(no subject)
Two If By Sea, pg-13
Leslie/Ben
3100 words
"Indianapolis International to Boston Logan, 6:15 a.m."
My thanks to fairytiger for ALL THE THINGS (Including the title, which I laughed SO HARD AT when she suggested it.) Essentially this was the brainchild of something that shornt mentioned? So thank you for that, C. dear. Yeah.
Notes: Alright, I was so jazzed to write this piece when the idea popped into my brainbox and then... I'm not actually sure what happened. This isn't how I expected this piece to turn out, but here you have it.
---
The wedding is really something. It really, really is. There’s just the right amount of twinkle lights, a sundae bar set up, the majority of the guests get happily plastered. The food, oh, the food is amazing and the wedding cake is moist and delicious and there’s no fondant. (Gross.)
April catches the bouquet and because she’s married, she throws it in Ann’s face. Literally, right in Ann’s face.
So, really, technically, Ann catches the bouquet but no one will really remember that; what they’ll remember is Leslie in her amazing, strapless A-line gown (with the pewter sash at the waist and the tiny pearl clusters) and Ben in his tuxedo, cumberbund rumpled and ruddy after hours spent on the dancefloor.
They won’t remember Andy’s surprisingly limber roboting of “The Way I Are,” or Marlene Griggs-Knope having one too many seabreezes (people will remember the open bar) and feeling Ron up.
They’ll remember Ben and Leslie (Ben and Leslie properly now, though she’s not changing her last name, or hyphenating it for that matter) leaving in a pimped-out towncar, thanks to Tom, the words, “Just married!” written on the trunk in Donna’s looping handwriting. The people at the wedding will remember them stealing away as soon as the music ends to get home and grab a few hours of sleep before they leave for their honeymoon.
Indianapolis International to Boston Logan, 6:15 a.m.
---
Leslie has five travel books (including Lonely Planet) to cover the city of Boston although there’s no need, it’s really not that large. She doesn’t need five, but she wants to have her bases covered. There are post it notes marking pages and highlighted passages and at the ends of the books, the pages are dogeared.
“And I want to try and make it out to Salem. Oh! And Lexington and Concord! And I guess Quincy for John Quincy Adams,” she goes on and on during their flight about the things she wants to see though they’ve been over it loads of times already. Ben humors her, pats her knee and drifts off at lulls in her soliloquizing. “There’s just so much history Ben! How does one place have so much history?”
It’s rhetorical, of course. Leslie did indeed pass third, fourth and fifth grade American History, but that doesn’t stop Ben from popping an eye open, “Could have something to do with the whole ‘Birthplace of the Revolution’ thing.”
Leslie rolls her eyes and denotes another page with a watermelon pink post it. “Oh, shut up.”
---
They check into the Omni Parker House and she’s still got her head stuck in the travel books. She’d pointed out things to him through the cab window on the way to the hotel, the entire way. “You know Ho Chi Min was a baker here? And Malcolm X was busboy? Crazy! Ben, this is crazy stuff. Maybe someone famous has slept in our room, do you think they’d tell me if I asked them?” She whispers conspiratorially and he grins at her.
“And,” Ben yawns, reading from a brochure he’d snatched up on the way in, “Apparently Charles Dickens lived here for two years.”
She takes her credit card back from the person at the front desk with a smile and a thank you as Ben continues on, “JFK announced his candidacy here too, damn, this is... this one hotel is more exciting that the whole of Indiana. Turn around, run smack into history, I mean I guess I knew that but, okay...” His fingers flick over the glossy pages of the thick brochure, his mouth turning this way and that as he reads and accepts new historical facts.
Leslie nods, waiting for the bellhop to load their luggage onto a cart. “Les, wait,” his voice drops, deadly serious. She turns to glance up at him, ears very nearly perked. “They invented the Boston cream pie here.”
The words land between them, heavy and very important.
Her eyes slowly widen and she turns to the man loading up her suitcase. “Wait, wait, can we... okay, we’ll take these up to our room,” Leslie turns back to Ben, “And then come right back down for the pie.”
“Okay,” he agrees, feels like they’re in a huddle, ‘And break!’
“Sir,” she turns sweetly to the bellhop, “Where can I find this pie?”
