FIC: keys under the mat at your front door (New Girl, Jess/Cece, PG-13)

keys under the mat at your front door
New Girl, Jess/Cece, PG-13
Three holidays that Jess and Cece spent together, just the two of them.

Valentine’s Day, 1994 (not the first or the last, for the record)

“Only the best,” Jess sings quietly as she flits from desk to desk, dropping paper Valentines in each mailbox — poorly crafted things done up with cardboard and heart cut-outs. She stops short when she gets to Cece’s desk, winking lasciviously behind her glasses.

“Hey Jess,” Cece looks up and grins, her mouth a little big for her face — perfect. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“So, you know how Mrs. F told us we were absolutely not allowed to exchange candy because of how Laura got sick last year and threatened to sue the district, you know, from the peanuts?” Cece nods, her smile still in place. “Well, you should pay extra attention to your playful cartoon valentine from me, Ms. Meyers, because it definitely does not. contain a contraband Tootsie Roll.” Jess shifts her weight (still in tune to the song drifting through her head) and as casually as she can, drops Cece’s Valentine into her box. Still, unable to leave it at that, she leans low, balancing precariously on one shiny Mary Jane to whisper “I put a candy in your valentine, Cece,” and hop, righting herself, winking again.

Cece plays her part and peeks inside her mailbox. She’s unable to distinguish between the lumps of cardboard gifted to her from various classmates, but pulls back and returns Jess’s wink with a long one, squinting deliberately and wishing they weren’t at school so she could give Jess’s hand a squeeze as well. “I have something for you later, some candy.”

Mrs. F turns around like she’s been kick-started, “Did someone say candy?”

Jess’s eyes go wide and she crosses her fingers behind her back. “Absolutely not. But I do have a candy-free Valentine for you!”

**

Once they’re off school premises and tucked safely in Cece’s tree house (she’s the envy of the neighborhood) Cece pops the lone contraband Tootsie Roll into her mouth and chews thoughtfully while rummaging for Jess’s gift. “I hope it’s okay,” she mumbles, talking around the chocolate. Her heart kicking up, she turns around, drops the candy in Jess’s lap and plants a quick kiss on her lips. “Kisses,” Cece smiles, “see?”

“Oh,” Jess says, blinking, smiling. “This is perfect.”

President’s Day, 2001 (it’s not a thing, okay?)

Cece is in town for once, and Jess’s classes have been cancelled “in honor of our Nation’s Presidents” which means they find themselves jolting awake at the 6:15 alarm, untangling in record time from the comforter, from each other. “Dear God,” Cece moans, crashing back against the pillow as Jess darts to beat the clock senseless. “Remind me to thank you for doing that.” She smiles benignly and takes far more than her share of the blankets, wrapping up with a sigh.

“You monster,” Jess growls, throwing herself at the heap on the bed, assuming that Cece is in there somewhere.

“You’re the one who left her alarm on!” comes Cece’s muffled rebuttal.

“And the one who’s bed you’re in. And the one about to let you use her meal card for terrible, terrible omelets.”

Cece rolls about, scrambling for an opening and peers out at Jess. “I’m not hungry. Why can’t we sleep in?” She stretches, poking Jess in the side.

“Cold fingers!” Jess yelps, her whole body arching and tensing, her breath catching.

“Warmer in here, but only if you promise the beeping is over. And no omelets.”

Jess lifts the comforter and wiggles her way inside the cocoon Cece has built. “Pinky promise,” she says, sighing when their skin touches. Sighing again.

Jess’s Birthday, 2007 (definitely not the first or the last)

Jess turns twenty five the year they share a little one bedroom. It is, Cece says, a milestone. Not only because Jess and Spencer have been dating almost a year, and that’s some big girl shit right there, but because, come on, twenty five. That’s a quarter century. Cen-tur-ry.

The natural thing to do, Cece says, is to throw a party.

