A/N: This is slightly a crack-fic, but like only a smidge of crack, not full-on crackhead. Crack. Read on.

Ally wasn't sure if she should be more amused or offended that Dez's outfits were becoming increasingly louder the longer her writer's block persisted. She had approximately eight hours to write Austin's song for his first ever spot on a national late night show. Jimmy Fallon requested a brand new song over a month ago when this was all booked with Trish. But, in classic Trish flair, she chose to remember this particular detail with a mouth full of three mini pizzas, three days before the show. Ally had spent the last 48 hours mostly awake. Mostly, in that there were three or so fuzzy hours when she was either passed out on the piano bench or giving Austin an obscenely long head rub. She assumed it was just a strange dream.

Nibbling on the ends of her hair, she rolled her eyes at Dez's lime green blazer, genie pants, and the large clock he was wearing as a necklace. He was finding a lot of amusement out of periodically strutting by her, striking a pose, and yelling, "Stop! Writing time!" She didn't have the meanness in her to tell him he was clearly confusing his references: M.C. Hammer wore parachute pants, and the clock necklace was a Flavor Flav signature. She'd been hanging out with Austin too much.

Ally crumpled up yet another sheet of mangled, half-sensible, unsatisfactory lyrics. She eyed Austin slouched against her piano. They'd been hunkered down in the practice room for days. It was two in the morning, and she really wanted to strangle Trish. When Austin groaned against the piano keys, she gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. She may have lingered a little and moved ever so slightly to play with his hair.

"I'm so sorry." She had to nearly shout. Dez was performing a tap dance for no one in particular with Bruno Mars on full-volume. "When Trish gets back from her 'vacation', cough, hiding in her wreck room in shame and guilt with her phone off, I am going to, to, to…." She considered this for a second, not realizing she was still gently fiddling with his hair or his peaceful expression. "I am going to passive aggressively pout and freeze her out for at least twenty minutes…because I'm polite...and weak."

Dez's electric green tap shoes clipped against the hardwood floors, perfectly in sync as he belted out, "You make me stay here! Spend the rest of my days here!"

That's when Ally came to the understanding that there was no way they were going to get any work done in these conditions. Their flight to New York was leaving at the frighteningly close hour of 10 A.M. She had hardly decided which messenger bag to bring. This narrow writing time frame was seriously wrecking her psyche. And her split ends.

Seemingly nuzzling further into her palm that was combing through his blond hair, Austin sighed. "Ally, it's not your fault. We've been under tight deadlines before. We can do this. And I'm going to stay right here until this song is done."

"I think we should make an emergency pancake run."

As if hearing the ice cream truck, Austin shot upright. "Seriously? Ally Dawson is suggesting we blow off work to get delicious fluffy pancakes?"

"Yes, Austin. And Ally Dawson also thinks we should bring said fluffy deliciousness to your room." She said this with a nod of finality. Sure, she was partly cognitive of the crazy, uncharacteristic, oh-so-not-planned things coming out of her mouth. But, she was starving, she wanted someplace soft to sit, and she was about one more Top 40 song away from mentally melting Dez down to a puddle of pleather and neon suspenders.

She grabbed Austin's hand and her songbook, and charged towards the door.

"You guys go ahead. I'll hold down the fort," Dez said.

Ally was a little impressed with his use of such a normal phrase until she realized he was literally sitting in a sheet fort with an expression of determination.

"You do that," Austin said, chuckling.

It was a fifteen minute bus ride to Al's Mini-Mart, a pretty beat-up looking convenience store that Ally had been wary of the first time Austin took her here, especially since it was for pancakes. But, beyond its spray-painted and barred window exterior were golden brown morsels of breakfast-magic, available 24/7.

As per their usual late night routine, Austin went straight for the hot bar to choose the right pancakes, meticulously inspecting their weight, airiness, and overall color. Ally marched over to the refrigerated section and surveyed the wall of drinks. Normally she would grab him a couple of Red Bulls and pick a Diet Coke for herself. Once in the waiting room of her dentist's office she'd read in a 2005 issue of Women's Health that energy drinks were a leading cause of tooth decay and gum disease. But, they had Late Night to think of and lyrics that weren't even close to being started other than they agreed to make it a love song. Pulling out four tall blue and silver cans, she decided her religiously brushed and flossed teeth could handle a little bit of extra-caffeinated fuel.

