Duncan looks back at the couple, who are now settling their tab and heading for the door.
"Well, I'm man enough to admit it appeals to me," he says. "Because I'm just so tired of the rest of it. I'm so damn tired."
He reaches for his fresh glass blindly, but doesn't spill so much as a drop.
"Doesn't the person matter?" Jeff hears himself asking, and it's like an out of body experience because he honestly isn't aware of the thought slinking through his head until the words are falling from his mouth. "The one you're going home to every night? The person who notices if you don't come home? I mean, it couldn't be just anyone …"
"Well, duh, man." Duncan smirks at him. "Coming home to Anita the lunch lady with the lazy eye and surly attitude certainly wouldn't hold the same appeal as going home … to Britta, for instance. Or Miss Edison. Or Shirley. Or…"
He proceeds to name every remotely attractive woman on Greendale's campus, so Jeff tilts his glass on its edge and stares down into the scotch as he tunes his friend out. His head feels heavy, like he can't possibly keep it upright with all the renegade thoughts ricocheting through it like gunfire. He drains his glass, the liquor burning all the way down to his stomach.
Later, after the cab's dropped Duncan off at his place, Jeff leans his head against the cool glass of the backseat window and, for a minute, thinks about giving the driver a different address – it's in the same direction as his place so they wouldn't really be going out of the way and it's late but maybe she's still awake anyway and maybe they could talk for a little while before he passes out.
But he goes back to his empty apartment, collapses in bed with his clothes still on, and manages to fall asleep without drunk dialing or texting anyone.
In the morning, he can't decide if he dodged a bullet or chickened out.
Britta gets back from New Mexico a week before the semester starts, and Annie texts him on Friday morning to say that they're celebrating their friend's return with a little get-together at her and Abed's apartment later that night.
For a minute, he tries to come up with an excuse not to go – he's felt awkward enough all summer just being around Annie; adding Britta to the mix means an entire evening of feeling unsettled and on edge. He can actually feel the beginnings of a headache stirring at the base of his skull just reading Annie's message.
But then, when he thinks of the inevitable fallout of trying to get out of the party – the guilty phone calls from Annie and Shirley, the not so passive-aggressive bitching from Britta on Instagram and Twitter, and Abed's incessant texts demanding to know where he is and what he's doing instead and why he's avoiding his friends – it seems like a bigger hassle than just putting in an appearance and begging out as soon as is polite.
He thinks that it's just going to be the five of them, maybe Duncan too because he's kind of become an unofficial member of the group, but when he gets to Annie and Abed's apartment, it's more crowded than he expects. He should have realized Rachel would be there, but he's a little surprised to see Neil and Vicki, the mumbly, redheaded guy from Britta's psych classes, the Dean, and a few other people that he doesn't readily recognize.
But that's for the best – the more people at this thing, the less chance there is of things becoming uncomfortable.
Britta's already a little buzzed or stoned by the time he shows up, and she won't shut up about how transformative her trip was, how life-affirming and spiritual.
"But not in a religious sense," she hurries to clarify, looking over her shoulder to make sure Shirley's still in the kitchen. "In the sense that I feel truly connected to the universe. To my fellow man… and woman."
Somehow, he manages not to roll eyes and he's kind of astounded by his own self-control. It doesn't last long, though, because Britta reaches into her bag and pulls out dream catchers for Annie and Abed.
"These were handmade on a Navajo reservation," she says. "Aren't they beautiful?"
Annie nods enthusiastically and Abed smiles, but Britta zeroes in on Jeff, who's definitely smirking even without intending it.
"That!" She points an accusing finger at him. "That's exactly why I didn't get you one."
He smiles, finishing off his beer.
"You made the right choice. Because I'm not about to put anything in my apartment that messes up the décor."
Britta groans in disgust and kicks at his shin, so he gets up and heads for the fridge for another beer. In the kitchen, he gets roped into a conversation with Neil and some drippy blonde kid about the Broncos and whether they can make it back to the Super Bowl with their current crop of running backs. He actually doesn't mind it as much as he should because it's an easy way to stay out of trouble.
At some point, though, he finds himself glancing around the room – and it's not like he's looking for anyone in particular, but he can't help noticing that Annie isn't anywhere to be found. That's not a big deal, obviously, because she's probably just in the bathroom, so he redirects his focus to the conversation about Hillman's ball security issues even though the topic isn't particularly interesting anymore.
