Tumblr Roundup Three
Several fics I wrote on tumblr, relocated here. Nothing is rated higher than PG-13 (if that). All of it is Ben/Leslie except for one Chris fic.
Umbrella
Ice Cream
Finger
Seesaw
Slippers
Therapy Session
The Worst Game Night Ever
Cake War
Umbrella
It’s pouring when Leslie leaves City Hall. Rain that will soak you through in an instant; not cold, but drenching and uncomfortable. The kind you don’t want to be caught in.
But that’s exactly the predicament Ben’s in when she steps outside.
Leslie wants to laugh. It’s a tug of amusement that brightens her smile and crinkles the corners of her eyes, but she manages to hold back because she thinks Ben wouldn’t understand. They aren’t friends, after all. Aren’t anything, really, except two people at odds.
It’s just…she’s never seen Ben look pathetic, which right now, he does. So sad with his umbrella whipped inside-out by the wind; he’s already pretty damp, not even in the onslaught yet. She can’t help but take pity on him.
“Here,” she sighs, hooking her arm through his in the time it takes for him to look at her, confused and surprised more than grateful. “Share mine.”
“Oh…Um…Thanks?”
Leslie moves closer so they’re both squeezed under the umbrella, can’t help but notice how warm Ben is pressed against her and the way his fingers brush against hers when he moves his hand above hers to help steady the umbrella. And maybe he notices too, because his voice is shaky when he asks, “Is that the sun?”
She glances up at her umbrella, yellow and smiling at the gray sky, and shrugs. “What better way to ward off the rain?”
Ben smiles, probably trying as hard as she was not to laugh.
Somehow Leslie wouldn’t mind if he did.
Ice Cream
“You’re such a weirdo.”
Ben eyes seem surprised by her assessment, but he just takes another lick of his ice cream cone-a broad, hungry stroke of his tongue that leaves Leslie a little dizzy. “What?” he asks, smirking a little as she pulls her eyes back up to his and blinks hazily. “You love ice cream.”
“Not in January.”
Ben shrugs. “Tastes just as good as it does in August.”
It doesn’t. Leslie knows that. Everyone knows that.
Except Ben, apparently.
But she doesn’t argue-can’t, really, when Ben’s still standing there licking a hasty circle around the scoop of ice cream like there’s any danger it’s going to melt. Instead she reaches up and grabs his wrist, gently tugging the cone down to her own mouth, tongue darting out to taste the ice cream. Ben just freezes, watching her, adam’s apple bobbing as she licks her lips.
“Nope,” she says softly, thumb rubbing the inside of his wrist before she lets go. “Not as good as it is in August.”
Finger
Back when they were sneaking around, when everything was surreptitious glances and stolen kisses and secrets, they didn’t get to hold hands often. For everyone else, it was an innocuous connection meant for public places; for them it was a declaration of guilt, no easier to explain away than a kiss or hug that lingered a beat too long.
But sometimes-once in a while on a day too long or in the face of bad news or just because he couldn’t help it-Ben would find her hand under the table and hook his pinky finger around hers like a reminder. And in the smallest way, for the briefest moment, they were declaring something to each other in public, even if no one else knew.
Seesaw
The first time Leslie takes him through the parks, she coerces him onto the seesaw. Ben’s not sure how it happens-how one minute, he’s respectably observing the playground equipment and the next he’s sitting across from her on a teeter-totter-except that it probably has something to do with Leslie’s smile and the way it brightens when he gets to tell her yes.
The metal is almost uncomfortably warm when he sits down. The summer sun beats down relentlessly and he bets the back of his neck is getting burnt. Across from him, Leslie looks a little pink herself, squinting at him as she settles into place. He feels a little ridiculous in every way-too old for this, too mature, too boring-but then Leslie tosses her hair back and nods, and everything else fades away.
“Ready?”
She kicks off before he responds, knees bending and then launching her into the air. He falls to the ground with an ungraceful bump, not adjusting quickly enough. There’s a jilted moment where she’s hovering in the air, hair melting into the sun behind her, and then he digs his heels into the ground and pushes up.
They find a rhythm, an easy back and forth, and for a few minutes, he forgets who he is and why he’s here and what it means that there’s no kids here to use the seesaw instead. Leslie’s giggling, and he can’t help but smile.
So when Leslie breaks their pattern, grinds to a halt on the ground and traps him suspended in the air, he’s more surprised than he should be. Can’t quite believe it when she looks up at him and says, “I believe now would be a good time to discuss the budget for the playground equipment.”
Yeah. She makes him want to forget. But she also won’t let him.
He’s not sure which makes him like her more.
Slippers
Leslie doesn’t wear socks around the house. In the summer, she’s barefoot always, and even once the seasons change and the cold starts to creep inside, she remains stubborn and steadfast. It’s only on the coldest winter nights, when her toes are like ice cubes-too cold for him to even hold in his hands and warm up-that she’ll cover them.
So he’s surprised when he comes home one night to find her trotting around the house, feet covered with absurdly large, fuzzy yellow slippers.
