Author's Note: I'm still going to finish Greendale is Where I Belong, but I've been thinking about this story for a while and I had to get it out of me. I've always really liked the deleted scene between Shirley and Britta in the season 2 finale (this one: watch?v=-lMk5GCX8o4) and was a little disappointed that it wasn't revisited much in season 3. I've always liked these two characters together, because even though they're almost opposites on paper, they're actually very similar beneath the surface and are capable of both helping and hindering each other, depending on the circumstances. In my mind, this story exists in the same continuity as Applied Studies in Cannabis.

"You're worthless," said the dead body of Andre Bennett, his face gray and cold. "You've never amounted to anything, and you never will."

"Victim is a 36 year old African-American male. Cause of death: traumatic aortic rupture. Likely murder weapon is the blade found next to the body," intoned Ted Danson, holding up a familiar looking kitchen knife.

"Baby, how could you say that?" She asked, shocked.

"Too bad about his sweater," said David Caruso, poking a pen into the bloody gash that was still leaking blood all over Andre's favorite garment. "It was pretty stylish."

Baby Ben let out a long, oddly mechanical sounding wail from inside her womb.

"Why do you even still bother going to that school? You haven't got the head for business. Your last idea crashed and burned and so will the next one and the one after that," said Andre's body, blood pouring from its mouth with each word.

"Stop it!" she cried. Ben wailed louder.

"We should start looking at the family. 90% of the time we're looking at spousal violence," said Ted Danson.

Ben's crying had become clearer, more repetitive, coming in short bursts followed by silence. That's strange. It almost sounded like ringing…

Shirley Bennett's eyes snapped open. She immedialty looked over to her right and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Andre there, sleeping peacefully. Her phone, which had only just stopped ringing, had not disturbed his slumber. Shirley didn't find this particularly surprising. That man could probably sleep through Judgement Day.

She reached up to massage her temples. Who in the hell was calling her this late? She was already having enough trouble sleeping with these nightmares that kept plaguing her; she didn't need the outside world working against her too.

As if on cue, her cell phone started ringing again. She snatched it angrily from her nightstand, not even taking the time to look at the caller I.D.

"Hello?" she snapped, not bothering to disguise her anger.

"Shirley? It's Britta." Three words in and Shirley could already tell the younger woman was very, very drunk. "I need your help."

Shirley sighed heavily. Part of her, a big part, wanted to tell Britta no. To yell at her about boundaries, and about imposing on people at- she took a moment to rub the sleep from her eyes so she could read the digital clock on her nightstand- 1:37 in the morning.

But kind people are always kind. Not just when it's easy.

"What is it, Britta?" she asked resignedly.

"I'm at the Ballroom and I've had a liiiiiiiiiitle too much to drink," Britta slurred, "Can you come and pick me up?"

"Why didn't you just call Jeffery? He's probably still up!" Shirley demanded, annoyed.

"I don't wanna see Jeff right now. Don't wanna do anything stupid."

Shirley sighed again. She had a good idea what "something stupid" meant, when it came to Jeff and Britta and alcohol.

"Fine. I'm awake now, anyway. I'll be there soon." She hung up before Britta could say anything else. Throwing the covers off herself with a groan, Shriely got out of bed and made her way over to her bedroom closet.

By the time she had gotten dressed, Andre had finally stirred. He looked at his wife with confused, bleary eyes.

"You going somewhere, baby?" he asked.

"Britta's drunk and needs a ride home. Don't worry about it. Go back to sleep, Andre," she told him, leaning over to give him a kiss on the cheek

#

Shirley tried not to think about her nightmare as she made the all too familiar drive across town to the Ballroom. The specific details of the dream had already begun to fade from her mind, but it was all so familiar to her. She had been having nightmares along a similar vein for a while now, ever since the study group had been expelled from Greendale. She'd hoped that they would stop after they'd foiled Chang's little… coup… or whatever it had been, but they hadn't. Night after night she'd dreamt of blood, of her family in danger, of a dead, disappointed husband. And more than anything, a feeling of deep guilt, as if it was all her fault.

