Chapter Text

Jeff

Jeff Winger was having trouble sleeping.

He hadn’t always been an insomniac; in high school, he’d gone to bed at 9:00 sharp every night and woken up at 6:30. When he was a lawyer, he’d gone to bed later, sure, but he’d never had a problem falling asleep. 

Greendale had been the last straw, though, and as he settled into his bed he was once again consumed with an all too familiar sense of dread.

He didn’t know why he’d thought—hoped—tonight would be different. Nothing had changed. This, Jeff thought, was why he wasn’t an optimist. It set him up for disappointment. Pessimism was easier: he was used to being right, and even when he wasn’t, things would work out for him. 

He sighed and pulled out his phone, faltering when he realized he had no plan. He’d clicked on messages out of instinct, and as it opened, he came face to face with the very thing keeping him up at night. 

There was a fair bit of speculation across Greendale campus regarding Jeffrey Tobias Winger, but no debate was more heated than this: who on earth was he constantly texting?

Most people assumed he was texting a family member. People who’d met Jeff knew better, thinking he must’ve been texting whatever woman he was currently sleeping with. Anyone who’d slept with Jeff knew both options were out of the question, and instead formed a hypothesis that he was texting his teachers , blackmailing them into giving him passing grades. Everyone else stood under the most popular (and, unbeknownst to them, truest) theory that Jeff wasn’t texting anybody at all. 

Jeff would never tell anyone, but the truth of the matter was this: he wasn’t texting anybody. Rather, he was texting himself. All day, every day. 

He’d talk about school, or the study group, or vent about his problems, anything that was on his mind; his own personal journal.

At first, it was therapeutic. He had a lot to get off his chest, and this had the bonus of making him look like he didn’t care about anything around him. Besides, therapy was expensive, and embarrassing, and ultimately, Jeff thought, a waste of time. If it hadn’t worked for him when he was younger and had less issues, why should it work now?

Over time, though, it started to help less and less. Every time he opened the conversation he felt a painful tinge of deja vu; the sorrowful emptiness on the left side of his screen seemed to mock him. He felt trapped, like he was screaming through a window with nobody on the other side to hear him.

The texts turned from everyday annoyances to deep-seated insecurities.

Am I enough?

Will I ever be enough?

Who am I?

These three questions had stopped him from sleeping, and it was these same three questions Jeff found himself face-to-face with.

He stared at his phone. His phone stared back.

Maybe, Jeff thought for the first time in 15 years, I should talk to someone.

He closed the app and looked over at his alarm clock, 11:42. His options were slim. He thumbed through his contacts, trying to find anyone he could call at this hour.

Alan? He probably had Jeff’s number blocked. 

…That being said, maybe  

Annie? Hard no. She went to bed at 7:30 every night. If he woke her up and asked her to come over for drinks at this hour, she’d kill him. 

Britta? No. She’d be okay with drinking this late, but there was no way in hell he was complaining to her about his problems. He didn’t want to give her any ideas. 

Duncan was probably already drunk, Shirley wouldn’t dare, Troy and Abed didn’t really drink, he would rather die than ask Pierce…

Jeff scrolled through again and again, realizing with ramping terror that he only had one good option. 

He called Alan, hoping for the first time in his life for that annoying little shitbag to pick up. He didn’t. 

Fuck. 

To Jeff’s credit, he only layed face down on his bed in denial for 20 minutes before accepting his fate and rooting through his fridge for alcohol (he could hear Drag Race playing next door, he noted) and heading for the door. 

This was how Jeff Winger found himself outside of Craig Pelton’s apartment, in his pajamas, with a bottle of Chardonnay, at midnight. 

Craig

Craig Pelton had no intention of sleeping. 

Of course, if he’d wanted to, he was sure he would’ve had no trouble, but it was a Friday night and sleep schedules be damned because there was no way in hell he was missing the Drag Race season 2 marathon.