“They’re ducks!” says Leslie, following his line of sight and raising one foot to reveal two black beaded eyes and a small beak peeking out from the fuzz. One of the wings waves a weak hello. She lowers her foot and skates across the floor to him, grabbing a handful of his shirt to stop herself. He smiles as she gives him a quick kiss hello.
“Don’t you already have like six pairs of slippers?”
Leslie shrugs. “These are cuter. I’ll probably wear them more.”
She won’t. Not once the novelty wears off. But he doesn’t bother to point that out.
“And look!” She lifts her foot again and squeezes on one of the floppy wings. Immediately, the duck starts quacking up a storm, and Ben can only shake his head in disbelief as Leslie laughs.
Therapy Session
“And then he resigned and confessed that he was in love with Leslie. It was literally the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. And it made all those months of betrayal sting just a little bit less.”
Dr. Richard Nygard’s perpetual frown deepened a tiny bit. Chris once expressed concern over this, but Dr. Nygard didn’t seem perplexed by Chris’ observation. Once after that, Chris saw him smile, and the look was so unnatural and frightening that he instantly understood why Dr. Nygard preferred to frown. Even if smiling was better for one’s general health and well-being.
“Did you ever tell Ben that’s how you felt?”
“Oh yes. Many times. In fact, I cried a little because it was just such a lovely sentiment.”
“No, Chris. I mean, did you tell him you felt betrayed?”
“In those exact words?” Chris paused, thinking back over those initial few weeks after Ben and Leslie had confessed; he’d had very few conversations with Ben at the time. “I don’t believe so. But it was heavily implied, I’m sure.”
“Hmm.”
“It was over a year ago. Everything is fine now. In fact, Ben and Leslie are engaged to be married. Isn’t that the most fantastic news you’ve ever heard?”
“Not personally,” said Dr. Nygard dryly. Chris had to stop himself from pointing out that the response was particularly Ben-esque; past experience had taught him that Dr. Nygard didn’t appreciate the fullness of such a compliment. “So you consider Ben to be a close friend?”
“Oh, absolutely. He’s my best friend in the world.”
“Is that the truth, Chris, or your proclivity for exaggeration?"
“I-”
“Never mind.” Dr. Nygard waved a dismissive hand before Chris could protest. “My point is that it must have hurt. Your close friend, in your own words, betraying you and then choosing to leave your employ.”
“Of course.”
“How long did you two work together?”
“Over a decade.”
“Longer than any romantic relationship you’ve had.”
“Dr. Nygard.” Chris laughed, a bit unsteadily. “I’m not quite sure I understand your point.”
“You told me this depression began last winter, correct? After-” He flipped back through his notebook, lips pursed. “-Millicent broke up with you.”
“Yes. Several months after Ben left. There’s no connection.”
“Isn’t there? Chris, by your own account, you’ve had dozens of significant relationships throughout your adult life, none of them lasting longer than six months. And yet this one curtailed you into depression?”
“She was magnificent.”
“You don’t think that it might be more than that? That she left you just as your closest friend, one whose lifestyle mirrored yours in many ways, found love and a steady job-stability…That didn’t affect your impression of your own life?”
Chris blinked. He could feel the doctor watching him, but a reassuring smile felt far from Chris’ capabilities right now. “Dr. Richard. Nygard,” Chris said, reaching out and clasping the older man’s forearm. “You brilliant man.”
“Chris?”
“Your insight is astounding, honestly. I never considered the impact of Ben Wyatt’s resignation prior to this very moment. But of course you must be right. You always are. My life has been standing still while Ben’s has been a rocket ship jettisoning toward the moon at breakneck speed. And you know how I hate to be still.”
“Yes. Well. As I’ve been telling you, Chris, you need to take the time to figure out how to move your life forward. What do you want to do next?”
“Well, Dr. Nygard, that is the question, isn’t it? And I’m sure that with your continued help and tutelage we’ll discover the answer together.”
Dr. Nygard smiled-more of a grimace, really-and patted Chris’ hands where they clutched his. Poor man. Maybe in return for his help, Chris could teach him how to smile properly. It would certainly extend his lifespan.
It was the least he could do, honestly.
The Worst Game Night Ever
”Ketchup! Spaceship! Torpedo! Giraffe!”
“Giraffe, Chris? Really?”
“Is it not a giraffe? Because, honestly, with some legs and maybe a few spots, it would bear quite a good resemblance-”
Before Chris could continue, or, perhaps, from the look of things, before Millicent could poke his eye out with her pencil, the last granules of sand slipped through the hourglass, and Leslie was able to call a merciful end to the turn. Beside her, Ben mumbled something that sounded like, “Thank god,” and across the table, Chris snapped his fingers in a gesture akin to one of the Little Rascals. “Darn,” he said. “What was it?”
“It’s a bottle rocket.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. Of course. A bottle rocket.”
Leslie peered across the table at the notepad as Millicent sighed. It seemed to her that Chris was closer with giraffe based on the depiction, but it was hard to say. Especially when there was nearly a tear in the paper from her pressing so hard as she drew. Leslie couldn’t quite fault her; Chris’ strategy for Pictionary seemed to be yelling anything and everything without really paying attention. It would make her crazy too.
