The "the fire alarm went off and you were in the shower and wow you're hot, do you want my clothes or something?" au that no one had even thought to ask for but I knew that we needed anyway
this is 100% based off of my real college experience; you would not believe how many time the stoners make the fire alarm go off by accident, it's the Worst thing, and one of my friends saved a girl who was only in a towel from freezing to death by giving her a sweatshirt. Please enjoy!
Ilse is roused from her evening nap by the fire alarm.
“Fuckin’ Till 3,” She mutters, throwing her shoes on and grabbing her phone from the charger. She considers changing out of her basketball shorts and loose t-shirt, but she just grabs a sweatshirt from her desk as she checks the time. 4:27. She huffs. “Jesus, it’s been seven minutes, can they please calm the fuck down?”
No one responds, of course, because the alarm is loud enough to block any noise below a scream, and because she's alone because her roommate is in class.
The building is on fire and I'm leaving your stuff to burn, Ilse texts her roommate, Thea, as she leaves and locks their room. Thea responds by the time Ilse is in the painfully crowded stairwell, pretty quickly for someone who’s in class, good, im always looking for an excuse to drop out of college and live on the streets, then, give the till 3 boys my love and tell them to stop fucking smoking weed in rooms with fire alarms.
Ilse chuckles and pockets her phone, focusing all her energy on not tripping down the stuffed staircase. By the time she's gotten outside, she's been tripped four times, nearly knocked over twice, and elbowed at least a dozen times. I hate fire alarms, she thinks vehemently.
It takes less than a minute of asking around to confirm that no, there's no real fire, and yes, it was probably just the boys on the third floor smoking weed in their dorms, again.
“Tilly was supposed to be a calm dorm,” Ilse mutters to herself.
“You're telling me,” A feminine voice says. Ilse turns, surprised, and sees a dark-skinned girl in a towel.
“Um,” Ilse says, because Towel Girl is not only 1. In only a towel, but also, 2. Soaking wet, and 3. Unfairly attractive. “Couldn't grab clothes on your way out?”
Way to go, Ilse; let’s just be a dick to the cute girl, because that's totally how you flirt.
To Ilse's surprise, the cute girl laughs. “I was showering when the alarm went off, but I live on the second floor and I was sure that it wasn't a real fire, so I finished rinsing off before I got out. Unfortunately, my roommate forgot that I didn't have my key with me and she locked the door on her way out, so, you know. Towel's all I've got.”
“Man, that sucks. Do you want my jacket?” Ilse asks, then, thinking of something, “Actually, do you want my shorts too? I wear boxers, and even if I didn't, this shirt is big enough to hide it.”
Towel Girl visibly flusters, raising a hand to wave Ilse off. “I couldn't impose-”
“Dude, no,” Ilse says, “I'm insisting. Unless I'm making you uncomfortable for real, in which case I'm seriously apologizing and respectfully backing off.”
“No, no, you're fine, it's,” Towel Girl lowers her head and messes with one of the thick, dark waves in her long hair. She glances up at Ilse through her eyelashes. “Really nice of you. I just transferred here, actually, from the state school, and it’s, um. Nice.”
Ilse's heart skips a beat, she's certain of it. “Haha, well. I'm glad you think so,” Ilse says, staring at Towel Girl for a second more before shrugging out of her jacket and handing it to Towel Girl. “I'm Ilse, by the way. I try to make sure that people who get me to drop my pants at least know my name.”
Towel Girl laughs again, sliding on Ilse’s jacket. Ilse can't help but notice how it looks just the perfect side of too big on her. “Nice to meet you Ilse, my name is Wendla Bergmann.”
“Wendla,” Ilse repeats as she hands Wendla her shorts. “It's-”
“Old-fashioned, I know, my dad-”
“I was going to say it was beautiful,” Ilse says. Wendla stops, freezing for a moment and Ilse swears that she can see a slight blush under her dark skin. Ilse takes a deep breath. “Just like you.”
Wendla's eyes widen further. “That was a line.”
“It was,” Ilse confirms nervously, “Unless you're straight or not interested, in which case it was just a ‘gals being pals’ thing.”
Wendla tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and smiles. “No, I'm not straight, I'm just also not used to being hit on.”
“Seriously?” Ilse asks incredulously before she can stop herself. She slaps a hand over her own mouth after the words come out, flushing in shame. Wendla giggles.
“Seriously. I had one boyfriend in high school but that was,” Wendla averts her eyes, sighing, “High school, you know?”
Ilse doesn't, not really, because she spent high school in a fancy all-girls boarding school after her super rich great aunt got custody of her in 8th grade, but she nods anyway. “Well, you've got a card carrying bisexual hitting on you right now.”
“Card carrying?”
“Yeah!” Ilse says, reaching down for her phone and only hitting her thigh. She looks at Wendla, who's now wearing the shorts and the sweatshirt with her towel relocated to her hair. “In your left pocket, my phone is there. In the card sleeve on the back, there's a bisexual card. I got it at Pride last year.”
Wendla pulls it out and laughs. “I need one of these,” She says, then, shyly, “So, is this card carrying bisexual still interested?”
Ilse beams. “Definitely!”
Wendla smiles back, looking excited and nervous. “I mean, people are going back in? I'll have to get dressed, and return your shorts and sweatshirt, obviously, but we could go to the dining hall?”
“That would be great,” Ilse says, then, “Hey, you can put your number in my phone and you can call me when you're ready.”
“You just want my number,” Wendla accuses, but not meanly.
“I just want your number,” Ilse admits, “But did it work?”
Wendla holds a stern look for a second, before succumbing to giggles. “Yes, it was very smooth.”
Wendla hands Ilse her phone to unlock, and Wendla inputs her number before leaving for her own room. Ilse watches her go, shellshocked and still not believing that that just happened to her. She unlocks her phone, pausing to stare at Wendla's contact in disbelief for a moment, before thumbing to her roommate's number. She should've just gotten out of class. Ilse presses call.
“Yeah, hey, you will never believe what just happened. I have a date.”