---
The thing about Boston is, is that it’s so walkable; they both bought flashy new Nikes specifically for all of the walking they intend on doing. Leslie can’t decide how she wants to get over to where they’re going to begin the Freedom Trail until Ben points out that it’s just a mile to the visitor’s center. They set off from the hotel, passing one Dunkin Donuts, two, three, as they pass through a vast brick wasteland that Ben points out as City Hall Plaza.
They meander down to Congress Street and pass through the Holocaust Memorial before passing behind a row of bars and onto the North End. It’s too early for pastry but it’s not and they both fill up on cannoli and cappuccino and hold hands on top of the table the entire time. It’s sickeningly sweet really, much like their breakfast, but neither of them seems to mind, this is what a honeymoon is, after all and they’re going to all of the basking-in-the-afterglow that they can possibly manage.
---
“One if by land, two if by sea, right?” Leslie asks as they pass into Old North Church and Ben falls absolutely silent, not even deigning to move to pull out his camera.
They’re both a bit in awe of the small church, both recalling the early days of the Revolution and the fact that this is where Paul Revere instructed the lanterns to be hung, that this place was instrumental in the fight for America’s independence, three hundred years ago. They pass through the old, cobbled streets lined with brick and mortar buildings, tiny cowpaths. Paul Revere’s home and Copps Hill Burial Ground and they stop no more than four times for pastries and cheese and coffee, coffee, coffee.
Ben doesn’t want to stop walking, doesn’t want to stop because the air is crisp and clear and they can walk along an ocean and there is history everywhere. When dusk begins to fall and they find themselves pulling their tired legs through the door of the Bell in Hand, Ben is overcome with a great rush of everything and slings his arm tightly around her waist and buries his face in her neck. “I’m so fucking lucky,” he murmurs as the hostess slips away.
Leslie laughs gently and leans right into him, “I think you’re high on history right now,” and she slips away from him, situates herself on a bar stool.
“No,” he claims, sliding onto the stool opposite. “I’m just, really fucking lucky.”
---
What they find is that there’s too much too do, there’s too much food to eat (not that that’s really a problem, but Leslie hadn’t properly prepared herself for how much fish and chowder she’d want to ingest.) When they find themselves aboard the U.S.S. Constitution, swaying on the water, that’s when it really hits her what it must be like to live by the ocean. It smells differently here, salty and old but so promising and she can’t manage to hold onto Ben’s hand as they tour the oldest commissioned battleship in the United States because she’s too busy walking all over seeing everything.
“Ann just texted me,” she says as they’re leaving the Navy Yard. “She wants to know if we’ve parked our car in Harvard Yard, yet.”
Ben gives her a half grin.
It’s a meandering sort of day afterward and she finds that she then doesn’t want to relinquish the hold of Ben’s hand, is perfectly content to settle into the lazy pace of the tourist. Her sneakers catch on the uneven ground and he has to steady her several times; they don’t speak, they hardly talk at all as they glance this way and that, taking in the buildings, the houses affixed with historical markers, 1745, 1763, 1699.
As it’s the cusp of autumn, drying, fallen leaves crunch beneath their feet and dear god, she loves Pawnee but it just doesn’t hold a candle to what she’s experiencing of autumn in New England. It smells like a candle, she thinks; one of those deep orange candles that they tell you is supposed to smell like fall leaves and if this is any indicator, the scent engineers (is that what they’re called? she wonders) were spot on.
“Are we going to go all the way up?” Ben asks after they’ve been walking for a bit and she turns to glance the Bunker Hill Monument. It’s high, up, up, up and she’s tired but she won’t pass it up so Leslie just mutters, “Duh,” and tugs him across the street.
“You know during the Battle of Bunker Hill most of the fighting happened on Breed’s Hill which is actually what this is?” Leslie asks matter-of-factly as they wait in line to be let up the monument. “It’s not Bunker Hill,” she says loud enough for the family in front of her to overhear, turn around and glare.
They giggle at the reaction and Leslie feels so light hearted that she’s dizzy with it.
---
Her calves are on fire halfway up.
---
The end the evening watching the Red Sox get the shit kicked out of them by the Rays, but neither of them care because the hot dogs are fabulous and the ice cream is fabulous and both the peanuts and Cracker Jack hold up to the legend of the song.
They don’t know when they’re supposed to sing along, so when everyone stands and begins reciting Neil Diamond he kisses and kisses and kisses her. Leslie tastes like popcorn and caramel and the very sort of forever that he’ll never get tired of.