“You know I’m not really into that…,” Jess grimaces, flipping her hand as punctuation, (she’s remembering the last time they — well, Cece — threw a party, Cece knows, and by the look on her face, having full-system flash backs to curling around the toilet, singing the theme to Gilligan’s Island only to stand up, swear that she was totally fine and projectile vomit into the shower. At least there was tile.) “whole thing.” Then, without missing a beat: “Can it be LOST-themed? I have a pair of Bermuda shorts that were made very poorly and, sadly, did not make the sojourn through their first machine wash. It’s pretty perfect, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you,” Cece says, knowing that — yep — her abrupt tone will be met with a scowl and a dramatic crossing of arms.

“But it’s my birthday, isn’t it? And the birthday girl gets to choose!”

Cece shrugs. “Your birthday, my idea. That means I get to make the plans, the decorations, the guest list, and the food.”

Jess deflates. “You’re being a birthday bummer, Cece. A birthday bummer who won’t let me bake. She won’t let me bake / my birthday cake.” She sighs, huffing the air outward so that it makes a rough hissing noise. She’s adorable.

**

By the end of the week, Cece can’t count the number of times she’d looked up from whatever she was doing to find Jess lurking behind some doorway, staring creepily and singing what Cece has now dubbed the “Unfair Birthday” song under her breath (and in the shower). If she were a lesser being, she would have given in by now.

Fortunately, she is not a lesser being. Fortunately, Cece is awesome.

**

“Please don’t make me wait any longer, Cece. I just want to put up streamers and bake and draw little hearts on the invitations, and I think it’s really mean of you to keep this very simple pleasure from me, who I might remind you is the birthday girl.” Jess collapses onto Cece’s bed, absolutely crushing the latest issue of Cosmo on and breathes heavily into the comforter. “Your bed smells like mangoes.”

“Okay,” Cece says, and even though she planned this Jess’s head pops up like Cece just yelled “Surprise!”

Her eyes widen, then narrow. “Really?”

“You have the rest of the day free, right?”

“Uh… Obviously!” Jess flips back over, ripping the magazine, her face turning sheepish. She wiggles the papers out from underneath her — hard to manage, Cece knows, under the pillow of skirts and hands the mangled magazine to Cece. “Sorry about your overpriced collection of gender stereotypes, Cece. Even if you do — did — deserve it for being a birthday bummer…”

Cece holds up a hand to stop the singing. Jess starts singing and this all ends here. “All right, Jess, but you have to be ready to really commit to this.” And even though she knows her idea is probably the best birthday idea she’s ever had and definitely not a bummer. Cece is a little afraid of being a let down. Maybe she should have gone for the whole shebang. Banners and flashing lights and strangers and mixed drinks.

Jess grabs her hands and squeezes. “I am so ready.”

“You better find those Bermuda shorts, because you and I are about to have a LOST-themed bake-off.” Cece bites her lower lip. “And I’m pretty sure that my mom’s lava cookies will bake you right off the island.”

When Jess speaks, her voice is thick, and she doesn’t show any signs of letting go of Cece’s hands. “That’s Survivor, you goof.”

**

It’s funny, Cece thinks later, when they’re both so full they could probably explode and it not be a scientific anomaly, when they’re splayed out on the couch actually watching LOST and Jess is tugging at Cece’s arm to get her fingers in frosting-licking range, that Spencer didn’t call once, and Jess doesn’t seem to care.

Cece likes it better this way anyhow.

Drabble: No Thank You Please (Parks & Recreation, Ann/April, PG)

“Ew. What are you doing here? This is my house. Where I live.”

Ann’s hands settle on her hips, and of course, her purse slips so she has to fix that and immediately ruin whatever power she had over the situation. (None. That would be no power. Whatsoever.) “That’s how I knew where to find you.” Obviously. That’s obvious, right?

“Ugh. But why are you here?” April’s voice slips quickly into whine territory, her hand lingering on the doorknob like she’s seconds from slamming the whole business in Ann’s face, glancing back into the house. “I’m super busy right now, packing. Moving, we’re moving. Because you know where I live.”

Ann shakes her head, rolls her eyes. “I just wanted to say thank you, okay? I had fun the other night.”

“With Tom?” April asks, and then remembers that she’s not supposed to care.