“Oh, fuck off, Sonique killed it,” he complained to nobody in particular. (Well, particularly, nobody. He was lying alone in his bed, painting his nails sparkly purple, and only getting a minimal amount on his sheets.)

The show stopped for an ad break, and Craig rolled over onto his back, blowing on the newest coat of polish. 

Ugh. I’m too sober for this.

He stood up and started walking to the fridge before remembering he’d finished his wine the week before and promptly sitting back down. What he wouldn’t give for a glass of Chardonnay right now. And probably some company. 

A rather handsome man in a white shirt came on screen (advertising Colgate toothpaste, which Craig wasn’t particularly fond of but appreciated the eye candy nevertheless), and his thoughts, as they usually did, drifted to Jeffrey. Craig wondered what he would think of purple nail polish or Drag Race or Chardonnay. In a perfect world, Craig could see them watching it together. Jeff wouldn’t like it at first, but after the first lip sync battle, he’d be all in. Craig would give him pointers on which queens were the best and what outfits he thought should win and how those heels may look gorgeous with that dress but they’re very impractical for this challenge and will actually hurt her in the long run. Craig would joke about putting him in drag but eventually, Jeff would give in and let him do his eyeliner, and they’d be so close—

A knock at Craig’s door startled him out of his daydream. He scrambled out of bed, pulling on pajama pants (and smearing his nail polish, he noted) and muting the TV. 

“Shit —just a minute!” He took a second to compose himself before walking over, and as he reached for the handle, for a moment—one crazy moment—he imagined Jeff standing on the other side. 

The next moment, he stopped breathing. 

There he was, hair adorably messy, with a bottle of Chardonnay and a white shirt tight enough to make Craig think he might just start buying Colgate again.

“Hey,” Jeff raised the bottle. “Want some?”

He sounded so cool, so confident. His every move felt coordinated, like he’d rehearsed this a million times in his bedroom.

Craig saw spots. He wondered, faintly, if Jeff would catch him if he fell.

Jeff

Jeff had no clue what he was doing. Unprepared, he held up the bottle, deciding to improvise. 

“Hey. Want some?”

Smooth, Winger. Smooth. Jeff could practically hear Britta mocking him. 

Imaginary Britta’s disapproval didn’t seem mutual, though, judging by Craig’s face. He stared at Jeff like he was a god. 

After a solid 10 seconds of silence, Craig slammed the door shut. Jeff heard him scream, followed by the sound of furious cleaning and rearranging of furniture. 

Craig reappeared at the door, visibly more put together, and eyed him up and down. 

“Well, hello there, Jeffrey. What brings you into this part of town so very late at night?”

“I live next door to you.”

“Well don’t just stand out there,” Craig stepped aside and waved him in. “Come on in!”

Jeff stepped in, hovering near the door while Craig walked to the kitchenette to grab two glasses. In the middle of the living room sat Craig’s bed, across from the TV. 

“…Craig?”

“Yes, Jeffrey?”

“Where the hell is your couch?”

“Hm?” He handed Jeff a wine glass and took the bottle, opening it and pouring for the both of them. 

Jeff blinked. “Your couch .”

Craig sat down on the bed. “Spring cleaning or whatever—it’s not important, Jeffrey. Come sit!” He patted the mattress next to him. 

Jeff stood his ground. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on, let’s get this party started!”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t come here to be—lay— sit in bed with you, Craig.”

“Well, what did you come for?”

Jeff froze.

To set the record straight right off the bat, there was a part of him that fully intended to tell Craig he came for emotional support.

Unfortunately for him, though, that part of him was pretty small, and it was definitely not the part of him in charge of what came out of his mouth.

“I came to watch Drag Race.”

Shit shit shit shit shit.

Craig stared at him, stunned into silence once again.

It’s okay, Winger, you can fix this. Think of a cover up.

“I, uh… don’t have MTV.”

Fuck me.

Jeff sipped his Chardonnay to stop himself from digging the hole he was in any deeper.