So when he checks his watch a little while later and realizes Annie's been MIA for nearly ten minutes, he wonders if maybe she's not feeling well – she seemed to be nursing the same glass of wine for most of the night, though, so that seems unlikely. Checking up on her still seems like a good idea – and he'd do that for any friend, he tells himself, even though he knows damn well that's not really the truth. Britta is slumped over in her chair, cackling like a lunatic, and could probably use a bottle of water – or five – but he's not about to go over there and help out.
Still, he eases away from Neil and his friend and toward Annie's room as nonchalantly as possible, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. Fortunately, everyone seems pretty distracted – Britta's still draped across the recliner, laughing at the ceiling, Abed and the Dean are attempting to play Quarters, though neither of them seems to have good enough coordination for the game, and Shirley's in the kitchen with Vicki, having a heated discussion about whether a KitchenAid stand mixer is a worthwhile investment.
So no one notices when he knocks discreetly on Annie's door – and he knows because he checks over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure.
Apparently, Annie doesn't even notice because there's no response from the other side of the door. He looks down the hallway and sees that someone's in the bathroom so maybe that's where she is. But he can see a stream of light from beneath the bottom edge of her bedroom door and it's like he's possessed or something because he's opening the door and closing it behind him before he even knows what he's doing.
The room's empty and the bed's neatly made so there's no sign of Annie in here. But now that he's inside, he can't seem to bring himself to leave – he's not sure if he's ever been in her bedroom before, for more than a passing minute anyway, and there's something oddly tempting about looking around at her things, the purple and navy floral comforter and bookshelves so full that she's also got a few piles of books on the floor beside them and a framed photo of the group – the entire group, Troy and Pierce included – right there in the center of her dresser.
Maybe there's nothing necessarily creepy about a guy his age having decidedly non-paternal, non-fraternal feelings for a young woman Annie's age - real, genuine feelings - but skulking around her empty bedroom like a goddamn stalker definitely is. He doesn't even know what he's looking for, what he hopes to find, or what he expects it all to tell him, but he scans the four walls and its contents like they might actually hold some kind of answers.
He decides he should leave before he really crosses any lines and opens a drawer or something, but just as he's about to head for the door, he hears a low, almost wistful humming even above the noise of the party in the other room. He turns toward the sound and wonders how he missed the open window when he first came him, the gauzy, yellow curtains fluttering in the breeze the passes through. When he steps closer, he can see Annie through the gap between the fabric, sitting on the ancient fire escape, her hand clutching a glass of wine and eyes turned toward the sky.
"Ditching your own party?" he says as he pushes the curtain aside and leans against the window sill. "That's poor form for a hostess, Annie."
She's startled, nearly spilling wine on the white, embroidered tank top thing she's wearing that kind of reminds him of lingerie.
"Jeff! What're you doing in here?"
He shrugs.
"Looking for you," he says – because it's the truth but vague enough to be safe.
"I needed a little air. It's hot in there. Isn't it? It seemed really hot in there."
The breeze lifts her hair, curling it over her cheek, and she reaches up to bat it away. There's not really room for him out on the fire escape, but he eases himself halfway out to look up at the sky with her. It's a clear night, the stars laid out like a blanket, so it's easy to understand why Annie would want to sit out here. He watches as she swirls the puddle of wine around in her glass, her eyes cast downward now.
"I wasn't sure you'd show up," she says softly.
For a minute, he kind of wants to pretend that he didn't hear her, that they're both just catching a bit of fresh air before they go back to their friends. Because sometimes, it annoys him, how well she knows him, how she can see things that he doesn't want anyone, especially her, to see.
So he takes a sip of her beer and lifts a shoulder as casually as he can manage.
"What? And miss all this fun?" He nods back toward the other room. "That'd be crazy."
She shakes her head and huffs out a little laugh, but he knows that his deflection isn't really flying with her. Since almost the day he met her, not giving her what she wants often is nearly impossible - because those big blue eyes of hers exert something as powerful as a gravitational pull. She's not even looking at him now and he still feels it tugging at him. He nudges her foot with his knee, jostling her leg a bit.