She spun on her heel away from the glass doors and artificial chilled air to Austin proudly cradling his selections in a Styrofoam takeout container. Looking up at her, he raised his eyebrows. "You're drinking Red Bull?"

She scoffed and walked past him. "Can you stop questioning everything I do tonight?"

"Fine," he said. "Has anyone ever told you, you get pretty sassy when you're tired?"

Ally stopped to get in line behind a large man buying a lottery ticket. "That would actually be a new one," she said. "Like the song we still have to write."

Before she could take a hearty bite of her own brown locks, the guy in front of them turned around with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, giving Austin an odd once-over. The guy smiled. "You wouldn't happen to have a pen on you, would you?" He was energetically tapping a laminated picture of Austin from the new Cheetah Beat in his leather-gloved fist. "My daughter is a huge fan."

Feeling way less wigged out by his later statement, Austin grinned. "Of course." And without even needing to ask, Ally handed him her navy ballpoint. He scrawled his name across the magazine, addressing it to his hopefully real daughter Casey, noticing as he dotted his "I" that there was a heart above him with Ally's face inside. Written in bright pink letters was 'Sorry Ladies, Mr. Moon appears to be a taken man.'

"Thanks, Austin." The guy rolled the magazine up, took a drag on his cigarette, and nudged Austin in the ribs. "Take care of that girlfriend of yours."

Ally swore this carcinogenic puffing stranger was nodding in her general direction, and it kind of stunned her as he clomped away on his motorcycle boots.

Austin seemed to uncomfortably chuckle. "Pssh…that guy…he…um, are you in the mood for Twizzlers?"

Ally shook her head, somewhat insulted by his reaction to hearing someone suggest they were dating again. She stayed silent as he paid for their food and drinks, on the bus ride to the beginning of his gated neighborhood, waving to the gate keeper who was on a first name basis with Austin, weaving through the well known path of dark backyards, all the way to the tree at the mouth of his bedroom window.

The branches were placed evenly enough to make it pretty painless to climb up to the second floor. He'd left on his rarely used desk lamp, the rest of his room illuminated by the streetlight outside.

"Bed." He spoke in hushed admiration as he plopped down face first.

Ally sat crossed legged at the foot of his mattress and snapped the lid off her very first Red Bull. The sharp metallic sound seemed to rouse his attention. Sitting up, he took one of the cans from her. While he took a measured sip, she guzzled down half of hers with a wince because it reminded her of watery Benadryl. Vigorously shaking her head, she downed the rest and opened her second.

"Slow down," he said. His mouth was full of the last pancake. They'd shared the others on the bus while they were still hot. "You're gonna crash harder than Dez after he tried eating his weight in cotton candy at that carnival."

She let the crushing of empty aluminum speak for her as she practically ripped open her notebook to stare at another empty page. The Red Bull was having no effect on her, unless it had some enzyme that made her have stupid thoughts about her best friend/ temporarily awkward boyfriend in the middle of the night. She didn't realize she was tapping her pen against her knee until Austin started drumming along with her on his chest, somehow enjoying his drink from a sprawled horizontal position. Horizontal position: those words did whirly things to her insides. So she stood up to get her balance.

"I'm going to the bathroom," she said.

She didn't need to go to the bathroom, but walked into his adjoining one anyway. Flicking on the light, she stared at herself in the mirror, pushed her hair off her forehead, made grimacing pirate growls for no real reason. She color-coordinated his collection of conditioners, neatly folded his hanging towels, and maybe, kinda, sort of smelled this button down purple shirt of his that smelled just like his cologne.

And then it hit her all at once, this rush that made her feel invincible. She opened the door and sprinted into his room, brimming with a scheme so idiotic it might work.

Austin was lazily tossing a Koosh ball in the air as she started jostling his socked foot. He smirked. "Hi there, crazy. Feeling a little wired?"

She laughed a smidge too loud for his parents to be just down the hall. Though she immediately nodded in understanding once he rightfully shushed her. She leaned forward to whisper. "I have the perfect idea. We're writing a love song, right? Love songs are about love. To write, you need to be inspired. To write about love, you need to be inspired by love. Because love songs are about love."