“Well, that’s just wonderful, Jeffrey! I’ve been looking for someone to watch Drag Race with me for months!” He grabbed the remote and unmuted the television. It was in the middle of a commercial for some perfume.

Jeff inched closer to the bed, leaning against the wall a few feet away.

“So, are you a new viewer, or did you just come to watch the finale?”

“I—I haven’t seen any.”

I can’t believe this, Jeffrey.

“I can’t believe this, Jeffrey!” Craig set his glass down on the floor next to the bed and began fixing his nail polish. “You are going to love Tyra, she’s such a bitch.”

“I—”

“Oh my god, it’s the lip sync battle!” The show had come back on now, and two women— queens? Jeff wasn’t sure of the correct terminology, and he was too afraid to ask—stood on a stage, both wearing black dresses while someone else (With magnificent hair; Jeffrey wondered what hair spray he—she— the person used) told them they were about to “lip sync for your life ”. Craig squealed.

Jeffrey was on the verge of an existential crisis.

But then the music started—it was En Vogue’s My Lovin’ (You’re Never Gonna Get It), a song that Jeff would never in a million years tell people he loved but he had on CD nevertheless—and Craig was squealing and kicking his legs, and Jeff sipped his Chardonnay and watched in mild amusement. Maybe this wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

.~.

4 episodes and 3 glasses later, Jeff was having the time of his life.

“What d’you think of my nail polish, Jeffrey?” Craig held out his hand. Jeff, who ended up on the floor next to the bed, raised his glass in response.

“Craig, you’re—great, s’great. Have I ever told you? You’re not so—FUCK YEAH, BLACK VELVET!!!” Jeff cheered, downing the last of his drink and setting his glass down on the floor beside him.

“Who—who do y’think is gonna—”

“Jujubee for sure,” Jeff interrupted.

“What ?” Craig turned. “Sahara’s killing it.”

“No shot,” Jeff insisted, “She’s—”

“Girl, that’s not what the song is,” said Raven on the TV.

Jeff gestured vaguely. “Yeah! See, see, Jujubee, she’s—”

“—Really capturing the essence of the song .”

Jeff pointed at the TV, “Stop interrupting me.”

Jujubee won (“I fucking told you.”), and a commercial came on. Jeff stood up, somewhat unsteadily. “Bathroom?”

Craig flopped onto his back. “Down the hall.”

Craig’s bathroom floor was lined with couch cushions. As for the rest of the couch, well, Jeff had gone for the wrong door at first, and you’ll never guess what now stood in place of Craig’s bed.

He stepped over the cushions to the sink, and, out of habit, made the mistake of pulling out his phone.

His text diary flashed on screen, almost mocking him. Jeff, somewhat drunk, was not prepared to handle such a thing.

Craig

“Jeffrey, it’s back—it’s back on!” Craig called out, but got no response. “Jeffrey?”

He turned down the volume on the TV and walked down the hallway. He came up to the bathroom door and knocked.

“...Jeffrey?” His voice was softer now. There was still no response. 

He heard sharp, stuttering breaths behind the door.

“I’m coming in, Jeffrey, okay?” He inched the door open.

Jeff was sitting on the floor of couch cushions, back against the wall, crying. His phone lay face down on the ground to his left. He buried his face in his arms, knees to his chest. When he spoke, his voice was a hoarse whisper. 

“ Don’t… don’t look at me.”

“Jeff…” Craig crouched down and sat on the couch cushion beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t. You’re not—you’re not supposed to see me like this. You—” Jeff’s voice broke, and something in Craig broke along with it.

“Honey…” Craig moved closer, wrapping his arm around both of Jeff’s shoulders, and Jeff leaned in a bit. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Jeff shook his head.

“...Do you wanna go lay in bed and watch more Drag Race? Would that make it better?”

“Why’s—why’s your couch in your bathroom,” Jeff asked between sobs.

“Shhhh…” Craig rubbed his back reassuringly. “Come on, up you go. Don’t you want to see the finale?”