Honestly, she’d never had less fun at a game night in her life. The party-which Chris had been crowing about for a week now-had less of a turn out than she’d been led to believe it would. In fact, upon arriving, she’d realized that it would be just her, Chris, Millicent and Ben; a twisted form of irony that only she and her ex-boyfriend were aware of. In any other circumstances, a few uninterrupted hours of intense game-play with Ben would have been a dream Friday night. Here, on the world’s most awkward faux-double date, with Ben barely looking her in the eye and Chris and Millie engaged in their own awkward relationship, it was nearly unbearable.
“Your turn to draw,” said Ben, nudging the pad of paper toward her with the tip of one finger. She reached for the pencil, her wrist accidentally brushing his forearm, and Ben jumped back like he’d been burned, arms crossed over his chest and back rigid against the chair. Something tight bubbled up in her chest, an ache that seemed to grow proportionately to how long they’d been apart (which couldn’t be normal, right? Wasn’t that feeling supposed to dissipate with time?), and reluctantly, she leaned over to pull out a card.
“It’s an all play,” she sighed, handing the card across the table to Chris. He clapped excitedly, and instinctively, Leslie glanced at Ben. For a brief second, he met her look, and then dropped his eyes to the paper. “You ready?” he mumbled.
“Absolutely,” said Chris, as Leslie merely nodded. “Go team!”
Ben made a soft noise, suppressing a groan, and flipped the hourglass. Before it touched the table, Chris was off, his pencil zipping across the paper distractingly, and it took a moment for Leslie to block out the sound. When she finally began to draw, it was quick and precise, her hand guiding the pencil in an arc over the paper. Across the table, Chris groaned and ripped off his sheet of paper, beginning again, just as he had nearly every time he’d drawn. His pictures exploded onto the page with as much excitement as he did everything else. Leslie, by contrast, couldn’t belie the tension she felt, both from wanting to win and from every disastrous part of this evening, and each picture she drew seemed to get more minute.
Which really wasn’t a problem, except-
“It’s a dolphin,” said Ben, voice low. He was almost whispering, mouth hovering close to ear as he leaned toward her to see the paper. She could feel him, a warm blanket of heat over her skin, even though he was carefully, purposefully not touching her. She pressed her lips together, trying to ignore him-trying to remember that Chris was right there and she and Ben weren’t together and she wasn’t supposed to be feeling anything except the competitive need to win-but as she added a spurt of water from her whale’s blowhole, Ben moved a little closer, and his chest bumped her arm. Without thinking, she turned to face him, eyes roving over his profile as her heart nearly beat out of her chest, and then Ben shifted to look at her.
“It’s a whale,” he murmured, his gaze slowly drifting up to meet hers. It was too much: the soft need in his eyes marred by a flicker of pain and the sound of his voice and the damn heart-pounding feeling of him finally being close again, and she honestly couldn’t breathe, let alone remember where she was. Fortunately-frustratingly-Ben didn’t have the same problem.
“We got it,” he said, turning to face their opponents. Leslie sucked in a sharp breath, looking down at the paper and trying to hold a thousand emotions inside of her. It had never felt so impossible.
“He got it,” said Millicent, throwing a critical eye at Leslie’s drawing. “And that looks even less like a whale than what you drew. Face it, Chris. We are a terrible team.”
Leslie blinked at her whale as the lines blurred a bit; he really was kind of pathetic. Halfheartedly, she gave him a small smile before passing the tablet to Ben
This really was the worst game night ever.
Cake War
“This icing is gross.”
“Well I think it’s supposed to be more decorative than edible.”
Leslie wrinkled her nose. “Why? It’s cake. The point of cake is to eat the frosting. It’s supposed to look delicious, not artistic.”
Ben shrugged, leaning over and peeling away the layer of fondant from the edge of her cake. “Look. There’s plenty of buttercream right underneath. Just don’t eat the rest.”
Leslie looked at the sad lump of fake frosting lying on the side of her plate and then scraped off a chunk of the buttercream and ate it. Set free from the fondant, it was as sugary and perfect as icing was meant to be. “Now this is good,” she said, going in for another taste. “This is what cake is meant to be.”
“Shouldn’t you try eating some of the actual cake then?”
Leslie stuck out her tongue, but on her next bite, gathered up a decent bite of the cake as well. “Yeah. Still good. And just proving my point. Lets skip the fondant and get an extra thick layer of buttercream.”
“Have you looked at these cakes?” asked Ben, holding up the sample pictures of wedding cakes they’d gotten at the beginning of this tasting. “They’re like works of art.”
“Gross, expensive works of art. What’s the point if everyone is just going to pick it off and go straight for the real frosting?”
“Not everyone does that.”
“Wanna bet?"
Ben sighed, glancing down at the pictures and then back at his cake. Bravely, he picked up his fork and cut off a large bite with plenty of fondant and popped it into his mouth. Leslie watched him, awed and disgusted, and for a few seconds, she thought he might prove his point. Then his face contorted, any valiant effort to enjoy this vanished, and he groped for his bottle of water. Trying not to laugh, Leslie patted him on the back.
“We should see if they can do anything pretty with buttercream.”