your brown eyes are my blue skies
Ann/Leslie, spoilers for “Smallest Park”. Zeus (117) + Antigone (163) + Artemis (129) + Morpheus (164) = 573. For femslash100.
*
Leslie has this habit of doing whatever she wants, of apologizing instead of asking permission, of diving in without checking the depth. (She looks both ways before crossing the street, however, because some rules are there for a reason.) Ann keeps her mouth shut, mostly, knowing that it would be easy to leave her behind altogether; that when the goal is something big and bright it’s easy to forget about her along the way. The look in Leslie’s eyes — those dual stars — shoves at any doubt, at any question.
She’d rather watch Leslie crash and burn than not watch her at all. (She’d rather catch that comet tail even if it spells doom in big, bold letters.)
*
And okay, sometimes Leslie goes too far. She’ll admit it. She will. Like the time with the pit and the time with the park and the time with the library and the birthday and the show and and and. She’ll admit it. But going too far has it’s benefits. It gets things done, quickly.
It also has it’s drawbacks. Like the times she thinks and thinks and thinks and still misses the giant loophole or the clause or the disaster waiting around the corner.
(Ben kisses her in the Smallest Park, and her heart leaps, and her heart sinks. She thinks Maybe and Yes and Oh. God. Because she thought she thought of everything, covered every base, but didn’t remember to think of Ann in her living room, making waffles and flipping channels and waiting, past her bedtime, for Leslie to report in. ??? pings up on her phone when she and Ben depart, and Leslie smiles, wondering why she wants to cry.)
*
Ann’s happy. She really is: happy for Leslie and happy for Ben, and for Chris and Millie (for what that’s worth) and for Andy and April (who actually seem to be working out, despite the odds). She’s happy when Leslie texts back (surprisingly brief, for her) Operation Smallest Park: Success (she always capitalizes and punctuates correctly, which makes for long pauses and expensive conversations).
She’s happier when Leslie shows up an hour later (Ann refused to go to bed, hoping, hoping) and looks just desperate enough to say fuck it and give in, just once.
“Are you okay?” Ann asks, folding Leslie into the tightest of hugs. Keeping her close, just for a moment.
“I don’t know, Ann,” Leslie murmurs, her breath hot on Ann’s shoulder. “I don’t know.”
*
It’s easier, somehow, to stay at Ann’s than to face her house alone after such an exhausting day. It’s easier to just give in when Ann (sure enough) offers a waffle and caffeine-free hot cocoa (“Otherwise, you’ll never get to sleep.”) because food always makes her feel better. And of course, Ann knows just the right amount of whipped cream (“More than any rational human would consume.”) and the right amount of space to leave between them on the couch until Leslie (sticky-faced) turns to her and says the words she’s been afraid of. “I love Ben,” she says, watching close for the changes in Ann’s eyes, “I do. I’m so happy around him, Ann. I feel like I’m dreaming.” Ann’s head drops to Leslie’s shoulder, a heavy weight. Leslie can’t help feeling like she’s making a terrible mistake. “Can I sleep here tonight?” she asks, and even though she’s asking the world, Ann simply smiles.
“I’ll get you a blanket. The fuzzy one.”
