Disclaimer: I don't own Community.
The last place Annie thought she'd be spending her twenty-second birthday was in the men's bathroom of The Ballroom bar cleaning up Santa Claus's vomit. Her manager, Gary, had offered her a wry smile and a mop as he escorted the inebriated mall worker off the premises, calling it an 'official' welcome to her new job. A nice basket of cookies would have been more her preference – but her festive friend had already blown that option in more ways than one. Still, Annie mused as she scrubbed down the cracked white tiles, wrinkling her nose at the smell, she was grateful to have a job at all considering her next best option was 'sexologist' at the delightfully named Dildopolis. Now that would have been fun for prospective employers to discover on her resume.
The restroom door suddenly swung open and Annie flattened herself against the wall to avoid collision, just as a tall man in an expensive business suit staggered in. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her, blinking slowly before taking a step back. "Milady," he drawled, tipping an imaginary hat her way. "This could just be the scotch talking, but last time I checked the women's bathroom didn't have urinals."
"Good observation," she replied, humoring him. "I'm just cleaning up." She nodded towards the mop bucket at her feet with a small smile. "Although I assumed the props would have been pretty self-explanatory."
He grinned back at her, eyes crinkling in the corners. "I don't know, I thought I might have accidentally joined the line for Cinderella auditions. Didn't want to make that mistake again."
Annie chuckled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She knew it probably wasn't the wisest idea to attempt any flirting with a patron on her first night (and a drunk one at that) but he was already showing signs of being her type. Nice smile, broad shoulders, witty…
"What's say I meet you in the ladies' room in five and we can make some magic happen before you disappear at midnight?" he added with a wink.
… And he was kind of a douche. Sadly, from her dating track record, apparently also her type. But not anymore she resolutely thought as a pink blush tinted her cheeks. That was twenty-one-year-old Annie. Twenty-two-year-old Annie made smart choices and didn't let herself get swayed by a handsome face. "Wow, super tempting but no," she replied, pushing her mop and bucket towards the door. "I'm going to head back to work now. My pumpkin carriage awaits," she murmured as he stumbled aside to let her past.
"How about if I leave you my shoe so you can find me later?" he teased, offering her what he thought was a winning smile.
"I'd probably keep your footwear on if I were you," she called over her shoulder as she exited the bathroom. "There might still be some vomit lying around." Annie bit her cheek in amusement as a scandalized yelp rang out behind her.
"Son of a… My wingtips!"
Yep. She'd definitely dodged a douche-bullet there.
Jeff sank further into the cushiony booth, drumming his fingers against the side of his near-empty glass while Hammish, Hammish & Hamlin's newest recruit, Alan Connor, boasted about his previous cases. The way the jackass was talking it was like he'd invented every goddamn law, but the rest of their colleagues were completely captivated. Jeff attempted to feign interest but soon found his mind wandering to the disturbing shine of Alan's bald head under the hanging lights of the bar. How did a man even get to that stage of follicle failure? Did he just wake up one morning, see a few chunks scattered across his pillow and decide to prematurely give up on life? Jeff self-consciously patted his own full head of hair, silently reminding himself to order more Kérastase elixir online when he got home from this celebratory horror. Because that's what normal people do on Christmas Eve, he thought, gulping down the last of his scotch. They sit in their empty apartment and abuse their credit cards for hair products while Love Actually plays on TV for the thousandth time and the urge to punch Hugh Grant in the face continues to rise.
"… You'd have to check in with Winger on that," Alan's smarmy voice cut through, rousing Jeff from his wallowing. "Although maybe the old man might not be able to handle another round. He looks about ready to take a nap over there."
Speaking of faces to punch.
Jeff aimed a shit-eating grin the newcomer's way. "Must be the thrilling company, Connor. Please, dazzle us with another story of how your endless charm and enviable skills brought about world peace."
