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One by one they all leave the bar -- first Frankie, at a reasonable hour, then Pelton, spouting far too much information about what he has waiting at home, and finally, with a fair amount of coercion, Chang -- until it’s just the two of them, the way it all started.
“I think I’m going to have to live with that guy,” Britta says, grimacing after Chang’s inebriated, dramatic exit.
“Britta, no,” Jeff intones. He’s feeling the effects of several whiskeys himself, but unlike some people he can hold his own. He’s trying desperately to forget the clenching feeling that had wrapped around his chest as he watched Abed and Annie disappear through the sliding glass doors of the terminal.
She shrugs. “I’m one late payment away from moving back in with my parents, which, barf. I’d rather be in a tent on campus again.”
“I lived in my car that one time.”
Britta snorts. He can’t tell if she’s drunk too -- she’s cashing out her tabs no problem but she’s had two martinis, plus the shots Chang suggested, plus whatever Frankie was too sensible to finish. “I remember,” she says, a goofy little smile creeping over her face. Gotcha, Jeff thinks.
“So what’re you doing after this?” he asks, even-keeled, no underlying implication in his voice.
She considers it, counting out cash smoothly beneath her fingers. “Going home,” she says after a second. Then she looks up. “You alright?”
“I’m fine,” he says, a little too quickly. Britta frowns at him, but she doesn’t say anything else.
They stumble out onto the sidewalk just after the bar closes, after her coworker insists for the third time that she’s good to lock up, and Britta immediately procures a cigarette from her bag.
“Shut up,” she tells him.
Jeff scoffs. “I didn’t say anything.”
“It keeps cops from smelling the alcohol.”
“Exactly how many times have you been pulled over in the last year?”
“Shut up,” she says again.
She unlocks her car, which she might as well be living out of, Jeff thinks but doesn’t say out loud. It’s filled with god-knows-what, probably trash, mostly, and he can still feel the sharp sensation of the time they hooked up in the backseat and a thumbtack had poked all the way through his jeans into the back of his knee.
“Who keeps tacks in their car?” he had asked, irritated.
“It was for Annie’s stupid bulletin board! Sorry for wanting to help!”
“I think I’m bleeding.”
“You’re not bleeding.”
He was. They had sex anyway.
Britta looks up at him. “What?”
“What?” he echoes.
She blows out a stream of smoke and he realizes how close they’re standing, so close that she’s making an effort not to blow it directly in his face, which is really thoughtful of her, actually. He smiles.
“Jeff,” she says, in a low tone.
“Britta,” he drawls.
She sighs. “Get in the car.”
“What?”
“I’m taking you home.”
“I’m fine,” he says again, as she makes her way around to the driver’s side. “Britta, I’m fine!”
She takes him home. The windows are rolled all the way down and some song he’s never heard blares through the speakers, which have seen better days. Somewhere along the way he closes his eyes, and he forgets everything that’s happened over the last six years. When he opens them again Britta is helping him across the threshold of his apartment, one arm around his waist and her head tucked under his shoulder. He leans against her and she’s warm, present.
When he wakes up she’s gone, and there’s about a thousand texts in the Save Greendale group chat. Annie and Abed are on opposite ends of the country, and he can still feel Britta’s head on his chest.
Thanks for driving me back, he texts her.
No problem, comes the response, but it’s hours later. It makes him smile anyway.