“Yeah,” Ann says, smiling, forgetting that she’s fighting a current here, forgetting that she’s pressing upstream. “I mean, he’s hardly—”

“Stop talking. You’re hurting my ears.”

“I just wanted to say tha—”

“I’m closing the door now.”

Ann lets her do it, smiling when she sees the flash of dark eyes before the door slips shut. It’s nice. It’s progress. And she really did have an okay time.

Drabble: This Sweetness (New Girl, Jess/Julia, PG)

—

“Uh, Nick isn’t here.”

Julia just smiles, places her hand over Jess’s on the door frame. “Eventually, you’re going to have to quit with that opening line.”

Jess swallows and takes a step back. “It’s true though. And something you should be informed of.” She nods, assuring herself. “You are, after all, the equivalent of his girlfriend. Even if you aren’t using labels.” She doesn’t move her hand, though, and coughs lightly when she realizes they’re still touching. That she isn’t moving, and neither is Julia. “And labels, while not always ideal, are certainly useful in a society so full of gray scale.”

Julia smiles, just the corner of her mouth lifting. “You should keep going. You almost had me convinced.” The smile blossoms. She squeezes Jess’s hand, and ducks under her extended arm, as if this is easy, something she does every day.

It is easy, though. That’s the trouble.

**

Julia stretches out, fully aware of Jess’s eyes on her. “I should have known.”

“Known what?” Jess asks, wishing, more than anything, that she had her crochet and something to do with her hands. Because regardless of what they might have just done (spent at least, Jess looks at the clock, fifteen minutes kissing) touching Julia right now crosses some kind of line. The invisible kind. The kind Jess hates.

“You know. It’s the quiet ones, the weird ones.” Julia regards her with a serious look. “You’re awfully sweet, but also an awfully good kisser.”

Jess adjusts her glasses. “I’m not sure why being sweet should matter.

“I’ve never been a dessert person. But I like you.”

And that, more than anything (more than the next, Jess looks at the clock, fourteen minutes of kissing; more than the sure, strong hand underneath her skirt) makes a world of sense.

Drabble: Conjugation (Skins, Mini/Franky, PG-13)

Dehydrated, they drink. (I drink, you drink, she drinks she drink she drinks.) The world slips — eyes flutter open and they take hold to steady one another.

“Franks,” Mini says, slithering out the syllable, her lips a ghost-touch away from Franky’s ear. Drink, drank, drunk. “Your tits.”

She looks down (they look down) and, voila!, Franky’s dress has shifted, slipped, sunk and she’s in danger of putting on a show. (Danger? Funny. This sort of thing is hardly dangerous.) She yanks on the fabric, grinning wildly, setting the world on edge. “Caught you staring, didn’t I.”

Mini blinks long and slow and doesn’t see it coming, the kiss sour, sweet. Apocalypse.

Short fic: Revisions (Parks & Recreation, Various, PG-13)

Title: Revisions
Pairings: Ann/Mark (Ann/Leslie) April/Andy (April/Ann)
Summary: The heart wants…

–

“Do you ever think about her?”

Mark’s hard-pressed to think of anyone right now, save the woman currently in his bed, stretching out on top of the comforter, his hand warm against her side. Still, he works through recent memories, filtering through their recent, pre-sex, conversations. The only her that comes to mind is dragged there via a discussion about favorite foods. “My… mother?” He narrows his eyes.

Ann’s smile is soft, worn out but not done. “No,” she says, “Leslie.”

He leans back, just a fraction of an inch, but he knows she feels it. “Leslie Knope?” As if they know another. Though, now that he thinks about it, Mark actually has slept with another Leslie, though he’s lost her last name to the years and, well, not caring.

Ann stretches again and rolls closer, closing the gap he left. “Yes, Leslie Knope. My best friend. Your ex.” She touches his chest, above his stomach, right where he imagines his heart is. Her thumb moves and — what were they talking about? — he wants her.

“I think that you’re probably, um, overestimating the way things were. Between Leslie and I.” Mark frowns. “There wasn’t ever, really, a Leslie and I. Actually.”

“Yes,” Ann says slowly, sliding her hand lower, between them. “But do you ever think about her.” It’s not so much a question mark, but the type of punctuation you use before taking a breath and diving in.