Jeff drew in a shaky breath, lifting his head up and rubbing his eyes. Craig helped him up and walked him to the living room. They got into the bed together, and Jeff rested his head on Craig’s shoulder, making his heart skip a few beats.

“Jessica’s such a bitch,” Jeff sniffed.

Craig nodded, patting his arm. “I know.”

Chapter Text

Study Group

Annie sighed, breaking the group’s decidedly comfortable silence. “Has anyone seen Jeff?”

Abed pulled a stopwatch out from under the table. “17:37.” He turned to Troy, holding out his other hand. Troy groaned, handing him a 5 dollar bill.

“Damn it, Annie, couldn’t you have waited 3 more minutes?”

“I’m worried about him,” Annie said, crossing her arms defensively. “It’s not like him to skip like this without warning.”

“That’s exactly like him,” Britta replied. “You’re just paranoid. He’s probably hungover.”

“Or sick,” piped in Shirley.

“Or sleeping with someone,” Abed added.

“Or sleeping alone,” said Troy.

“Sleeping under covers.”

“Undercover? Like a spy?”

“Jeff’s a sleeper agent!”

Craig waltzed in. “Have any of you seen Jeffrey?”

Annie gestured toward him. “See? I’m not the only one who’s worried! If Dean Pelton is concerned too, it’s probably important.”

The group exchanged a knowing look. Craig looked away.

Annie sighed again, half defeated. “Can we at least have someone go and check on him? He’s not answering any of my texts, and you know how much he’s on his phone.”

Craig shifted uncomfortably in his spot at the doorway. Abed tilted his head and gave a small “hmm”.

Britta hadn’t seemed to notice. “He’s not a little kid, Annie. He can take care of himself.”

“I agree with Annie.” Abed had perked up in his chair, and his gaze was back to the group. When met with surprised silence, he added, “He hasn’t texted me, either.”

Britta raised an eyebrow. “Jeff texts you?”

“Yeah. Whenever he’s out sick he tells me to make sure you guys don’t do anything stupid. And to sneak new bottles of whiskey into Professor Duncan’s office to replace the one he stole.”

Shirley shook her head, disappointed. Britta rolled her eyes.

“Fine. We’ll send someone. But I’m not going, I have work tonight.”

Shirley clutched her bag. “I have to get home to my boys.”

“I have a debate tonight, otherwise I’d go myself,” said Annie.

“Why don’t we send Dean Pelton?” asked Troy. “Don’t you live next to him, anyway?”

Craig blinked a few times before answering, like Troy had stopped him in the middle of some very important thoughts. “I, uh— I can’t. Not tonight. I’m going to a matinee with my girls. Speaking of, actually, I need your opinion on something.” He pulled two near-identical green dresses out of a large paper bag he was holding. “Seafoam or lakefoam?”

Abed looked at him for a moment, contemplating. “Lakefoam,” he said carefully, “It brings out your eyes.”

“Thank you! See, I thought so, but then Cheryl —”

“Okay, so Troy’s going, then?” interrupted Britta.

Troy swallowed hard. “I, uh—”

“Troy’s not going,” said Abed.

Annie’s brow furrowed. “Why not?”

“He’s not going,” Abed said, a bit more forcefully. “I’m going.”

“Awesome. Great. Glad that’s settled,” Craig mumbled, turning to walk just a touch too quickly out the door.

Abed watched him leave, deep in thought, as everyone else packed up their things.

“Abed…” Troy said, pulling him back to reality, “weren’t we gonna watch Inspector Spacetime tonight?”

Abed turned. Troy looked disappointed.

“Right. Episode 562: ‘Enter the Primordial Gumbo’.”

Troy nodded.

“I won’t be long. What if you went back to the apartment and made an awesome puppet recap of the last episode, and we’ll make popcorn and special drink and watch the next one when I’m done punching Jeff in his stupid face with his stupider emotions?”

