#But then I remembered you wrote Drunk Dial and I just can't top that.

[averbaldumpingground]

“How come I always end up calling you when I can’t fall asleep?”

Maybe he wouldn't pick up this time, she tries to tell herself. Maybe it would just go to voicemail. And then they could pretend that she never called.

Except he wouldn't, probably. Pretend that is. But she'd hold on to her dignity, maybe enough that the next time she saw him, saw that horrible smile on his face, she could meet his eyes for long enough to get through the lecture. Get through the three hours of supervising the undergraduate lab section. Get through the door.

She doesn't want him to pick up. Not when it's two a.m. Again. Not when she's still half drunk, and she can't see the stars beyond the storm clouds on the roof that Darcy left her on somewhere between her second and fourth wine cooler.

She didn't even want to go with Darcy anyway. She's not sure why she did, but the music that she can still somewhat hear from across the quad is starting to give her a headache.

Or maybe it's the long, drawn out seconds between the first ring and the third, or now the fourth. She could just hang up. She could.

But she's not going to. Not until she gets his voicemail.

Because...

Because it's been a crappy night. Because her piece of junk computer crashed while she was mid-compiling.

Because doing her postdoc when she's barely older than most of the seniors has never endeared her to anyone, her weirdly outgoing roommate excepted.

The call connects.

"It's 2:37, Foster."

So much for the small mercies of his voicemail.

The comically put-upon sigh helps dampen the nauseous feeling in her stomach though. She's mostly pretty sure she shouldn't call him.

"The weather forecast lied."

A click. What sounds like blankets shifting.

Oh. He's never been in bed before.

"I could be on a date," he'd said, the last time that she'd called him.

"At four in the morning?"

"It could be a very good date."

She'd hung up on his obnoxious laughter.

But maybe--

Maybe--

"Foster, it's a Tuesday. Why are you drunk on a Tuesday?"

Is it? She probably knows that, but the frustration and the article edits and the lack of sleep are finally starting to catch up with her. The crappy alcohol still working its way through her system is probably not helping things either.

"Were you asleep?"

More blankets shuffling. An over-dramatic sigh.

"Some of us are covering a 9 a.m. lecture this morning, Foster." A beat. "Do you need me to get you?"

He's probably not on a date then. Not that she cares. Not that--

"--Foster? Jane?"

Oh. Had he been saying something? "Huh? What?"

"You're usually a lot more sober when you call me in the middle of the night."

"I don't call you in the middle of the night."

A laugh. The slide of a drawer being opened.

"Of course not, Foster. Where are you?"

She doesn't though. Not really. He's just an assistant professor whose lab sections she's usually stuck babysitting. And maybe she stops by his lectures sometimes. But only because the theoretical framework--

"--Jane?"

"Why are you calling me that?"

"Because it's your name, Foster. You do still remember your name?"

He sounds less asleep now, less soft. She's not sure that she likes it very much.

"Now, Jane, are you going to tell me where you are?"

Why would he--

"The roof," she tells him, almost despite herself.

"The roof. Alright. Which roof?"

She didn't bother checking when she and Darcy climbed up here. One of the residence halls. She'll figure out which one when she sobers up enough to climb down though.

"Jane?"

“How come I always end up calling you when I can’t fall asleep?”

She isn't sure she really meant to say that.

A pause.

"I do hope you aren't trying to sleep on the roof, Jane."

"You're not very good at conversation and you're pretty much always a jerk."

"...I see." She thinks there's something off about the way he says it. She doesn't think she likes the way it sounds. "Should I call campus security instead?"

"No."

"Will you at least tell me where you are, Foster? I've got 300 freshma--"

"--I like that you pick up."

She really doesn't mean to say that either.

"I--Okay?"

"Um. Yeah."

Maybe the wine coolers were an even worse idea than she'd thought. She--

"Okay."

At least he doesn't sound upset anymore. It shouldn't-- the feeling in her gut is probably from the questionable guacamole she'd had. Or those tasteless little cocktail sausage things.

"Do you want me to come get you, Jane?"

It's 3:14 a.m. He'd said he has a class.

"Why would you?"

She hears his car keys. She knows he lives a decent drive off campus.

"The same reason you called."

Edit: I wrote a follow up.