They leave before the game is over.
---
It’s strange, the pattern of sex on their honeymoon. There’s pre-dinner sex and morning sex and they’re so keyed up that it doesn’t last that long. There’s bathtub sex, but they’re both so tired and the dynamics of the rocking water is so bizarre that they have to finish on top of their towels on the expansive king bed.
Ben acts as John Adams and Leslie as Abigail, detailing all the naughty bits that she’s sure historians have omitted from her letters.
---
They rent a Zipcar and take the forty minute drive out to Concord. They walk the Minuteman Trail (and walk and walk and walk). It takes them two hours to hike around Walden Pond before they tour the Old Manse and recite Longfellow and Emerson (brokenly and not at all correctly), they dusty and tired when they’re through but neither one of them can contain the smiles.
God, it’s really, really sappy but there’s honestly no place on the planet she’d rather be right this second. She rolls her eyes at herself because, come on Leslie, get a grip. It’s just a honeymoon with the cutest and best guy ever.
By the time sunset rolls around they’re more than ready for a drink or two or three with their fish and chips. It’s a bit crisp for the hour but they insist on sitting on the porch in the fading light of the day. “I think we walked over this whole town,” Ben says as he sips his beer, leans back, back in the chair until Leslie’s sure it will topple over.
Her hand itches to reach for the guidebook but she refrains, instead mimicking his position and closing her eyes. “Hmmm, I don’t think everywhere.” The beer has gone to her head and she knows it’s gone to his; Ben’s begun playing footsie with her beneath the table. “I want to go to the Sleepy Hollow graveyard.”
Ben sighs, his eyes slipping shut as well; they’re both entered a pleasant, tipsy, post-dinner lethargy. “That’s in New York,” he says sleepily.
“Not that one,” Leslie whines on a laugh. “The other one!”
“Oh, the other one,” Ben says and tilts back forward, resting his elbows on the table for a moment, just staring at her.
“I want to see it before we leave and there’s no time to come back,” Leslie says as she stumbles out of her chair. “We need to sober up, anyway,” and Leslie takes his hand and leads them down the front steps. Ben doesn’t even have the chance to say no.
She pulls up a walking map on her iPhone and wags it in front of Ben’s face. “It’s like two blocks, suck it up!”
He laughs and concedes but only after doubling back to the car to retrieve the flashlight from the emergency kit. They navigate the sidewalk easily and as they approach the graveyard a cool breeze rolls in, the scent of autumn crisp on its cusp.
They find that the gates are wide open which is more than a little creepy, seeing as it’s eleven in the evening. They tread inside slowly and carefully and Leslie takes a moment to pull up a map of the tombstones; she just wants to see Louisa May Alcott’s grave.
The two creep along just as a the scent of rain stirs up the scent of dirt and a thunderstorm lingers somewhere in the atmosphere, distant thunder rumbling appropriately. Leslie is creeped out and Ben is beyond so but it’s so thrilling to be somewhere they aren’t supposed to be, their heart rates spiking. Their palms are clammy against one another and when they’ve had their fill of snooping the fireflies peek out of hiding and light the evening with specks of muted yellow.
It’s not perfect, it’s more than that; there isn’t a word to describe how she’s feeling right now.
---
It’s on the second-to-last day that she begins picking up gifts for everyone back in Indiana. A Make Way For Ducklings book for Ann because she loved it as a child, a stein from Cheers for Andy that will likely end up shattered by the end of the week. She picks up trinkets here and there, buys a nice watercolour of the city on Newbury Street for Jerry after a rather exorbitant lunch.
They continue to walk (is there anything else to do?) down Newbury Street, pausing to window shop. They take off their shoes at the Public Garden and watch as the Swan Boats take a leisurely cruise around the lagoon.
Leslie ends up falling asleep on Ben’s thigh as they lay, not in a hurry to go anywhere or see anything. It takes them an hour to make it through Boston Common and they weave their way along Beacon Hill, seeking out the historic brownstones, speculating at the average rent price. “We could never live here,” Ben says, with no prompting and Leslie glances up at him.
Snuggling into his side - she’s sure to everyone who lays eyes upon them they look too saccherine a couple to possibly be real - she asks, “Why?”
“Everything is so... close together, don’t you think?”