**

April’s eyes are daggers. Pieces of coal, and Andy just wants to burn. “You think about her, don’t you?” He looks at her and thinks about a live grenade or that game they all used to play when he was young with the hot pepper — tossing it back and fourth, waiting for the music to stop.

“I think about you,” he tries, looking up from his guitar. Sometimes, he tightens the strings too much and when he goes to play, the instrument makes a sick-sounding wail. He doesn’t like when that happens. “I think about you all the time, April.”

She looks off, and Andy’s pretty sure she’s playing Where’s Waldo in the mural. He does that sometimes. “Yeah, whatever.” She exhales, rolls her eyes, and looks back at him. “But you think about her too. I know you do.”

“I really don’t know who you mean!”

Her eyes are wide, showing the whites. Andy saw a show about monkeys and how they do that, when they’re afraid. Or maybe when they’re having sex. Monkey’s have sex a lot. “Only the girl you lived with for like, years, who you were obsessed with–”

“Oh! You mean Ann!”

April’s mouth gets all tight and she’s quiet. Andy plucks one string, another. “Of course I mean Ann,” she says, like the beginning of a song.

FIC: These storybook villas (Parks & Recreation, Ann/Leslie, R)

Written for Sacred, also for the prompt “whipped cream” at Porn Battle XIII. Contains fpreg.

–

Protesting slightly, Leslie’s body falls back onto the pillows. “You know, Ann,” she says, attempting to lift her arm and wipe the sheen off of her wife’s lips but finding herself far too rubber-bodied for the task, “when we first met, I thought you might be good. In bed, I mean. But I — and I will admit this on record — had no idea how good.”

Ann sits back, her fingers still drawing curlicues on Leslie’s thighs. “I do like to think I have a little mystique.”

“I’m actually,” she yelps, Ann’s thumb having done a cursory flick over Leslie’s clit, “pretty impressed that you manage to keep your Cassanova-esque skill set under wraps.”

Ann licks her lips. “You’re not so bad yourself, you know.”

Leslie arches an eyebrow. “Not so bad?” If there’s one thing that will spring life back into her limbs it’s the threat of a challenge. “Just let me catch my breath and we’ll see just how not bad I am.” She frowns. “That made sense in my head.”

Licking off her fingers, Ann grins. “I’m ready when you are.”

*

Leslie listens to the series of messages while waiting in the council chambers for the next round of meetings, smiling when Ann’s voice floats towards her ear. She’s missed their daily talks since the whole getting elected and coming out and not wanting any (more) negative attention, like the kind that comes from a trial, and “as much as I love you, and working near you, I honestly love the hospital and it’s probably safer for both of us”, so they try to take time every day during the day to talk. “Hey Les, I don’t want you to worry, but apparently I passed out or something, and I’m totally fine, but they’re doing a bunch of tests — I mean, I’m here anyway — so you focus on having an amazing day and I’ll see you tonight.”

Okay.

She’s… not worried, exactly — after all, Ann is a nurse and therefore can’t, logically, get sick — but Leslie notices a small tightening of the muscles in her hand before she pushes next.
“Hey Les, okay, this is really weird, but Doctor Hayes thinks he’s found something, and it’s totally not bad, so don’t worry, I mean, I think it’s not bad, but okay.” She takes a breath here, and Leslie really wishes she had breath-translating powers to see if its a scared breath or an excited breath or an I AM ACTUALLY DYING breath. But she doesn’t. Have that power. “I’ll see you at home. Have a great day!”

Definitely some mixed messages there. (Mixed messages. Hah.) Someone should really tell Ann how to leave a message (of course, Ann tells Leslie that her own messages are like audio books, and not the kind with fun celebrity voices, so it probably shouldn’t be her). Next. “I’m picking up JJ’s. Any special requests?”

Leslie hangs up, her brows knitting together. Deciding that it won’t do anyone any good to let herself get worried about probably nothing, she takes a cleansing breath (Chris is big about cleansing breaths, and Leslie’s found that sometimes they actually work) and types out Waffles of course! Love you!

