The Grant~An IT Crowd Fanfiction

Standard Steaming Sexual Tension

That afternoon, Moss walked Imogene home again. Their conversation bounced all over, and they never seemed to run out of things to talk about—whether it be fanfiction or Daredevil or the latest Apollo 11 conspiracy. At one point, they even spoke about Moss's mum, which somehow morphed into an argument over the best way to make snickerdoodles.

Soon they were at Imogene's doorstep. Moss had been meaning to depart there, but somehow he ended up following through the hallway, up the stairs, and to her apartment door, jabbering all the way.

"No, no, no!" said Moss. "They're much better crunchy, because then they aren't so chewy and rich!"

"Soft and chewy is how it's meant to be!" Imogene insisted. "That's what makes them SNICKERDOODLES!"

Moss grinned impossibly wide and shook his head. "How long have we been arguing about this?"

"I don't know. Fifteen minutes?"

He rolled his head back with laughter. "Fifteen minutes! Over ruddy snickerdoodles!"

"Hey, would you like to come in? I can give you that Judge Dredd comic back, since I finished it."

"Oh, did you like it?"

"I loved it!" She fumbled with her keys excitedly. "I loved how violent it was, and all the cool gadgets, and the characters—aw, man, everything about it was just so cool!"

She opened the door and stepped inside. Moss followed. Her apartment was a complete mess, buried beneath piles of fashionable clothes and empty whiskey bottles. Moss instantly recoiled at the putrid smell.

"Ugh," he winced. "What is that?"

"Oh, uh..." Imogene frowned. "That's just the, uh...natural odor of the place. I think Ginger may have left some food out a long time ago, because it's been getting progressively worse over the past few days."

"That's just rancid."

"Yeah, I probably should have cleaned before inviting you in. Too late now, I guess." She threw her yellow backpack on a chair and called, "Hey, Ginge? Are you home?" There wasn't a response. "That's funny. I wonder where she is."

"She might not be home from work. It's not that late."

Imogene rolled her eyes. "Ginger doesn't work."

Just then, Ginger herself emerged from the bathroom looking cleaner than ever. She was wearing a tight-fitting strapless cocktail dress, stiletto heels, and an unnecessary amount of makeup—her old self again. Sad Ginger had turned back into the much more tolerable—but no less high-maintenance—Party Ginger.

"Oh, hey, Genie," she said nonchalantly. "Who's your boyfriend?"

Imogene turned red. "Uh, this is my work friend, Moss."

"Hello!" he said gaily. "I've heard a lot about you and your womanly moods."

Ginger raised her eyebrows. "I'm going out with some friends for a drink and a good shag. I don't care if you two have sex just as long as it's not in my bed—or on the couch. There's a crapload of vodka in the cupboard if you want some and it's probably best if you just, you know, chug the whole thing so I don't get hammered twice in a row when I come home. Cause you know the bottle and I are like oppositely-poled magnets. Did I say 'when' I come home? I meant 'if' I come home. And if I'm not back in a week make sure to call the police—you never know when a guy might want an impromptu trip to the Bahamas but also, you know, kidnappers exist so you can never be too sure."