Holiday Fic! (Part Two)
Someone decided that working on holiday fic at work would be more fun than grading papers. Oops. More to come later this week (I hope).
This is for hplssrmntc8688, who prompted: "The Parks dept at the annual tree lighting at Ramsett Park. Leslie wants Ben to dress as a sexy elf to Jerry's Santa."
Um...This is kind of that. I hope you like it.
Two Little Elves
“I always really admired Hermey’s attention to dental hygiene.”
“Uh huh,” Ben grunts. He’s half-asleep, more absorbed in the feeling of Leslie’s warm body snuggled up against him than Rudolph’s story playing out on the TV, which isn’t surprising considering they’ve spent a good chunk of the day watching Christmas specials (Leslie, who, the day after Thanksgiving, pulled out a box of Christmas movies that included a ridiculous number of VHS tapes, has a schedule to optimize their viewing experience). Her musing commentary is beyond his total comprehension at this point.
“It’s a pretty sexy quality, I think.”
“Sure,” he mumbles, shifting her a bit and letting his eyes drift shut. “Healthy teeth…”
He’s asleep before he can complete the thought.
Three days later, he comes home to find Leslie thoughtfully sucking on a candy cane, surveying the explosion of Christmas in their living room. Decorations are everywhere, a disorganized mess of lights and garlands and ornaments and wreaths, but with Leslie’s lips around the staff of the cane, taking such obvious delight in the taste of the peppermint, Ben is too distracted to notice the mess.
She catches him staring. Smiles and lets her tongue dart out to lick all around the candy because she knows. “You know,” she says casually, “I bet candy canes are like aphrodisiacs for elves.”
It’s a weird thing to say. Suspiciously weird, in retrospect, but at that moment, Ben is too caught up in needing to kiss her to notice.
He doesn’t get wary until two days later, when he wakes up to find Leslie has left him a present. It’s sitting on her pillow, wrapped in paper depicting cheerful elves and topped with a flourishing bow, a tag attached. “To my sexy Christmas elf.”
Inside is a pair of boxers, covered in frolicking men in green suits and little hats.
Warning bells go off.
It’s not like she hasn’t referred to him this way before; it’s happened more times than he wants to admit, actually. But never in the context of Christmas; never with this careful deliberateness that he finds unnerving. He thinks back over the past week or so, to the increased references, the casual non-sequitors, and wonders what she’s planning to spring on him.
He has a feeling it’s not going to be a pleasant surprise.
It continues for several days after that. Little asides in their conversation; a comment on how great he’d look in Christmas green; some slightly disturbing references to his elfin features during their foreplay. Each moment puts him a little more on edge, a little more anxious to get to the climax of this performance.
And then one night he comes home to find an elf costume lying over the back of the living room couch.
Green shorts. Striped socks. Curl-toed shoes. A hat with a bell on the end.
Good lord.
“Put me on,” reads the note Leslie has placed on top of this terror.
It’s the worst case scenario. The worry that’s lingered in his mind like a distant nightmare ever since he figured out that she was up to something. And it’s only now that it’s here that he realizes how much he was hoping to be wrong.
He grabs the hat, hoping that it will appease her (it won’t) and heads up to their bedroom, naïve in his belief that there’s nothing more to this.
He’s wrong.
So wrong.
When he enters the room, he finds Leslie lying across the bed, weight propped on her elbow, smiling naughtily-at least until she realizes he’s sans costume.
And she’s dressed head-to-toe as an elf.
The whole shebang: hat, shirt, skirt, socks, shoes-outfit coordinated to the one she left for him-her hair pulled back in pigtails. She’s even added extra rouge to her cheeks, giving them a brighter pink tint. It’s a perfect depiction of an elf, aside from the frown that overtakes her when she sees him.
“Ben,” she says, barely containing her whine, “where’s your costume?”