"Wing-ding, you wound me," Alan retorted, clutching his chest before breaking into a smirk. "This is great, first week and we've already got the frenemy banter going on. Makes me tingle in my loins."
Grimacing, Jeff nudged the man next to him so he could slide out of the booth. "Here's an idea, how about I get the next round and you promise never to associate me with your groin again?"
"I don't think I can promise that. But listen," he said, rummaging around in his jacket pocket before taking out a small cardboard rectangle. "How about you be a pal to your new best friend and slip that brunette number behind the bar my card." He wiggled his eyebrows and gestured to his lap. "Saint Word-That-Rhymes-With-Nick here's gotta find out if she's been naughty or nice."
"Note to self: be more specific about groin-mentioning parameters," Jeff muttered, not bothering to take the business card Alan was waving before heading to the bar.
As Jeff approached he noticed the brunette in question winced and darted her eyes around for another bartender to help her out (of which there were none) before resigning herself to plaster on an engaging smile. Not quite the reception he was used to from beautiful women, but he knew how to switch on the charm to turn a situation around. There was also the odd sensation that they'd already met, although Jeff could have sworn she hadn't worked here before tonight (his face involuntarily twitched as he weighed up the option that he was about to receive a 'we hooked up months ago and you never called' slap across the cheek, quickly deciding to take his chances as her big doe eyes sucked him into their orbit).
Shit.
"Hey there," he smiled, leaning against the wood panelling "Another five beers for the booth in the back corner and a Macallan neat for myself, thanks."
The woman nodded and set about her work, forgoing any of the usual bartender and customer back-and-forth as she made sure each foamy head of beer was cut off with precision.
"Stuck working on Christmas Eve?" said Jeff, attempting to open some sort of conversational floodgate to fill in the weird awkward silence.
"Mmm-hmm," she replied, settling two of the pints onto a tray before ducking her head away with a smirk like she was entertaining a private joke. "Good observation."
The phrase and the present company stirred up another bizarre sense of déjà vu in Jeff's mind as he affected an even more casual lean. "Must be rough having to be away from your family on a night like this. Or your partner."
"I could say the same for you," she countered, pulling another beer.
"Ahh, well, you see that's no problem because no one's waiting for me at home." He scratched his face with his left hand, accentuating the lack of ring. "You?"
She placed the last few beers on the tray. "I'm Jewish," she offered, turning around to find the Macallan on the shelf behind her.
"Well that definitely explains the proclivity for working during the Christmas period." He smiled when she found the bottle she was after and faced him, quirking her eyebrow as she opened the lid. "What?"
"Proclivity, huh?" she replied, amusement betraying her lips.
He shrugged one shoulder. "I'm a lawyer. Words are my jam." Jeff was glad the woman wasn't looking at him as she poured the brown liquid; missing the cringe he was now sporting. (Words are my fucking jam? Seriously?). "Let's strike that previous sentence from the record." His mood lifted when he heard a faint snort in return.
"Oh yeah," she said, placing the last glass onto the tray. "Definitely a lawyer."
"Did I hear someone ask for a man of the law?"
Jeff felt the heavy clap on his shoulder a split second before the grating voice rang out. He sighed as Alan slipped into position beside him before leaning across the bar into the brunette's space. "Because you've got America's finest right here, babycakes." The oily intruder held out his hand for the woman to shake. "Alan Connor, and you are… Hopefully about to stuff my stocking if you get my drift," he finished in a not-at-all quiet aside to Jeff.
The woman's cheeks flushed red in what Jeff took as a heady mixture of embarrassment and indignation before she shoved the tray of drinks into his colleague's outstretched hand. "Finished with your order," she replied with a tight smile. "Cash or card?"
Alan fumbled with the tray before setting it down next to Jeff, apparently not taking the hint as he fished around in his pocket. "Will this do?" he said with a wink, sliding his business card across to her.