“Hmmm, yeah, maybe we could just summer here,” she suggests.
Ben stops walking, “Summer here?”
“Well Ben, we have to summer somewhere...”
The round out the evening eating crab and lobster off of a picnic table with their hands, licking their fingers clean.
---
They spend their last day in the city taking the commuter rail north and touring Salem which probably isn’t the most restful use of their last twenty-four hours. The streets are mobbed with people and at every museum they are met with a wait of an hour or more. It’s no matter, they have nowhere else to be.
Leslie comment on the crush of people as they make their way to the front of House of the Seven Gables line. “It’s near Halloween,” the ticket taker says, amused and rolls his eyes.
There are children everywhere, some of them in costumes though Halloween is still two weeks out. Ben can’t help but buy Leslie a Harry Potter wand (Hermoine’s, she already owns Harry’s) and a wizard hat to wear around. Never one to be outdone, Leslie purchases a laurel crown in one of the new age shops and forces him to wear it around and after a bit he sort of owns it, begins bowing to children as he passes as they giggle at his silly headwear.
“I think I’m going to be one of those dad who dresses their kids up in coordinated costumes. Tiny little Tom and Jerrys or... Voldemorts and Harrys. Or Hall and Oates! But that’ll be lost on them...”
Leslie’s eyes go wide as Ben keeps talking; she hasn’t really thought much on the subject of children other than knowing that she wants them and she wants them with Ben. He can tell he’s gone off course when her hand releases some of it’s pressure in his. “Hey, I mean, one day.”
“Not as in... now, not as in-”
Ben shakes his head, “Oh no, no no. Not now. In a few years in... not now,” he confirms, maybe a little sadly, but she accepts his answers and playfully tugs him along to wait in line at the Witch Museum.
---
When they have sex that night - the last of their honeymoon sex, Leslie can’t help thinking - it’s a bit more reverent than it’s been this past week. It’s unhurried and unburdened and devoid of anything other than simply the two of them.
Neither one of them speaks as they rock and kiss and hold and cuddle. There’s no pillow talk because there’s no need.
And if there’s anything they’ll truly remember about the honeymoon it’s this very moment in which they’re endless and everything else is just the void.
Leslie/Ben
3100 words
"Indianapolis International to Boston Logan, 6:15 a.m."
My thanks to fairytiger for ALL THE THINGS (Including the title, which I laughed SO HARD AT when she suggested it.) Essentially this was the brainchild of something that shornt mentioned? So thank you for that, C. dear. Yeah.
Notes: Alright, I was so jazzed to write this piece when the idea popped into my brainbox and then... I'm not actually sure what happened. This isn't how I expected this piece to turn out, but here you have it.
---
The wedding is really something. It really, really is. There’s just the right amount of twinkle lights, a sundae bar set up, the majority of the guests get happily plastered. The food, oh, the food is amazing and the wedding cake is moist and delicious and there’s no fondant. (Gross.)
April catches the bouquet and because she’s married, she throws it in Ann’s face. Literally, right in Ann’s face.
So, really, technically, Ann catches the bouquet but no one will really remember that; what they’ll remember is Leslie in her amazing, strapless A-line gown (with the pewter sash at the waist and the tiny pearl clusters) and Ben in his tuxedo, cumberbund rumpled and ruddy after hours spent on the dancefloor.
They won’t remember Andy’s surprisingly limber roboting of “The Way I Are,” or Marlene Griggs-Knope having one too many seabreezes (people will remember the open bar) and feeling Ron up.
They’ll remember Ben and Leslie (Ben and Leslie properly now, though she’s not changing her last name, or hyphenating it for that matter) leaving in a pimped-out towncar, thanks to Tom, the words, “Just married!” written on the trunk in Donna’s looping handwriting. The people at the wedding will remember them stealing away as soon as the music ends to get home and grab a few hours of sleep before they leave for their honeymoon.
Indianapolis International to Boston Logan, 6:15 a.m.
---
Leslie has five travel books (including Lonely Planet) to cover the city of Boston although there’s no need, it’s really not that large. She doesn’t need five, but she wants to have her bases covered. There are post it notes marking pages and highlighted passages and at the ends of the books, the pages are dogeared.
