The first and second times the doorbell rings, Irene jumps, but it isn't until the fourth that she gets annoyed enough to get out of bed. By the sixth, she's shouting at the door to calm down, and she loses count in the few seconds it takes to traverse her apartment to the entrance. Thoroughly irritated, she wrenches the door open.

"What," Irene hisses, folding her arms to combat the sudden gust of cold air. She’s disoriented by the bright hall lights, and the silhouette before her looks less than threatening.

The disheveled figure mumbles something, leaning heavily against Irene's doorframe. Irene tries to suppress her gag at the overwhelming stench of alcohol and sweat.

"--throom," incessant-doorbell-ringer says again, and Irene stares. Irene's eyes had finally adjusted enough to stop squinting, and doesn't this girl live in this building, or something?

"Bathroom," she says again, and Irene jolts upright in understanding.

“Oh my god," she apologizes (should she be? This is her living space, after all), scrambling out of the doorway. She is somewhere between leading and shoving the barefoot girl into her cramped bathroom space, hovering awkwardly as she crumples over the toilet.

It takes about thirty seconds for pity to bypass her disgust, and about five more after that to finally pull the girl's hair out of her way. Fifteen seconds more, and she's mentally replayed all six of her interactions with this neighbor, from vague passing greetings on weekends to awkward waves at the grocery store.

Her toes are cold against the tile and her fingers feel stiff, but she figures she has it better off than her neighbor, who is heaving up the remains of the past few hours.

In a lull, Irene says, "So, did you... need anything?"

She's met with a subdued groan. Irene doesn’t know what she expected. Her eyes flick to the girl's wrist resting against the toilet seat, tilting her head enough to read the watch. "Happy New Year," she adds after a beat.

This receives a sardonic scoff. “Awesome,” the neighbor finally says, grabbing the entire roll of paper towels. She stands slowly, and Irene lets go of her hair to help steady her. Irene backs out of the doorway as the girl makes her best effort to reclaim some amount of dignity.

Irene watches paper towels dab at a short black dress and fingers run through black—blue?—hair. There’s a few moments of silence interspersed with the tap running, and then a very quiet, “Sorry.”

Irene blinks away her returning tiredness. “Come again?”

Her neighbor withdraws from the bathroom. “Sorry for… barging. Rough night.”

Arms folded, brow raised—“No kidding,” Irene mutters. She’s going to need a better explanation than that.

“Lived above you long enough to determine you’re not a serial killer. Needed to throw up,” she explains, rubbing her eyes. She sighs as makeup comes off on her fingers, and she lets her arm drop. Irene’s trying her best to remember this girl’s name, but six minimal interactions with Tenant of Room 53 apparently weren’t enough to commit it to memory. “Another set of stairs sounded like… too much.”

“No kidding,” Irene says again. “and thanks for not thinking I’m a serial killer. I guess.”

“Thanks for letting me throw up the worst New Year’s Eve of my life in your apartment,” Room 53 returns, and Irene cracks a tiny smile at that.

“Irene,” she says, holding out a hand.

Room 53 glances down at Irene’s hand and back up with amusement. “Bad idea,” she says, gesturing vaguely at the bathroom behind her. Irene grimaces, letting her hand fall to her side. “Wendy.”

“Wendy,” Irene repeats. “Wendy, okay, let’s start with this: where are your shoes?”

Wendy shrugs, wincing at what's probably going to be an awful hangover in the morning. “They hurt. Tossed them off the stairs on floor two,” she says.

“You took the stairs,” Irene deadpans. She pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Oh,” Wendy says, like the elevator hadn’t occurred to her.

Irene sighs. “Look, what you need is some water and some rest, so, nice meeting you, but—“

“Lost my keys.”

Irene breathes in deeply through her nose and closes her eyes. “What?”

When she opens them again, Wendy looks smaller than she already is. “I can’t really get into my own room right now.”

Irene weighs the pros and cons.

Cons: Everyone is a potential serial killer, her whole apartment would smell like the liquor store was brought to her, it’s 5am, she really knows nothing about Wendy.

Pros: ???

Irene’s already sighing, though, and she knows what her decision is already. She’s upset with herself, really, she is. “I have a couch,” she mumbles.

“Thank you so much,” Wendy breathes, and Irene watches her sway in place.

She tells Wendy to wait and not to pass out, and grabs a glass of water—stops, pours it out, and grabs a plastic cup instead. Offering it to Wendy, she adds, “No throwing up on the couch.”

