A/N: So this was supposed to be a one shot, but spiralled out of control in the first scene, so multi-chapter it is. I have no idea where this is going, I'll admit it, but let's just say stuff happens after and I'm intrigued to see where this goes. Bear with me.
Also, this is AU, April is not terribly religious in this, I'm sticking with her original story as to why she ended up a 28-year old virgin - she wanted it to be special, waited too long, and she's pretty sure boys find her annoying. Oh April, if only you knew...
As usual, I own none of the characters.
Please let me know what you think, ok? I clearly need help.
There is always that one stupid mistake that changes everything. You don't always recognise it as you make it, because the epically great decisions and the epically bad ones look exactly the same when you're making them. She moves her head a fraction and the rush of pain that instantly floods her brain tells her that this most definitely falls into the category of epically bad. She clenches her eyes shut trying to block out the daylight that is flooding the room around her. It only makes her head hurt more.
Somewhere outside a siren sounds in the distance, triggering something in her, some vague sense of recognition and then a trepidation she can't place. Her mouth is dry and fuzzy and she knows needs to move, but she doesn't want to risk hurting her head again. She slowly opens her eyes, wincing as the bright daylight burns against her retina and makes her eyes water.
It takes a while for her vision to focus on the ugly, greying ceiling tiles above her, the bare light bulb dangling from a wire and the hint of a cobweb floating gently in the draft. She scrunches her nose at that. She doesn't have cobwebs. She doesn't have ceiling tiles. She has clean white plaster and a cheap and cheerful ceiling light that her oldest sister got her as a moving away present. It takes her brain a few moments to catch up with her eyes, realising with a small, sharp gasp that she is not in her own apartment. Panic sets in, sharpening her senses and letting her really feel the heavy thump of pain in her scull. She searches the thick haze in her mind for an explanation, for a logical conclusion, for any hint as to how, where and why. A soft, deep groan beside her lets her know it's infinitely worse than she first thought.
She turns her head slowly and is met with an expanse of dark, smooth skin and hard muscle and she nearly recoils back. The way her brain slams against the back of her skull and sends sharp pain down her neck forces her to stay in place. Her eyes, though, are free to roam. Her eyes travel down from the shaved, turned head dangerously close to hers, down broad shoulders, defined arms, hard abs and then… Her eyes snap back up quickly, away from his obvious nakedness and vulnerability with the slightest "oh".
A quick fumble with her hands down her own body confirms that she too is entirely naked and entirely uncovered and a deep blush spreads from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. Beside her the mattress creaks and shifts as the man next to her rolls over. She lies completely still listening to his breathing until she hears the deep, steady breaths of someone fast asleep. Slowly and carefully she forces her body up to a sitting position, casting a quick glance over to the sleeping form next to her to make sure she hasn't disturbed him. She grits her teeth at the pain, fighting through it to grapple with the more urgent matter of covering herself up. She grabs at the sheet under her, trying to wrap herself up, but of course half of it is under him. She desperately searches the room for any evidence of her own clothing, but comes up empty. In the end, the sudden rise of bile in her throat forces her hand as she violently yanks the sheet from under him whilst rushing towards what she really hopes is the bathroom.
She leans her head against the cool porcelain after she is done purging the contents of her stomach, her physical discomfort fighting her mental discomfort as the tries to piece together the night before. There had been tequila, that much she is sure of. Her stomach churns as she remembers counting them, until she couldn't anymore. She's pretty sure she'd been with a group of people she was supposed to be with, but the reason escapes her right now. She doesn't remember being with a man, definitely not the naked one that is still sleeping on the other side of the thin bathroom door. She certainly doesn't remember getting naked with a man, but that clearly happened because that part is still happening.
She can't help but groan at her own stupidity. She's not a big drinker, but she supposes that explains her present discomfort. She's not one for random hook ups, she's a virgin for God's sake. Or used to be, she guesses, because she can't actually remember. She was a virgin, because she wanted the first time to be special and now she can't even remember loosing her innocence. She sighs deeply, swallowing down another bout of nausea as she scrambles to remember something, another puzzle piece that seems like it should be significant, but it escapes her. Instead she pushes herself off the floor, tightening the sheet around her frame and inspecting her reflection in the mirror. Her mascara has run from her lashes in thick black streaks as if she had been crying, which she also can't remember, and there is pink lipstick smudged around her mouth. She cleans up quickly and as best she can before steeling herself and emerging from the bathroom.
He's still asleep, thankfully, oblivious to her scanning the room for her belongings. She takes in the room, the clutter of dirty dishes by the sink in the kitchenette, the bare walls and the sparse furnishing. There is a sports bag of some sorts in the corner spilling over with clothes. The room is messy and dirty and she can feel her nose crinkling in disgust at the days old pizza boxes and empty beer bottles by the door even as she is desperately searching for clothes to cover her dignity. She finally finds her bright blue bra tossed over the back of the black leather sofa, and her t-shirt partially hidden under it. Her jeans are crumpled up and inside out when she finally locates them on his side of the bed. Her panties are nowhere to be seen, neither are her shoes and handbag. All evidence points to one hell of a night.
She has just managed to clasp her bra around her back when he stirs. She clutches the sheet closely to her chest as she spins around to face him. She is instantly hit with the notion that she knows this man peering back at her through piercing blue eyes, but she still can't place him.
"Hi," he croaks out, scratching his head and frowning as he sits up, no doubt experiencing the same skull slamming headache she woke up with.
"Hey."
She has no follow up except ask him a million questions she's not sure she wants the answers to.