She'd awake in fear and terror that would quickly fade, leaving only a feeling off… dissatisfaction. It was infuriating, straining her already frayed sense of calm.

She'd arrived at the bar before she could dwell on it any deeper. The parking lot was fairly empty, it being a Wednesday night and all, so Shirley had not trouble finding a spot for her station wagon.

She stared at the edifice of the Ballroom for a while. She had a lot of bad memories tied up in this place. Back before Andre had first left her, and their marriage was a cold, desperate prison, she'd spent a lot of time here, drowning her sorrows in cheap liquor. It wasn't a period in her life she liked to revisit. Still… she was here already. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and made her way into the bar.

The bouncer, thankfully, was new, and didn't recognize her. Once she'd made her way out of the little antechamber and into the bar proper, she scanned the room to see if she could spot a familiar head of blond hair, but had no luck. She made her way up to the bar and got the bartender's attention. Shirley recognized her from the last time she'd been here, when the group had gone out to celebrate Troy's 21st birthday… but she tried not to think about Troy too much. She still missed the young man.

"What can I do you for?" the bartender asked Shirley, shaking her out of her musings.

"Oh, nothing for me, thank you," Shirley answered sweetly, "I'm looking for a friend of mine who called me, have you seen her? Short, white, has blond hair? Probably wearing a leather jacket? Poor sense of boundaries? Extremely drunk?" Some of the sweetness may have slipped out of her voice by the time she finished asking her questions.

"Right, I know who you're talking about." The bartender pointed to the far corner of the bar. There, at a table Shirley hadn't been able to see when she came in, sat Britta. She was laying her head on the table, an empty glass next to her. She appeared to be rolling an olive back and forth in front of her with a single finger. "Yeah, she's been here for a while, said she was drinking to forget some guy."

Shirley sighed. Jeffery. She'd thought their little will-they or won't-they, as Abed had called it, had been cute for a while, but it had come to annoy her more and more once it had become clear they weren't going to get married and settle down like normal people. All year, both of them had insisted to her that whatever spark had once existed between them was gone, but Shirley hadn't believed that for a second. And here was proof positive she was right.

"Of course she was," Shirley said sadly.

"I cut her off a little while ago. Here," she said, reaching behind the bar, "take her keys."

Shirley deposited them in her handbag.

"Thanks. I'm sorry if she was a burden."

"No, she was no burden. We get far worse in here, believe me. She did seem real sad though. Is she going to be okay?" the bartender asked, and Shirley was surprised at how much genuine concern there was in her voice.

"I don't even know anymore."

She made her way across the bar to Britta's table. The blond looked up as she approached.

"Shhhhhirley!" she said, smiling drunkenly, "It's so good to see you!" She made to get up, but caught her foot on the chair next to her and fell back down, laughing.

"Come on Britta," Shirley said, reaching over to lend her stability.

"D'ya want something to drink?" Britta asked, looking at Shirley cross-eyed, "Oh wait. Fuck. You don't drink. Oh, and fuck. You're driving me home!" She laughed again.

Shirley managed to pull Britta out of the chair, and the two made their way out of the Ballroom. Britta leaned on Shirley for support the entire way.

#

They drove without speaking for a while, Britta looking out the passenger side window with a sad look on her face, her fingers idly tracing shapes on the glass. Shirley felt her resentment building, until it finally reached the point where she felt compelled to speak.

"Look," she started, "I know you don't want a lecture-"

"You don't know me!" Britta snapped back" How d'you know what I want?"

"Britta!" Shirley shouted, exasperated, "How much longer are you going to do this to yourself? Look at you! Drunk as a skunk on a Wednesday night! You have class tomorrow! When you started drinking more after we got expelled I could at least understand it: that was hard for all of us. But if anything, you've only gotten worse since we got back in to Greendale.

