The Grant~An IT Crowd Fanfiction

Standard Hurt/Comfort Fanfiction

Unusual for two o'clock p.m. on a weekday afternoon, the IT department was dark and silent. The only sound was the humming of an air vent, and the chittering of a few birds that had made a nest in one of the corners. The normal pitter-patter of the keyboard and whirr of the answering machine were absent, and every homey quality about the place had nearly vanished but for the various knickknacks still stacked along the walls.

The door slowly opened as Maurice Moss entered and turned on the lights. The sudden fluorescent glow was cold as ice, especially without other warm bodies in the room.

Moss stood in hesitation for a moment, scowling to himself, then went to his desk and sat down in his swivel chair with an elegant determination.

He'd decided not to go to Jen's house with Roy. As appealing as Bridget Jones and Beaches had sounded, gradually the previous events of the day had begun to eat away at him, and he'd come to change his mind about blowing everything off with a dose of fun. It didn't seem right at the moment to laugh his cares away with Bette Midler.

He clenched his fingers over his knees, twisting up the fabric of his slacks. He was full of mixed emotions, a million feelings tumbling and banging around inside his normally calm and calculating brain. None of these feelings seemed to make any sense when grouped together—there was the fear that he might get arrested, the guilt for being so irresponsible with the revolver, and of course, the thrilling firework sensation in his lungs, from being so—

Okay, so maybe the words he was going to use there were a bit premature. He shook his head. They were completely premature. It had barely been a month. A month, and already he was letting things get out of control.

Then again, Moss was always out of control.

His mind began drifting back to his most recent outings with the female sex, in order of appearance. First, the prostitutes from Amsterdam he and Roy had taken to the fair. Brandy and Crystal—had it been Brandy? They were nice, but hadn't amounted to much. Then there was Dr. Mendall, the psychiatrist, who he'd gotten along just fine with and had really liked very much, but that had ended quite quickly when she'd gone and slept with Roy. Then there was Margaret, from Jen's singles party, who wouldn't stop touching him, and after that, raging animalistic intercourse with Ivana the Countdown groupie, which had been less than satisfying.

There had to be something in common amongst all these failures. There had to be some reason that things went wrong between Moss and women every time.

But what was it?

It was something Moss had never taken the time to ponder. He'd always thought that his relationships ended simply because they were bound to, because he wasn't meant to find anyone and that's just the way things went. Then again, maybe it was this mentality that kept him from trying to make it work at all. Maybe it was none other than his own doubt, casting an umbrella-shaped shadow over every kiss and sexual glance, that prevented him from putting in any effort with anyone.

Moss stood from his desk and went to the door again, removing his jacket and hanging it on the hook. He crossed the room to the back kitchen, where he poured himself a cup of coffee. He stood there, sipping to himself for a moment and continuing to ponder the complexities of the human heart in solitude.

Then the door creaked open again, and Moss hesitated with the cup an inch away from his face. Someone staggered into the room, and there was a tired moan as they collapse into a swivel chair. Then Moss heard the familiar, musical boot-up tone for the Synapse CB-295Y and everything within him exploded like fireworks.