“And I want to try and make it out to Salem. Oh! And Lexington and Concord! And I guess Quincy for John Quincy Adams,” she goes on and on during their flight about the things she wants to see though they’ve been over it loads of times already. Ben humors her, pats her knee and drifts off at lulls in her soliloquizing. “There’s just so much history Ben! How does one place have so much history?”
It’s rhetorical, of course. Leslie did indeed pass third, fourth and fifth grade American History, but that doesn’t stop Ben from popping an eye open, “Could have something to do with the whole ‘Birthplace of the Revolution’ thing.”
Leslie rolls her eyes and denotes another page with a watermelon pink post it. “Oh, shut up.”
---
They check into the Omni Parker House and she’s still got her head stuck in the travel books. She’d pointed out things to him through the cab window on the way to the hotel, the entire way. “You know Ho Chi Min was a baker here? And Malcolm X was busboy? Crazy! Ben, this is crazy stuff. Maybe someone famous has slept in our room, do you think they’d tell me if I asked them?” She whispers conspiratorially and he grins at her.
“And,” Ben yawns, reading from a brochure he’d snatched up on the way in, “Apparently Charles Dickens lived here for two years.”
She takes her credit card back from the person at the front desk with a smile and a thank you as Ben continues on, “JFK announced his candidacy here too, damn, this is... this one hotel is more exciting that the whole of Indiana. Turn around, run smack into history, I mean I guess I knew that but, okay...” His fingers flick over the glossy pages of the thick brochure, his mouth turning this way and that as he reads and accepts new historical facts.
Leslie nods, waiting for the bellhop to load their luggage onto a cart. “Les, wait,” his voice drops, deadly serious. She turns to glance up at him, ears very nearly perked. “They invented the Boston cream pie here.”
The words land between them, heavy and very important.
Her eyes slowly widen and she turns to the man loading up her suitcase. “Wait, wait, can we... okay, we’ll take these up to our room,” Leslie turns back to Ben, “And then come right back down for the pie.”
“Okay,” he agrees, feels like they’re in a huddle, ‘And break!’
“Sir,” she turns sweetly to the bellhop, “Where can I find this pie?”
---
The thing about Boston is, is that it’s so walkable; they both bought flashy new Nikes specifically for all of the walking they intend on doing. Leslie can’t decide how she wants to get over to where they’re going to begin the Freedom Trail until Ben points out that it’s just a mile to the visitor’s center. They set off from the hotel, passing one Dunkin Donuts, two, three, as they pass through a vast brick wasteland that Ben points out as City Hall Plaza.
They meander down to Congress Street and pass through the Holocaust Memorial before passing behind a row of bars and onto the North End. It’s too early for pastry but it’s not and they both fill up on cannoli and cappuccino and hold hands on top of the table the entire time. It’s sickeningly sweet really, much like their breakfast, but neither of them seems to mind, this is what a honeymoon is, after all and they’re going to all of the basking-in-the-afterglow that they can possibly manage.
---
“One if by land, two if by sea, right?” Leslie asks as they pass into Old North Church and Ben falls absolutely silent, not even deigning to move to pull out his camera.
They’re both a bit in awe of the small church, both recalling the early days of the Revolution and the fact that this is where Paul Revere instructed the lanterns to be hung, that this place was instrumental in the fight for America’s independence, three hundred years ago. They pass through the old, cobbled streets lined with brick and mortar buildings, tiny cowpaths. Paul Revere’s home and Copps Hill Burial Ground and they stop no more than four times for pastries and cheese and coffee, coffee, coffee.
Ben doesn’t want to stop walking, doesn’t want to stop because the air is crisp and clear and they can walk along an ocean and there is history everywhere. When dusk begins to fall and they find themselves pulling their tired legs through the door of the Bell in Hand, Ben is overcome with a great rush of everything and slings his arm tightly around her waist and buries his face in her neck. “I’m so fucking lucky,” he murmurs as the hostess slips away.
Leslie laughs gently and leans right into him, “I think you’re high on history right now,” and she slips away from him, situates herself on a bar stool.
“No,” he claims, sliding onto the stool opposite. “I’m just, really fucking lucky.”
---
What they find is that there’s too much too do, there’s too much food to eat (not that that’s really a problem, but Leslie hadn’t properly prepared herself for how much fish and chowder she’d want to ingest.) When they find themselves aboard the U.S.S. Constitution, swaying on the water, that’s when it really hits her what it must be like to live by the ocean. It smells differently here, salty and old but so promising and she can’t manage to hold onto Ben’s hand as they tour the oldest commissioned battleship in the United States because she’s too busy walking all over seeing everything.