Troy smiled and took one of Abed’s hands. Their fingers laced. “Sounds cool.”

“Cool.” Abed leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Troy’s forehead. “Cool cool cool.”

Troy blushed and looked away, grinning like mad.

Craig

Craig wasn’t going to a matinee. Craig didn’t even like matinees. Craig didn’t even know what a matinee was. That’s why he hated them—he never got invited to them.

The dresses were for Jeff. They were always for Jeff. He’d never say so, but they knew. They all knew.

When Craig woke up to an empty bed that morning, he didn’t know what he’d expected. He felt horrible. He’d made Jeff uncomfortable, apparently enough for him to miss school today. That was just like him. Stupid Craig, chasing after the straight boy again, messing everything up —

He was getting ahead of himself. Jeff was probably skipping because of how late they’d stayed up last night, and how much chardonnay they’d drank. He knew why Jeff was avoiding his phone, anyway.

Craig held the dresses up against his body, looking at himself in his office mirror. He tried to push the thoughts out of his mind. Abed was right; lakefoam did bring out his eyes. He wondered if Jeff would say the same.

A tear dripped down his cheek.

He closed his office door.

Abed

Everything was coming together.

It all made sense, now—the dresses, Dean’s demeanor, Jeff’s mysterious absence—the puzzle pieces had assembled themselves before him in perfect clarity.

Now all that was left was for him to snap them into place.

Jeff

Jeff was less than happy to hear the knock at his door. More specifically, he was annoyed, afraid, and anxious, and it was for this reason that he didn’t answer.

“Jeff?” Abed’s voice wasn’t too loud, but it carried easily through the door. Jeff still didn’t answer, but he felt a bit relieved. At least it wasn’t…him.

“I know you’re in there, Jeff. You may be avoiding your phone, but the location tracker still works. Can I come in?”

When Jeff spoke, his voice was lower than usual. Gravelly. He hated it. It made him sound like he’d been crying.

“No,” he choked out.

So what if he had?

Abed paused for a moment. Jeff heard rustling.

“I’m coming in,” he said.

“No, you’re not, Abed,” said Jeff, sinking further into his couch, “It’s locked.”

The door swung open. There stood Abed, lockpicking kit in hand.

He waved. “Hi.”

“What the hell?”

“You like him, don’t you?” Abed hadn’t moved, hadn’t put away his lockpicking kit. He stared into Jeff’s soul.

Jeff looked away. “ No ,” he said, a bit too quickly.

Abed didn’t say anything. Jeff could feel his eyes on him from across the room.

Jeff buried his face in his hands. “I—”

“I’m sorry.” Abed spoke quickly, before Jeff could finish. “I’m not good at talking about these things, either. Let me try again.” Jeff heard him rustle through his bookbag. “I brought you whiskey.”

Jeff perked up at that. “...Duncan’s?”

“I paid him with a phone number.”

“Whose?”

“Well, he thinks it’s Britta’s. It’s actually me and Troy’s home phone number. I’m not a monster.”

Jeff stood up, clearing off a spot on the couch. “You can come in. Put the whiskey on top of the fridge.”

Abed nodded, walking to the kitchen. “Sorry I broke into your apartment.”

Jeff paused his couch cleaning. “When did you learn to pick locks, anyway?”

Abed checked his watch. “About five minutes ago, now. You’re lucky my kit came early, otherwise I might have kicked the door down.”

Jeff didn’t doubt him. He threw a stray shirt across the room toward his bedroom. It made a pleasant thump against the closed door. Maybe he should actually put his clothes in his room, he thought. He took a step toward the door.

Actually, no. His phone was in there. Maybe he’d keep it closed forever. Abed probably didn’t mind.

“You should open a window,” said Abed, glancing around.

“I let you in. Don’t push it.”

Abed sat down carefully. He studied Jeff’s expression.

It made Jeff uncomfortable, sometimes, how much Abed could glean from just looking at you. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the kid was psychic. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t have any evidence against it.