"Why would you think that?" he asks. "That I wouldn't come?"
When she looks up at him, her eyes flicker with something bright.
"I guess I just… Well, it's like…" She takes a deep breath and shrugs almost helplessly. "Are you all right?" she asks, her voice pitched low, like she's afraid of offending him. "You've seemed a little bit off since …"
She hesitates again, and he knows exactly what it is she won't say because it's the same thing he doesn't want to think about either - self-medicating and chasing the fountain of youth and proposing in a fit of panic.
In other words, not his finest moments by a long stretch.
Annie's a little kinder than all that, though.
"All summer, really," she finally settles on.
She looks at him with an achingly soft expression, like she doesn't want to put even the slightest pressure on him, and it should be so easy to tell her the truth, to just man up and admit how he feels. He understands in that moment, though, that it's not telling her that he's scared of - it's what happens afterward. It's the fact that he doesn't know what will happen, that he can't possibly have a handle on it, that he has no control over the outcome, that terrifies him, keeps him locked in place.
"I'm all right," he tells her instead, and he scrambles for a reasonable explanation for any unease she might have picked up on. "I think it's just… I'm trying to come to terms with the fact that I'm teaching at Greendale again. I mean, one semester doesn't really mean anything, but I do it for another and then it's not just a temporary gig. It's a job. A real job. Practically a career. And I guess I just haven't wrapped my mind around the idea that this is what I'm settling for."
"But you're good at it," she counters, and there's something light and airy in her tone, like she's trying to convince him with the cheerful sound of her voice alone.
"I'm good at most things, Annie."
She shoves at his hip with her bare foot, and he notices that her toes are painted a dark, rich purple that glitters in the faint moonlight.
"Oh, God," she groans. "With that big head of yours, how do you walk around without toppling over?"
He laughs, taking another sip of his beer.
"You know what your problem is?" Annie asks.
He wants to joke, ask her where she wants to start considering he's got so many damn problems, but her voice is serious again, all soft and gentle, so he knows he should pay attention.
"You keep thinking of it as *settling*," she says. "And I understand because for a long time, I thought I was settling at Greendale. I thought I'd failed at something better and I had to make do with a consolation prize." She taps her toes against his knee again, smiling just a bit. "But if I hadn't gone to Greendale, think of everything I'd be missing. I never would have met you and –"
"That would be a serious tragedy for you," he teases, but she ignores him completely.
"Abed and Britta and Shirley and Pierce. I wouldn't have gotten to really know Troy. And you guys are better than friends. You're family." She shakes her head almost self-consciously. "So I didn't get to go to some Ivy League school… big deal. I got something better than that."
Her fiery eyes and the determined lift of chin make it clear that she honestly believes what she's saying, and he feels in awe of her in a dangerous way that always winds up biting him in the ass. He's always been fixated on the years between them, on what it says about him that he wants her, but the truth of the matter is that she's wiser and more mature than he could ever hope to be, even if he makes it to his 100th birthday.
And there's some kind of seismic shift in his world whenever he's around her. He's not a thirteen year old girl, so he doesn't think he can't live without her or anything as melodramatic as that - but he's come to realize that maybe he doesn't like his life as much without her in it.
He should tell her that; he should find a way to tell her that.
But maybe there's some part of him that wants her to figure it all out on her own – she's smarter than anyone he knows and knows him as well as anybody does. She could figure it all out and confront him and maybe he can't figure out how to tell her himself, but he's pretty sure he'd cave like a flimsy house of cards with just the slightest push from her.
Of course, that's not really fair to Annie.
More than that, though, it just isn't going to happen.
Years ago, when she was just a kid and had the guts to call him out on the thing between them, he denied it in front of their friends, made it seem like she'd imagined the whole thing like some lovesick school girl – she won't put herself out there in the same way again, and he can't blame her for that.
But it means that there isn't going to be an easy way out for him, which sucks.
He grins at her anyway, like he doesn't have a care in the world.
"Despite the fact that it sounds like you stole that speech from an after school special," he says, and she huffs in outrage, reaching out to swat his arm. "I get what you're saying."
Annie leans back against the railing and smiles.
"Good." She lifts her wine glass out toward him. "To seeing more than settling."
He touches his beer bottle to the glass and nods.
It's something to aspire to anyway.