"And you were doing so well, too! I mean, you've been a little over-zealous about your new major, but you had a plan! A new path! And I was so proud of you when you managed to pass all your classes last semester even with the two month gap, and when you decided to load up on extra classes this summer. But lately, you've been out of control!"

Britta didn't say anything immediately, but Shirley could see tears forming in her friend's eyes. She pulled her knees up to her chest and buried her face in them.

"It's just… hard," she said, her voice muffled, "The world sucks."

The sadness in Britta's voice resonated with Shirley, and for some reason an image of Andre, his eyes dead and his skin taut, popped into her mind.

"I know it does, pumpkin…" Shirley took one hand off the wheel to rub Britta's back, "I know."

They made the rest of the drive in silence.

#

Shirley unlocked the front door of Britta's apartment with the keys the bartender had given her, and helped the drunken younger woman across the threshold. She flipped the switch near the door, flooding Britta's loving room with artificial light. The place was no cleaner than the last time she'd been here.

Britta stumbled across the room and collapsed into an old, beaten up looking recliner, her legs spilling haphazardly off one armrest. A one-eyed cat stalked into the room, awakened from its slumber by noisy humans, and leapt into her lap. Britta rubbed its soft fur, eliciting a low purr from the animal, and closed her eyes.

Shirley considered leaving her there and returning home to her family, but after their conversation in the car she was feeling more sympathetic. From her own, numerous, days drinking she knew Britta would be nursing a major hangover tomorrow if she didn't get a lot of water in her. So she made her way into the kitchen instead.

It was slightly less messy in here than in the living room, but only just. Shirley looked through Britta's cupboards until she found a clean glass and an empty pitcher, and filled them both with water from the tap. Then she made her way back to Britta.

"Here, you better drink up if you don't want-" she said as she re-entered the living room, but stopped short. Britta had assumed a more comfortable looking seated position, and was still petting her cat, but was now leaning over her phone with a stupid smile plastered on her face.

"Oh! I see," Shirley fumed, her anger returning in full force. She slammed the glass and pitcher on a coffee table sitting in front of Britta's chair. "You don't want to embarrass yourself by asking Jeffery for help but you're fine texting him like some kind of love-struck tween?" She snatched Britta's phone out of her hand. Her sympathy, it turned out, had been misplaced.

"It's not from Jeff!" Britta squawked indignantly, trying to grab her phone back but missing Shirley's arm by a wide margin and fell over sideways in the chair. Her cat, displaced, jumped out of her lap and shot her a dirty look as it slunk off into her bedroom.

Shirley looked at the sender I.D. "Blade! That pathetic carnie? Britta that's even worse! Is that who you were pining over at the bar tonight?"

"It's not from Blade either! Annie switched his number in my phone! Give it back!" Britta said, frowning and glaring at Shirley as her cheeks reddened from embarrassment.

"What in the hell are you babbling about girl?" Shirley demanded. She considered deleting the text and storming out of the apartment, but her curiosity over what kind of lie Britta would concoct to salvage her ego stopped her.

"'Member a few months ago, when Blade's carnival came through town an' I asked Annie to keep me away from him? She switched his number for hers in my phone so I'd text her instead, without me knowing."

Shirley checked the date on the message. Britta wasn't lying; the text was from three months ago.

"I don't understand," she said, her voice softening now as confusion replaced rage, "This is from Annie? Why are you still reading it?"

"No, Annie kept sending me mean things and because I'm such a stupid fuck up it just made me want to fuck him more." Britta's voice started to break, "It's from… from Troy." She started sobbing again, harder than she had in the car.

And Shirley finally read the body of the text message for the first time.

"Britta. You're capable of so much

that it hurts me to see you like this.