He beats her to it.
"Where am I?"
She looks at him stupefied - surely that is her line?
"At your place. Right?"
She can't hide the slight panic in her voice, and the look of utter confusion on his face does nothing to calm her down.
"At your place you mean," he says without conviction, looking as lost as she feels.
They gape at each other for a moment, both unsure if the other person is playing some sort of weird game. His eyes flicker from her face, to her chest and then realisation flashes like a shock over his face. He glances down his own naked body and her eyes follow his involuntarily. When he looks back up, she spins her head away so fast she thinks she might have to make another dash to the bathroom. He is a flurry of motion suddenly, grabbing a pillow from the bed and jumping up to cover himself. He turns around to make the same journey as she did looking for coverage. She can't help but look as he turns around, and she has to cover her mouth as she gasps loudly.
"What?" he demands, spinning back around and finding her eyes wide and staring at the spot where his ass had just been.
"See something you like?" he attempts, a lopsided smirk not quite matching the bravado of his statement.
"Your ass," she says, like an idiot, because her brain is severely disconnected this morning, and if he didn't have the wrong idea before he definitely does now.
He just stares at her like he can't believe what she just said, and the raised eyebrows and slight frown on his forehead tells her he has no clue how they got here either.
"The tattoo," she rushes to say, pointing a finger wildly in the direction of his pelvis. "It looks new. Like really new."
"What tattoo?" he mumbles, spinning around and craning his neck to look in the direction of her finger.
As he turns she gets a clearer view. Inexplicably it's a waffle. A raw, red and raised tattoo of a waffle. He still can't see it, it's just out of his sightline even as his hand goes to stretch the skin on his right buttock. The way his face scrunches up as his fingers find the raised, irritated skin confirms her theory that the waffle is another casualty of the night before. The absurdity of the situation is finally getting to her, and seeing this naked man clutching a pillow to his crotch and trying to catch a glimpse of his permanently disfigured behind is finally overwhelming her. She can't stop the laughter escaping her mouth, a hysterical high pitched giggle that screams of desperation rather than hilarity.
"What?!" he demands, confusion mixing with a distinct uncertainty in his now shrill voice.
"It's a waffle," she manages, reminding herself that laughing at a naked man has never done anyone any favours.
"That is weird." It's the understatement of a century.
"This is weird," she sighs, meeting his eyes again.
When she moved to Seattle, her small town parents warned her in the way small town parents do about the drugs in the streets, but they never warned her about the ones with blue eyes and a heartbeat. She loses her train of thought for a moment, heat pooling in her stomach, which could either be from those eyes or from the alcohol still rioting inside her.
"I should…" he starts, looking down at the pillow covering his crotch.
"Right, right," she agrees breezily, grabbing her clothes and making a beeline for the bathroom.
Her mind is spinning with questions as she pulls on her t-shirt, every how, where and why still unanswered. She flinches in pain as she pulls her jeans over her ass, her fingers quickly feeling their way down only to discover sore, raised lines on her own right butt cheek. Her blood freezes as she fumbles over what very much feels like a waffle pattern. She storms out of the bathroom, just in time to catch a last glimpse of hard abs and rippling muscle as they disappear beneath a grey hoodie.
"Have I got one too?" she questions insistently as she turns around and pulls her jeans down to reveal her bare ass to this apparent stranger.
"That's definitely… a waffle," he confirms, his voice catching slightly as he surveys her behind.
She groans both in pain and in embarrassment as she pulls her jeans back up.
"So do you have any idea where we are?" she braves, hoping he can shed some light on the many, many firsts that she seems to have made in complete ignorance.
"No… but if this isn't your apartment, and it definitely isn't my apartment, then we should probably get out of here before someone calls the cops on us."
His expression is as confused as ever, brows furrowing as he concentrates on something balled up in his hands.
"I assume these are yours," he mutters, handing her a pair of scrunched up black lace panties. Her black lace panties. "They were in my pocket."
"Oh." The tiny smirk playing on his lips is absolutely mortifying and she wants nothing more than to rip the doors open and run out and away from him. But there is still the question of her shoes and handbag.
"Did we…?" she huffs, giving him a look which can't be misinterpreted.
"I don't know," he admits, sheepishly. "I can't remember."
There is a distinct hint of hot pink around his mouth, the exact shade of lipstick she just wiped off her own face not 10 minutes earlier. She decides not to think about that right now.
"Do you remember anything?"
"There was a lot of tequila," he offers, which is just great, because that is the only piece of information she already had. "And you're really excited about Monday."
Right. Monday.
"Oh, so you're starting your internship on Monday too?"
Of course he is, because this is one of those epically bad decisions that will haunt her forever. Sudden realisation as to where she is supposed to know him from flashes over her. The bar. The mixer for the new class of interns. The group of people she is going to spend her next five years with. The tequila. And then nothing.
He nods solemnly and suddenly her headache is back with a vengeance.
"I'm Jackson," he offers, and it rings another bell, but again she can't unscramble her brain enough to place the puzzle piece.
"April."
She attempts a smile, he attempts one back, but it quickly turns into a frown. As awkward as this is, they both know it's going to keep being awkward for the foreseeable future.
"Your bag was under the bed," he says, and it's the only good news she's had this morning. "But I only found one shoe."
She thanks him, puts on her one shoe and hobbles out of the apartment neither of them lives in with him in tow. Outside the daylight is even more punishing and she quickly hails a taxi to make her walk of shame as short as possible. He gives her a quick, awkward wave as the cab pulls away, and she finally lets out the breath she's been holding all morning.