“Um…” He puts on the hat, bell jingling absurdly, and tries to show a modicum of enthusiasm. Instantly, she hops off of the bed and pulls it back off, poking him in the chest with her other hand.
“Come on.” She really is whining now. “I want to role play.”
What now? “As elves?”
Amazingly, she’s looking at him like he’s crazy. “Yeah. Well, I mean, I got the costumes for us to wear to the Christmas tree lighting in Ramsett Park this weekend, but we might as well get some use out of them.”
“You-You’re serious?”
“Yeah. Come on, Ben. Elves are sexy.”
He laughs. Can’t quite help himself, even though he can tell it strikes a nerve with her. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “Sorry. But, Les, elves are not sexy.”
“Yes they are.”
She steps back, putting a hand on her hip and turning to give him a full view of her costume, walking across the room and back like a runway walk will convince him. Of course, when she turns to face him again, it’s abundantly clear that she thinks that’s the case. “Admit it, Ben,” she urges, arching her back a bit so her breasts stick out. “Admit this is sexy.”
Sexy is not the first adjective that comes to mind. Disregarding the fact that Leslie is sexy all the time just because she’s Leslie, this outfit is doing nothing to enhance that. Adorable, silly, slightly ridiculous: these are adjectives that apply to how she looks right now. “It’s-Well, it’s, uh, cute.”
“Baby pandas are cute, Ben,” she huffs, both hands on her hips now. And this-Leslie somewhat annoyed and frustrated with him-this has a certain sexy overtone that harkens back to the early days of their relationship. But if anything, the fact that she’s dressed like an elf is killing it. “Penguins are cute. There is nothing cute about elves.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
“Maybe that’s true in, like, Lord of the Rings. But Leslie, you’re talking about Santa’s elves. Santa, who is the exaggerated figure of a children’s story that the western world persists in upholding.”
“Ugh. That might be the Grinchiest thing anyone has ever said. You’re perverting the spirit of Santa.”
“I’m perverting it?” he asks incredulously. Her ability to turn the tables and ignore key facts during an argument is continually astounding. “Leslie, my whole point is that he-and everything surrounding him-has no connotation with sex. At all.”
Uh-oh. He knows that face. That I’m going to prove you wrong, Ben gaze that basically spells doom, either his because she’ll succeed (she won’t succeed here), or theirs because her attempt will bring everything around them crashing to the ground. Leslie’s dedication to being right is never halfhearted.
She steps closer to him, running one hand over his chest up to his shoulder, her eyes slowly trailing up his body to meet his with a soft, sultry look. “So you’re telling me,” she says lowly, “that Santa’s elves are inherently asexual creatures?”
“Yes.”
“And that there’s never the occasion on a bitterly cold winter night, after all the toy making is done and the cocoa is drunk, that two little elves are going to curl up together to keep each other warm?”
“That-No.”
“That even if Santa frowns upon it, doesn’t think elves should be mixing business and pleasure, that there might be two elves who just can’t help themselves? Who think the twinkle in each other’s eyes and rosy cheeks and curled shoes are impossible to resist? You’re telling me that never happens?”
He shakes his head, determined to stand his ground even though she’s fighting dirty. Standing this close, touching him, saying those words in that voice-it’s all a cheat because none of it proves her point.
“No,” he says, ignoring the catch in his voice even if Leslie won’t. “Leslie, elves aren’t concerned with anything but making toys. Show me one story, one movie, one Christmas card-anything that says otherwise.”
Leslie grins dangerously. Almost like she anticipated his words and now she’s got him right where she wants him. He swallows hard and pretends his pulse isn’t racing at the thought of what she has planned. She steps back from him and bats her eyes, looking every bit the devil despite her pigtails and striped stockings.
Slowly, she traces her hands down her body, finding the hem of her skirt and lifting it to reveal her underwear, a pair of green boyshorts with red lace trim. And right before his eyes, front and center, are two little elves in the throes of doing something unspeakably dirty, nude except for their green toe-curled shoes and jingle-bell hats.