*

Ann must have impeccable timing (she does, normally. Ann possesses hundreds of amazing qualities.) because she waits until Leslie takes the first bite before blurting out “I’m pregnant.” In retrospect, she tells Leslie later, it was a bad idea, because performing the Heimlich is never fun.

When Leslie has caught her breath, she sputters, “What? Who? How? When? Are you cheating on me? You aren’t cheating on me! Science! Fetus! How? What? What?” After a cleansing breath, two, Leslie presses her palms onto the table (unable to quite still her tapping index finger), and looks Ann in the eyes. “Please explain?”

Ann blushes. “Well, Doctor Harris, well. He isn’t the best about giving patients information in the first place, but I got the impression that he was — is — a little confused. Confused but mostly accusing me of sleeping with dudes. Which,” she looks pointedly at Leslie, “I so have not.” Leslie watches Ann speak, her face tinged with concern, absolute trust, and maybe a little excitement (growing, despite herself). Without looking, she cuts off another wedge of waffle. “And the only explanation I can think of isn’t so much an explanation but a sort of Occam’s Razor. You got me pregnant, Leslie.”

The Heimlich isn’t fun the second time, either.

*

When they’re clearing the table, Leslie catches Ann’s hand. “It’ll be okay.” She squeezes, repeating the action in a silly pattern until Ann smiles. “You’re awesome, and I’m pretty cool myself. So there’s no way this won’t be the best baby ever. And,” she pauses, presses her lips together, “we only talked about kids that one time, but. If you don’t want to do this, I’ll support you. You know that, right?”

And this time Ann does the squeezing, dropping the JJs container back onto the table to hold Leslie’s hand in both of hers. “I want to do this. Mostly, I want to do this with you.”

“One hundred percent,” Leslie agrees, nodding and pumping her hand to seal the deal. “One hundred and ten. One hundred and twenty!”

*

Mostly, Ann is tired. They spoon in bed after long days at work, Leslie cupping Ann from behind, whispering against her shoulder. Sometimes they talk about work, about the citizenry and the parks, about injection prep and scrubs. Mostly, they talk about the baby.

“I read about these rats,” Leslie says, her fingers walking inch by inch down Ann’s side, “in Australia. Two lady rats had a baby. And I think there was science involved or something, but Ann, do you think we’re like those rats?”

Ann’s stomach tightens with repressed laughter. “I think we’re just us, Leslie.”

“Oh. That makes sense. I was just thinking it would be cute to have a little rat baby, and we could name it Shannon.”

Ann exhales in some approximation of a laugh. She catches Leslie’s fingers in hers and squeezes. “If we have a rat baby, we can name it Shannon.”

*

Ron solves a near-crisis in the second month. (He’s come to expect the flash of blonde hair as Leslie returns to the Parks department almost daily, usually with some Very Important Task for Tom or Donna and very rarely him, because really, she knows better. He hasn’t come to expect that part of his life will not involve providing solutions to pregnancy cravings.)

“Look, Leslie. I don’t understand this, nor do I particularly want to. The miracle of life is best left unsolved and unexplored, in my opinion. That said, you are a decent person, and so is Ann. And considering that your request involves one, possibly two, of my favorite activities, I am only too happy to oblige.”

Leslie stares at him open-mouthed for a good thirty seconds. “I really thought I was going to have to hold your birthday over your head, Ron.”

“I’m ashamed to think you even entertained the possibility of my not preparing barely-cooked meat for a friend.”

*

Sometimes, Ann isn’t tired at all.

“This is okay, right? I mean, the baby won’t get all excited or something?” Leslie attempts to blow her bangs off of her forehead with a puff of air. Her hands are… occupied.

Of course Ann, beautiful Ann, takes care of it for her (she really is the kindest person Leslie’s ever met), kisses her quiet, and scoots closer. “Keep doing that, and I promise the baby won’t mind at all.” She shifts her hips, sets her lips at the corner of Leslie’s jaw. “Keep doing that.”

*

Leslie’s jostled awake.

“Ann?” Leslie whispers, gently squeezing her wife’s shoulder.

