I'm having an awful day at work and I just wanna cry. Can I please have a Drabble where Jeff visits Annie in DC and gives her a hug because he notices she's having a bad week? Or any hug really? With the hug very descriptive? I really need one.
Sorry you’re having such an awful day, love. I hope this can even begin to make up for it. <3
She wants to cry.
Her hair is slipping out of its ponytail and is frizzing up around her ears in the humid DC summer, the back of her shoe has been digging into her heel since she boarded the Metro this morning, her boss expressed concern as to whether or not she really wanted to be here after she fumbled a major report, the strap of her bag finally gave up on her way out of work this afternoon to spill file upon file across the lobby of the FBI headquarters, and when her keys slip out of her hands in front of her apartment, it’s the last straw of a bad day in an overall awful week.
No, she’s not cut out for this. Abed’s doing fine across the country, grinning and in his element and happy in their last Skype conversation. Jeff has tried to help, but he’d been so distracted last time they’d spoken; generic words of comfort while his attention was clearly somewhere else and, meanwhile, she’s just… Floundering. Floundering and miserable and dreaming of her quiet room in their apartment back in Greendale or the bar or, god help her, their study room. She wants to be home and she was an idiot to ever think she was made for this.
She slumps right there against the frame, letting out a quiet, choked off whine as she rests her forehead against the door.
A pair of shoes - nice shoes - step into her view. She knows those shoes.
“Ann? Hey, come on. It’s okay. Come here.” The quiet voice makes her whine again, and then there’s a hand on her shoulder, guiding her gently away from the door and into the open warm pair of arms waiting for her.
She collapses against Jeff with a muffled sob, sags with the reassurance of those arms wrapped tight around her back with a hand tracing indistinguishable patterns between her shoulder blades and the other combing fingers through the hair that has escaped her ponytail. She presses herself right up against him, feeling those arms go impossibly tighter around her, her head on his chest. She can hear his heart, steady and calm through the worn cotton of his tee shirt and she takes a few deep breaths to the pattern of its beats against her ear.
He smells like home, like pine and open air and that stupid expensive laundry detergent he refuses to give up. It takes everything in her not to press her nose into his shirt and just breathe in everything she’s been missing this last month away from home.
She feels the press of his lips against her hair, that hand still rubbing reassuringly across her back as he says, “If I pick up your keys for you, promise you won’t start crying again?”
This time, her response is more hiccuping laugh than sob.