"Good lord."
“Are you still going to tell me elves aren’t sexy?”
And she looks so proud of herself, so positive she's right, that, dammit, he can’t help but laugh as he wraps an arm around her back and pulls her in for a kiss.
“You’re right,” he acquiesces, because god, if she ever deserved to be smug, it’s right now. “You win.”
“Good. Now go put on your costume. This elf wants to be on Santa’s naughty list this year.”
For craponaspatula, who asked for a fic about sleepless Leslie acting hyper during the holiday season. This was not at all what I intended to write, but the plot bunny in my brain wouldn't shut up, so...
First time at this point of view, so feedback would be most welcome.
Paper Chains
In the darkened hallway, the light emanating from the crack at the bottom of Leslie’s bedroom door might as well be a lighthouse beacon. It glows warmly, beckoning Marlene down the hall and incriminating her daughter all at once. Not for the first time (and Marlene would wager, certainly not for the last), it seems that Leslie has crept out of bed to engage in something that simply couldn’t wait. There’s always some excuse-I had to read just one more page, Mommy! Coloring helps make me sleepy! Bunny needed to hear about Betsy Ross!-and once, Marlene found her asleep in the middle of the floor, every board game she owns spread out around her (she never did discover what was going on that night). She suspects tonight will be something similar: Leslie, fast asleep in the middle of some kind of chaos. It’s nearly one in the morning, after all.
Our little night owl, Robert used to call her. Even when she was a baby, she would lie awake for hours, just staring at the world around her. It’s a problem that gets worse when Leslie is excited for something, and given that Christmas is only ten days away, Marlene can’t say she’s surprised.
What does surprise her is what she finds on the other side of Leslie’s door.
Her daughter, wide awake, sits in the middle of the room, surrounded by a veritable sea of red and green paper chains. She’s half-humming, half-singing some silly Christmas song Marlene vaguely recognizes, but she freezes as Marlene steps into the room, holding a pair of scissors in one hand and a half-finished paper snowflake in the other. She bites her lip, eyes widening with guilt, and already Marlene can see the litany of excuses flying through her mind, never mind that the evidence speaks for her. There’s a hand-print of glue across her cheek, wisps of her hair already caught in the sticky fingerprints, and her pajamas are the victim of the same impatient swipes of her hands.
Marlene feels the oddest urge to cry.
It takes more effort than usual to suppress the urge, a troubling realization made worse by the fact that she’s not sure what’s triggered the lump in her throat and the sting in her eyes. She’d like to blame it on something trivial (excusable), like exhaustion, but it comes from a more complicated and infinitely weaker place-the part of her that is fatigued in an entirely different way because she’s raising a child alone and spending the month not counting down the days to Christmas, but to the anniversary of her husband’s death.
Her husband, whose favorite time of year was Christmas. Who insisted on a live tree every year, despite the extra work, and who spent hours on outdoor lighting. Who used to make cheap-looking paper chains with his daughter and drape them all around the house. Her husband, who died a week after Christmas last year, and forever soured whatever joy Marlene might have once found in this season. It’s a truth she’s been trying to ignore for Leslie’s sake, one she thought she was doing a particularly good job of hiding, only to now see that it was an illusion she simply chose to believe.
Crying about it, though, is simply not an option.
Particularly as Leslie, who apparently can’t find words to explain her actions, is trying-and failing-to fight the same urge. Her face scrunches up, a bald attempt to hold in tears, but then she whimpers and begins to leak like a faucet. She draws her knees to her chest and buries her face against them, as if she believes that by hiding, Marlene won't be able to tell she’s crying. The problem is, Leslie cries with as much energy as she does everything else, and she can’t quell the wracking sobs and sniffles that give it away.
Marlene gives her two long minutes to get it out of her system. It’s an indulgence she doesn’t usually permit-never if they’re in public-though, thankfully, Leslie doesn’t cry often. Tonight, though, she waits. Patiently allows Leslie to express what she’s feeling in a way Marlene can’t, and then pulls her back from that precipice.