Ann groans. “Urgh. You smell like waffles,” she murmurs. She’s just having some sort of waffle-related nightmare. Not that waffles and nightmares ever belong in the same sentence unless that sentence is “Leslie awoke from her nightmare and found that all the waffles in the world were not gone after all!” Still, the likelihood of Leslie smelling like waffles is pretty high, despite having taken a shower or two since her last JJ’s fix. Even despite the evidence that Ann’s sleeping chastisement stems from reality, Leslie is more than willing to write it off. At least until morning.

When Ann, upon seeing Leslie applying whipped cream liberally to her morning coffee, runs from the room gagging. “I’m sorry, I love you,” she says, between choking over the toilet, “but apparently the baby hates everything you love, including me.” Flushed, Ann rests her forehead against the seat.

“Oh, Ann,” Leslie coos, kneeling next to her wife on the tile, rubbing Ann’s back in slow circles only to be rudely interrupted by Ann shoving Leslie away and ducking back over the toilet. “Okay,” Leslie says from the doorway, beginning to get mildly irritated (How can the baby not like whipped cream? What kind of abomination–?). “I was going to say that that the baby obviously doesn’t doesn’t hate you, but maybe the baby hates you.”

Ann just groans.

*

It’s kind of a problem.

Leslie can deal with her part of the vomiting and the back pain and the sudden surges of anger that seem so out of character (Leslie’s first instinct is to bite back, which of course does more harm than good) and the apologies, the countless, rambling texts and massages that come after (“I’m sorry you yelled at me and I yelled back,” starts one quickly-aborted attempt).

She can handle coming home to Ann, knee-deep in her closet, having already come near tears and back about four times, unable to find an outfit for the Council-person’s dinner that fits properly, doesn’t make her feel like a balloon, and isn’t her swimsuit (They don’t go after all. Government might be important, okay, it’s definitely important, but Ann beats all that crap. “Even if you feel like a balloon.” There’s another massage for the tally).

She’s gotten used to the extra space between them in bed, the shifting of positions that takes minutes and groaning instead of quick, panting seconds.

But Leslie can’t quite wrap her head around a baby — she’s sorry, a fetus — that doesn’t like whipped cream.

*

The summer heat is, hands down, the worst. Leslie fans herself through meetings and ends up excusing herself early to bring Ann, who’s starting to cut back on her hospital shifts, ice cream. And nine times out of ten, Ann’s asleep, mostly-naked and swollen and glorious on their bed, and Leslie eats the Cocoa Batter herself. She doesn’t mind.

*

They don’t have a rat baby.

But they do name her Shannon. (And thank whoever, because the whole whipped cream thing was just a fluke.)

Drabble: those days (i can’t remember where they went) (Twin Peaks, Audrey/Laura, PG)

those days (i can’t remember where they went)
Twin Peaks, Audrey/Laura, for prozacpark

–

When Laura looks up, she knows better than to try and hide her smile. Audrey is making small noises of frustration, staring at her fingers like they haven’t been a part of her hands for her whole life. “Need help?” Laura asks, collecting her mouth into some semblance of seriousness.

“You’d think,” Audrey says, hissing and shaking her right hand roughly, “that by now someone would have made glue that doesn’t stick to flesh.”

“Oh, that ruins half of the fun.” Laura stretches, setting down her own craft tool du jour — one from a box of oil pastels, green — and wiggles her big toe against the outside of Audrey’s thigh. “Don’t you remember being in play school and gluing your hands together, picking it off?”

“If I picked this off, it would only stick to my other hand.” Still, she gamely makes the attempt. Sure enough, the pieces of broken glass only shift their attentions to Audrey’s left hand. She huffs out some word they’re really not supposed to know, let alone say, and rolls her eyes at Laura. “A development that I, by the way, wouldn’t suggest laughing about.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Laura says, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She could watch Audrey scramble all day, the way her lips twist in concentration, her dainty little fingers decorated with the colored glass. The thought-line that furrows up between her eyebrows, the glint in her eye. “Let me help, all right?” she asks, playing nice for a change, and catches Audrey’s hand in her own, her thumb tracing the life line.