Jeff watched as the woman slowly picked up the card and forced herself to look Alan directly in the eyes before she grabbed a pair of scissors from the drawer below and cut it in half with a flourish. "Sorry, sir," she said in mock sweetness. "It's been declined."
"Whatever," Alan muttered, his face clouding. "Your loss, sweetheart." He turned unsteadily on his heel and headed towards the men's room.
Silently handing over his Amex to pay, Jeff couldn't even find it in himself to bask in the glory of seeing Alan crash and burn so spectacularly. Not when he had the uncomfortable prickling under his skin that he'd just had a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Future. If the patent baldness wasn't already terrifying enough, the stink of sleaze and cheap cologne had set him over the edge. It wasn't like Jeff didn't know his own inflated ego ran the show a lot of the time, but surely he wasn't as bad as that entitled dickweed… Was he?
"Here you go," the woman said tiredly, handing back his card and looking for all intents and purposes like she couldn't wait for his little group to leave the bar. He didn't blame her.
"Thanks," Jeff replied, tucking the plastic away in his leather wallet before picking up the discarded tray of drinks (where Alan had managed to spill some of his scotch in his haste to abandon it – the asshole). "I'm… sorry about all that shit just then." He watched as the woman gave him a curious look before nodding in response. Jeff was about to walk away when she collected a mop and bucket from the corner and started to wipe up a spill someone had made earlier, causing him to be struck with somewhat hazy memories.
Just cleaning up.
Cinderella.
Make some magic.
He swore under his breath just as Alan emerged from the bathroom across the way and immediately started hitting on two blondes who walked past.
He was officially in Club Dickweed with Alan as the reigning king.
Jeff must have groaned a little louder than he thought because the brunette's head immediately snapped up, her eyes catching his. She wrung her hands around the handle of the mop, deciding on whether she should engage with him again. "Everything OK?" she finally asked.
Juggling the tray with one hand, Jeff scrubbed the back of his neck. "I think I tried to hit on you in the men's room last week, didn't I?"
Initially taken aback by his sudden memory gain, the woman paused before giving him a wry smile. "You did," she replied. "Pretty terribly I have to say."
"Yeah," he breathed out slowly. "From the little snippets I can recall, not my finest hour." Or day, or week, or year his brain sneered at him. He licked his lips, sparing another glance towards Alan, who had moved on to chatting up another small group of women, pointing eagerly towards the mistletoe hanging near the entryway.
"Nowhere near as gross as your friend over there, though," she said evenly, following Jeff's line of sight. "So I guess there's that."
"I guess there's that," Jeff echoed, the two of them standing awkwardly in the quiet that followed. "It won't happen again," he promised, feeling something strange stirring through him he hadn't felt in a long time.
Sincerity.
Well I'll be damned.
"Thank you," the woman replied, toying with the strings of her black work apron.
He knew he should head back to the booth but he couldn't help giving her a tentative smile. "Maybe we could start from the beginning again?" he offered. "I mean, I do tend to drink here a lot and I'd hate for you to keep referring to me in your head as the drunk bathroom bastard."
Jeff could see her size him up, mentally calculating whether or not his intentions were true, before she broke into a small smile. "I'd been going with Captain Douche, but your way works too."
The chuckle rumbled through his chest. "In that case, I'm Jeff Winger. It's good to properly meet you…?"
"Annie," the woman said, just as a patron signalled her from the other end of the bar. "I'd better get back to it."
"Of course," he nodded. "Merry… not Christmas," he added, amending his error at the last minute. (Real smooth).
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, biting back another smile. "Merry not Christmas to you too, Jeff," she said lightly, walking away from him.
Returning to his disgruntled workmates, grumbling at him over their overdue alcohol, Jeff found himself in a sudden state of bewilderment. Not only had he tapped into one long-forgotten sentiment, another had suddenly filtered into view as well.
Authenticity.
It was a not-Christmas miracle.
Jeff downed his scotch in one go.
It was also fucking terrifying.
He needed another drink.