The girl is already collapsed across the furniture, looking incredibly uncomfortable in a short black dress mid-winter. Irene wonders if a coat was also lost on the second floor balcony. Or any means of identification. She’s mentally reprimanding herself as she gives the girl a blanket.

Wendy’s bangs are in her eyes, but she doesn’t seem to care. “Thanks, really.”

“Sure,” Irene says. “What are neighbors for?”

“Not this, probably,” Wendy’s saying, but she’s already mostly unconscious.

Irene stumbles back into her own bedroom, wondering what she’s doing with her life, and what Wendy’s done with hers.

A sharp ringing tells Irene it’s 7am, and the alarm had never felt less appreciated.

Work, Irene reminds herself as she tosses covers off herself. Her body robotically makes it through most of her morning routine before she remembers she had left a human being in her living room.

She does the last few buttons on her shirt and peeks out the bathroom door—somewhat surprised to see Wendy still curled under her blanket, eyes shut. Tiptoeing around the couch to check if said human being is still breathing, Irene knows she really shouldn’t leave Wendy alone, but her shift ends early today and Wendy hadn’t murdered her in her sleep or ran off with all her money.

So instead, she refills the cup of water and puts a bottle of aspirin next to it, just in case. With a promise to herself to stop worrying for the near-stranger until she gets off work, she scribbles a few words on a sticky note and puts it next to the cup.

Irene grabs her keys and gives Wendy one last glance on her way out.

A few hours of a nearly empty shift later (she still can’t believe she had to work on New Year’s Day), her keys are in her door and Irene is half-hoping Wendy would have left and all awkward explanations could be avoided, and half-hoping she gets to know what caused her seemingly-nice-upstairs-neighbor to end up in her apartment. She tries peering through the peephole from the outside, but quite frankly, she is barely tall enough to see through it from the inside, much less a step down from the outside.

She knocks, feeling silly for knocking on her own door. When met with silence, she breathes a disappointed sigh of relief. Perhaps she should get a dog, have something to greet her when she gets home besides some wilting houseplants. As she puts her bag down and tosses her keys on the counter, she knows she visibly jumps when someone speaks.

“Oh,” Wendy says simply, pulling off her headphones.

Irene takes her hand off her heart, trying to slow her heart rate. “I thought you were gone,” Irene states, and then gestures to Wendy’s new getup. “I also thought you were locked out.”

“I am,” she replies. She tugs gently on the front of the tacky, oversized I <3 NY shirt, smiling. Irene can’t help but smile, too. “My friend is letting me borrow her sweatshirt. And her headphones.” Wendy pulls up the hem of her sweatshirt, revealing the black dress beneath it. “She dropped them off while you were gone, but she didn’t give me pants, so. Here we are.”

“Right.” It doesn’t explain why Wendy is still in her apartment, to be honest—if anything, Wendy, logically, should have left with her friend. 

Wendy is rubbing her arms, glancing to the couch. "And I didn't want to leave without explaining myself."

This piques Irene's interest.

"And I will, on two conditions," Wendy finishes.

This piques Irene's interest more. "Oh?"

"One: you lend me pants, because I can't go anywhere like this."

Amused, Irene shrugs. "I'll think about it. And two?"

Wendy grins, cheeks reddening slightly. "And two: you get dinner with me."

Irene smiles wider, dreadful shift at work forgotten. "Well..." she says, pretending to contemplate the decision.

"It's really only fair. I'd like to thank you somehow. This--" Wendy gestures to the couch, aspirin, blanket, "--really means a lot. Thank you."

"What if I say no to the first one and yes to the second?"

Wendy's laugh is contagious, and Irene is upset she's spent so long living near this girl without hearing it. "Is that a yes?" Wendy asks, and she's too genuine, too heartfelt.

She pulls her face into a stoic facade. "It's really only fair," Irene echoes, nodding solemnly.

Wendy rolls her eyes, and Irene could get used to this. "So it's a date," Wendy says.

Irene thinks this year might not be so bad, after all.

////////

A/N: Happy New Year's (Eve)! I can't believe IYG started nearly a year ago. I don't know what this is, but here we are.

I also just made a twitter! Let me know what you think, or bug me about updating IYG, or just talk to me!

Title from Troye Sivan's Talk Me Down.

Also, dumb question for you aff users: is this how one-shots are formatted?