“Ann just texted me,” she says as they’re leaving the Navy Yard. “She wants to know if we’ve parked our car in Harvard Yard, yet.”
Ben gives her a half grin.
It’s a meandering sort of day afterward and she finds that she then doesn’t want to relinquish the hold of Ben’s hand, is perfectly content to settle into the lazy pace of the tourist. Her sneakers catch on the uneven ground and he has to steady her several times; they don’t speak, they hardly talk at all as they glance this way and that, taking in the buildings, the houses affixed with historical markers, 1745, 1763, 1699.
As it’s the cusp of autumn, drying, fallen leaves crunch beneath their feet and dear god, she loves Pawnee but it just doesn’t hold a candle to what she’s experiencing of autumn in New England. It smells like a candle, she thinks; one of those deep orange candles that they tell you is supposed to smell like fall leaves and if this is any indicator, the scent engineers (is that what they’re called? she wonders) were spot on.
“Are we going to go all the way up?” Ben asks after they’ve been walking for a bit and she turns to glance the Bunker Hill Monument. It’s high, up, up, up and she’s tired but she won’t pass it up so Leslie just mutters, “Duh,” and tugs him across the street.
“You know during the Battle of Bunker Hill most of the fighting happened on Breed’s Hill which is actually what this is?” Leslie asks matter-of-factly as they wait in line to be let up the monument. “It’s not Bunker Hill,” she says loud enough for the family in front of her to overhear, turn around and glare.
They giggle at the reaction and Leslie feels so light hearted that she’s dizzy with it.
---
Her calves are on fire halfway up.
---
The end the evening watching the Red Sox get the shit kicked out of them by the Rays, but neither of them care because the hot dogs are fabulous and the ice cream is fabulous and both the peanuts and Cracker Jack hold up to the legend of the song.
They don’t know when they’re supposed to sing along, so when everyone stands and begins reciting Neil Diamond he kisses and kisses and kisses her. Leslie tastes like popcorn and caramel and the very sort of forever that he’ll never get tired of.
They leave before the game is over.
---
It’s strange, the pattern of sex on their honeymoon. There’s pre-dinner sex and morning sex and they’re so keyed up that it doesn’t last that long. There’s bathtub sex, but they’re both so tired and the dynamics of the rocking water is so bizarre that they have to finish on top of their towels on the expansive king bed.
Ben acts as John Adams and Leslie as Abigail, detailing all the naughty bits that she’s sure historians have omitted from her letters.
---
They rent a Zipcar and take the forty minute drive out to Concord. They walk the Minuteman Trail (and walk and walk and walk). It takes them two hours to hike around Walden Pond before they tour the Old Manse and recite Longfellow and Emerson (brokenly and not at all correctly), they dusty and tired when they’re through but neither one of them can contain the smiles.
God, it’s really, really sappy but there’s honestly no place on the planet she’d rather be right this second. She rolls her eyes at herself because, come on Leslie, get a grip. It’s just a honeymoon with the cutest and best guy ever.
By the time sunset rolls around they’re more than ready for a drink or two or three with their fish and chips. It’s a bit crisp for the hour but they insist on sitting on the porch in the fading light of the day. “I think we walked over this whole town,” Ben says as he sips his beer, leans back, back in the chair until Leslie’s sure it will topple over.
Her hand itches to reach for the guidebook but she refrains, instead mimicking his position and closing her eyes. “Hmmm, I don’t think everywhere.” The beer has gone to her head and she knows it’s gone to his; Ben’s begun playing footsie with her beneath the table. “I want to go to the Sleepy Hollow graveyard.”
Ben sighs, his eyes slipping shut as well; they’re both entered a pleasant, tipsy, post-dinner lethargy. “That’s in New York,” he says sleepily.
“Not that one,” Leslie whines on a laugh. “The other one!”
“Oh, the other one,” Ben says and tilts back forward, resting his elbows on the table for a moment, just staring at her.
“I want to see it before we leave and there’s no time to come back,” Leslie says as she stumbles out of her chair. “We need to sober up, anyway,” and Leslie takes his hand and leads them down the front steps. Ben doesn’t even have the chance to say no.