“Leslie,” she says, tone even and unemotional. “Why are you crying?”
Her daughter bawls something incomprehensible, the top of her blonde head shaking back and forth in some denial, and Marlene sighs. “Sit up, Leslie. I can’t hear you.”
Leslie lifts her head, the tear streaks and red-tipped nose only adding to the mess of glue and hair, to the point that it would almost be comical in other circumstances. “Well?” she prompts. “Take a deep breath first.”
Leslie does as she’s told, swiping at her nose with the sleeve of her shirt as she does. “Y-You ruined the sur-surprise.”
“What surprise?”
Limply, Leslie picks up the end of one paper chain and shakes it a little. “I made it for you. F-for Christmas.”
This time, Marlene stamps on the urge to be emotional before it even begins. There’s no use in it. Not for her, and definitely not for Leslie.
“Come here,” she says, gesturing with a crook of her finger. Leslie obeys, rubbing at her eyes as she tiptoes over the piles of paper littering the floor. When she reaches the door, Marlene takes her by the shoulders and guides her down the hall to the bathroom. “Let’s clean you up.”
Despite the hour, she runs another bath for Leslie, patiently washing the glue out of her hair and letting the warm water sooth away the last of the tears. She doesn't reprimand her, doesn't chastise her inability to go to bed when she's told and sleep, because Leslie is Leslie. This behavior, annoying as it can be, is something innate that no amount of lecturing can change. Punishment, as Marlene has learned, won't fix this.
By the time her fingers are as wrinkled as prunes, Leslie is calm again, the light back in her eyes and warmth returned to her voice. “Do you like them, Mommy?” she asks as Marlene pats her dry, wrapping the towel around Leslie before they walk back to her room.
“Hmm?”
“My chains.” Leslie runs ahead of her, as boundlessly energetic as usual, and eyes the horrendous mess of paper with a critical eye. “I don’t know if they’re long enough.”
Before Marlene can stop her, one of Leslie’s hands pokes out from the towel and grabs the end of a chain, guiding it backwards out of the room and halfway down the hall. Irrationally, all she can think is to wonder where Leslie found that much construction paper.
“I think if anything, you were overambitious, sweetheart.”
Leslie frowns. “Can we hang them up and see?”
“It’s already hours past your bedtime. You have school in the morning.”
“Please? Please, please, please? I’m not tired at all! Please, Mommy, please?”
Leslie’s pleas are always wholehearted, made with the same passion whether she wants to push the button on the elevator or doesn’t want to eat her asparagus at dinner; Marlene can’t say that they’ve ever been the deciding factor in anything she’s granted her daughter. But tonight, at one in the morning, after stomping on so many of her own desires, all Marlene can see is the hope in Leslie’s impossibly large blue eyes.
After all, it is Christmas, Robert would have said. Such sentimental nonsense. The kind that lives on in their five-year-old daughter. The kind she's been inadventently stamping on all month.
Or, maybe, in the middle of the night, she's simply lost the will to fight any more.
“Fine.”
“Really?”
“Put on your pajamas and come downstairs.”
Leslie barrels down the hall, dropping the towel, but letting the chain flap after her. Already regretting this decision somewhat, Marlene begins to gather the other paper.
It is, honestly, a ridiculous number of chains.
In the end, they have enough to drape around the living room window, along every doorway downstairs, and around the dining room light fixture. The remainder they hang across Leslie’s ceiling, a large red and green X that frames her room. The snowflakes-which Leslie maintains she needs more of--already fill up most of the windows in the house.
If, by the time they’re done, Marlene decides that Leslie can miss one day of school to catch up on sleep, she thinks most people would understand. And if that means they settle onto the couch together with hot chocolate and tune in to the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, who can fault her?
She’s still chastising herself, though, when she finally dozes off, Leslie snuggled up against her.