“Well,” said Abed, “I technically let myself in—”

“Abed.”

“They were worried about you. Everyone. Even Britta. She acted like it was nothing, but I could tell.”

Jeff couldn’t tell if he was lying. Abed really did scare him sometimes. Jeff pondered this for a moment before realizing he wasn’t sure what he was scared of.

Abed continued. His voice never wavered; his tone never changed. “It was mostly Annie, which is no surprise. Really, you’re lucky she had a debate tonight. It would have been a lot harder if she’d shown up without warning. Jeff—” He startled at his name. “I’m not one to play matchmaker. I mostly like to be proven right, and you’ve done just that.” He stood up, clutching his bag, and moved toward the door.

If Jeff had the energy to be anything other than confused, he’d have been ticked off. “What? Stop speaking in riddles, Abed.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Jeff.”

“Could you just give me a straight answer for once?”

Abed stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Can you give yourself a straight answer?”

“I—”

“Stop getting in your own way, Jeff. You’re your own worst enemy.” He half-turned and reached into his bag. “And eat some real food, please?” He tossed something small and firm to Jeff. It hit him square in the torso and landed on the ground in front of him. “If you’re not looking for a surprise visit from Annie tomorrow, I suggest you fix whatever’s keeping you away from your phone.” He continued out the door, and Jeff heard him set his bag down before reappearing in the doorframe. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a question, or even a command. No, Jeff was pretty damn sure it was a threat.

Abed hadn’t moved. He simply stood, staring at Jeff. Waiting for an answer.

Jeff, terrified, nodded.

Abed nodded back, satisfied, and closed the door. “I’ll pick your lock back closed,” he said from outside.

Jeff shook his head. Fucking psychic.

He picked up the thing Abed had thrown at him. It was a granola bar. He opened it and took a bite. Maybe Abed was right.

He opened his window. It was raining.

Chapter Text

Troy and Abed in a Sitcom ™ is filmed in front of a live studio audience.

OPEN: INT. APARTMENT 303. TROY IS IN THE KITCHEN FACING THE OVEN. HE CLOSES THE DOOR, HAVING JUST PUT SOMETHING IN, AND STANDS. HE TAKES OFF HIS OVEN MITT AND WIPES HIS FOREHEAD WITH THE BACK OF HIS HAND.

TROY

Oh, where is that husband of mine?

ENTER: ABED IN A BROWN COAT AND CAP.

ABED

Honey, I’m home!

AUDIENCE CHEERS. 

TROY TURNS, DELIGHTED. THIS REVEALS HIS APRON, WHICH READS “CONSTABLE VEGGIE”. UNFORTUNATELY, THE AUDIENCE DOES NOT COMMENT ON THIS, AS THEY ARE TOO BUSY CHEERING FOR ABED. IT’S IMPORTANT THAT YOU KNOW WHAT THE APRON SAYS. THERE WILL BE A QUIZ LATER.

ABED HANGS HIS HAT ON THE COAT RACK AND BEGINS TO TAKE OFF HIS COAT.

ABED

Well, I chewed out our good friend Jeffrey.

TROY

(worried)

How is he?

ABED

(beat)

Could use some salt.

AUDIENCE LAUGHS.

A TIMER DINGS. TROY TURNS TO THE OVEN.

TROY

You’re home just in time for dinner.

HE OPENS THE OVEN AND PULLS OUT A CASSEROLE DISH COVERED WITH TIN FOIL. HE PUTS THE DISH ON THE COUNTER AND CLOSES THE DOOR. ABED MOVES TO STAND BESIDE HIM.

ABED

It smells delicious, doll. What is it?

TROY UNCOVERS THE DISH TO REVEAL DINNER: LASAGNA.

TROY

Pizza casserole. Homemade.

HE SMILES AT ABED, WHO PUTS HIS ARM AROUND TROY’S WAIST.

ABED

I love you.

THEY KISS.

AUDIENCE CHEERS.