Austin was squinting. "Yeah, I think I got that part. So, how do you want to get inspired? Listen to a slow song? Read sappy poems? Watch The Wedding Diaries again?"

Ally aggressively pointed at him. "Austin Moon, those are very good but also very 'level one' suggestions. A Jimmy, gonna be performing in front of the freakin' Roots, Fallon performance cannot be inspired by level one suggestions. I am on level twenty right now."

Propping himself up on his elbows, he laughed. "What exactly is happening way up there on level twenty?

A tiny shred of dignity crouched somewhere between the tissue of Ally's brain was shouting in a cartoonish, squeaky voice about how she shouldn't say what she was about to say. And that she better brush that sugary drink off her teeth within a respectable thirty minutes.

She tilted in her head with faux innocence. "I think we should try kissing again."

"Excuse me?"

"I said that we should kiss again. Me and you. My mouth and your mouth. They'd be touching. That's what kissing is, FYI." She was speaking in her awkward sing-song voice.

"Ally, I know what kissing is. I'm just not sure you know what you're saying." He rolled his wrist in a come-on-get-it-together motion. "We're not even seeing each other."

She leaned onto the bed, bracing her weight on her bare knees as the hem of her dress hovered just above his belt. "I've watched television. I know friends can make out. They do it on ABC Family almost as often as hot teenagers kill other hot teenagers."

She could have sworn Austin squealed a little. "Now you want to make out? Ally Dawson, I've never heard such language from you."

Tipping herself even closer to his body, she cupped his bicep and made a face that she hoped was about as fierce as Beyonce's during her Super bowl performance. "Level one Ally would have made flirty eyes at you and listened to Michael Bublé while you danced around with that fedora Dez bought you while visiting his sick aunt in Chicago. Level twenty Ally is going to attack you like a ferocious jungle-tiger-lady."

With that as her warning, she pinned him against his comforter and basically mouth-butted him. After jerking back to check her front teeth for chips, she dove back in, forcibly parting his lips and kissing him with enough force to literally suck his face off. There was ungraceful drool, heavy breathing. But eventually, Austin was gently holding her hips, slowing her pace as their movements better aligned, his tongue slipping into her mouth.

After several blood rushing minutes, Ally moved back just enough to kiss the side of his jaw, his neck, and then his collarbone. "You're so hot. I've always wanted to tell you that. You're so, so hot, and amazing, and sweet, and caring, and funny, and hot, and perfect."

His Adams apple hummed against her cheek when he laughed. "This is probably the sleaziest moment I could pick for this, so I'll say it again when you're not on top of me. But, we should totally get back together."

She hesitated, shifting her head to look down at him. "Really?"

He bugged his eyes out playfully. "Duh."

"Even with all that it-might-ruin-our-friendship talk?"

He made a broad gesture to the current way their bodies were intimately intertwined. "Call me old school, but I'm not the kind of guy who does this with my friend."

She grinned with an enthusiastic nod. "All twenty levels of Ally agree." Lurching upright, she rolled to his side.

He whined and grabbed for her. "Where are you going?"

Displaying her notebook with pride, she began writing. "I have lyrics. Also, my caffeine-high died about five minutes ago. Can I please finish your Red Bull?"

With an exasperated expression, he handed her his mostly full can and peered over her shoulder.

She turned to give him a hard look. "What are you do doing just sitting around for? Turn on the Bublé and start dancing."

He stood, knowing not to argue when she was in a writing frenzy. Just as he was adjusting the volume on his iPod speakers to a reasonable four in the morning level, he was hit in the back with his Koosh ball.

"Austin, guess what?" She seemed fairly normal now, just a little hyper.

"What?"

She shot him a huge smile. "We're back together."

"I know, right!" he said. He was grinning just as wide. Dramatically leaning back, fedora in hand, he started dancing to the beginning of one of Bublé's Frank Sinatra covers.

And Ally loved Red Bull so much she wanted to burn every single Women's Health magazines in every single dentist's waiting room in the Miami area. That is, after she thoroughly brushed her teeth.

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