She pulls up a walking map on her iPhone and wags it in front of Ben’s face. “It’s like two blocks, suck it up!”
He laughs and concedes but only after doubling back to the car to retrieve the flashlight from the emergency kit. They navigate the sidewalk easily and as they approach the graveyard a cool breeze rolls in, the scent of autumn crisp on its cusp.
They find that the gates are wide open which is more than a little creepy, seeing as it’s eleven in the evening. They tread inside slowly and carefully and Leslie takes a moment to pull up a map of the tombstones; she just wants to see Louisa May Alcott’s grave.
The two creep along just as a the scent of rain stirs up the scent of dirt and a thunderstorm lingers somewhere in the atmosphere, distant thunder rumbling appropriately. Leslie is creeped out and Ben is beyond so but it’s so thrilling to be somewhere they aren’t supposed to be, their heart rates spiking. Their palms are clammy against one another and when they’ve had their fill of snooping the fireflies peek out of hiding and light the evening with specks of muted yellow.
It’s not perfect, it’s more than that; there isn’t a word to describe how she’s feeling right now.
---
It’s on the second-to-last day that she begins picking up gifts for everyone back in Indiana. A Make Way For Ducklings book for Ann because she loved it as a child, a stein from Cheers for Andy that will likely end up shattered by the end of the week. She picks up trinkets here and there, buys a nice watercolour of the city on Newbury Street for Jerry after a rather exorbitant lunch.
They continue to walk (is there anything else to do?) down Newbury Street, pausing to window shop. They take off their shoes at the Public Garden and watch as the Swan Boats take a leisurely cruise around the lagoon.
Leslie ends up falling asleep on Ben’s thigh as they lay, not in a hurry to go anywhere or see anything. It takes them an hour to make it through Boston Common and they weave their way along Beacon Hill, seeking out the historic brownstones, speculating at the average rent price. “We could never live here,” Ben says, with no prompting and Leslie glances up at him.
Snuggling into his side - she’s sure to everyone who lays eyes upon them they look too saccherine a couple to possibly be real - she asks, “Why?”
“Everything is so... close together, don’t you think?”
“Hmmm, yeah, maybe we could just summer here,” she suggests.
Ben stops walking, “Summer here?”
“Well Ben, we have to summer somewhere...”
The round out the evening eating crab and lobster off of a picnic table with their hands, licking their fingers clean.
---
They spend their last day in the city taking the commuter rail north and touring Salem which probably isn’t the most restful use of their last twenty-four hours. The streets are mobbed with people and at every museum they are met with a wait of an hour or more. It’s no matter, they have nowhere else to be.
Leslie comment on the crush of people as they make their way to the front of House of the Seven Gables line. “It’s near Halloween,” the ticket taker says, amused and rolls his eyes.
There are children everywhere, some of them in costumes though Halloween is still two weeks out. Ben can’t help but buy Leslie a Harry Potter wand (Hermoine’s, she already owns Harry’s) and a wizard hat to wear around. Never one to be outdone, Leslie purchases a laurel crown in one of the new age shops and forces him to wear it around and after a bit he sort of owns it, begins bowing to children as he passes as they giggle at his silly headwear.
“I think I’m going to be one of those dad who dresses their kids up in coordinated costumes. Tiny little Tom and Jerrys or... Voldemorts and Harrys. Or Hall and Oates! But that’ll be lost on them...”
Leslie’s eyes go wide as Ben keeps talking; she hasn’t really thought much on the subject of children other than knowing that she wants them and she wants them with Ben. He can tell he’s gone off course when her hand releases some of it’s pressure in his. “Hey, I mean, one day.”
“Not as in... now, not as in-”
Ben shakes his head, “Oh no, no no. Not now. In a few years in... not now,” he confirms, maybe a little sadly, but she accepts his answers and playfully tugs him along to wait in line at the Witch Museum.
---
When they have sex that night - the last of their honeymoon sex, Leslie can’t help thinking - it’s a bit more reverent than it’s been this past week. It’s unhurried and unburdened and devoid of anything other than simply the two of them.
Neither one of them speaks as they rock and kiss and hold and cuddle. There’s no pillow talk because there’s no need.
And if there’s anything they’ll truly remember about the honeymoon it’s this very moment in which they’re endless and everything else is just the void.