You're the most incredible woman

I've ever met in my life"

"Troy sent this…?" Shirley asked, and the bartender's words about Britta drinking to forget some guy echoed back into her head. "Oh. Oh. I… guess I hadn't realized you two had gotten so… close. Though I guess that does explain why you gave him that lock of your hair…" At the time Shirley had chalked that up, as she had so much of her friend's behavior lately, to the weed.

"He was so nice, and funny, and smart, and kind, and pretty good in bed-"

"Okay! Did not need to hear that!" Shirley interrupted loudly.

"And he liked me for me! For me! And now he's gone, probably forever. And you wanna know the worst part? Part of the reason I think I'm so sad is that I can't even blame myself this time."

"Oh, Britta!" Shirley cried, feeling her heart break for her friend. She rushed over and sat down on the chair's armrest, pulling the younger woman in for a fierce hug.

"You're right Shirley; I'm acting like a stupid tween. I'm the worst," Britta said, snot flowing down out of her nose to stain Shirley's shawl.

"Britta, you should never feel stupid or weak for missing someone you care about. I miss him too. We all do." Shirley said. She reached over to the coffee table with one arm to retrieve the glass of water she'd left there. "Here pumpkin, drink up. Why didn't you tell me you were going through all this?"

"I thought you'd just tell me it was for the best, that I was too old for him and that I was being dumb," Britta sniffled before downing the water in one long, continuous chug. Some of it poured out the side of her mouth and down her chin. She smacked her lips. "Wow, this tastes really good!"

"That's because you're already starting to get dehydrated from all that alcohol," Shirley said sympathetically, letting go of Britta to pour her another glass. "And… maybe I've been a little hard on you lately. I've just…" Shirley trailed off.

"What?" Britta asked frowning. "Don't be embarrassed, Shirley. It's not like I'm going to remember all of this tomorrow." She drank the water, more slowly this time, looking at her friend with concern.

"I've just been so frustrated lately! Ever since Greendale stole my sandwich shop idea. I thought… I thought I'd finally have something, you know? Something to define me beyond: Shirley Bennett, put upon spouse and terrible mother." Shirley felt tears of her own welling up. It felt good, though, to voice these things. "And I keep having these weird dreams where I've murdered Andre. I feel like I'm going crazy!"

"Shirley, that's not crazy. I took a class on dream analysis. Violent imagery in dreams is normal, especially if you're feeling frustrated and watch as many crime-"Britta paused to let out a loud belch "-crime shows as you do."

"Really?" Shirley asked, her voice tentative.

"Yeah! Totally! I'm pretty sure…" Britta took another sip of her water.

That didn't exactly fill Shirley with confidence, but Britta's words did ring true emotionally for her. She reached up to brush the tears out of her own eyes.

"And anyway, you're a great mom Shirley! I wish I'd had you, growing up, instead of my shitty mother."

"Awwww, pumpkin." Shirley beamed. "You're a good friend. You've always been there, pushing me to be more than I am. You're not the worst."

Britta smiled back at her, leaning her head on her shoulder. They sat there for a while, not saying anything.

"Tell you what, Britta. You finish drinking this pitcher of water before you pass out, and tomorrow, if you're not too hungover, we'll meet up and talk about Troy and Andre and all this mess when you're sober and I'm not exhausted and cranky," Shirley offered.

"I'd like that. " She opened her arms, inviting Shirley in for one last hug. Shirley grasped her firmly, pulling her to her breast. She was glad, now, that Britta had woken her up from that nightmare.

Eventually they broke their hug. Britta's eyes were still red and puffy, but she seemed much happier.

"Okay." Shirley said, standing up, "I'm going to get to take off now. I think Andre might have stayed up, waiting for me."

"Thanks for the ride, and the talk Shirley," Britta said. "And sorry for waking you."

Shirley smiled at her from the doorway. She placed Britta's keys on an end table near the exit, and then made her way back to her car, home, her family, and bed.

No more dreams disturbed Shirley Bennett's sleep, that night.