Note: This was written for the January Remix challenge at kink-bingo. Contains writing on the body.
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Monday night.
It looms at the end of glorious, boring, domestic weekend in Pawnee, creeping up on the Sunday Sleep-In like a horrible creature of serif font. It signals the ending of the first day of a long week of the stuff Leslie Knope was born for, the stuff she’d be head-over-heels for (and let’s face it, still is) if not for the loneliness that comes at night, in the morning, at small moments between meetings when Leslie knows knows knows Ann can’t talk but texts her frantically anyway, smiling when, two hours later Ann replies Here now. What up?.
Her apartment in the city is a mess of binders and empty take-out containers and dry cleaning bags. It doesn’t have to be nice; Leslie’s only here to sleep, consume a quick meal or two, and change clothes. Her weekdays in Indianapolis practically fly by (she’s informed Ann of this fact on many occasions, usually in the context of it’s okay, you don’t have to call in and drive up. I’ll be fine. I’ll make it. Four more days. Three more days.
Monday night.
It signals what has become their tradition, one born out of that bothersome distance and an uncertain future (not between them; that future’s the surest one they know). “I don’t think we’re going to get the motion passed,” Leslie says, sighing into the phone wedged between her shoulder and ear. “We just don’t have the votes.”
“Whoa,” comes Ann’s voice, clear with the hint of static (like sugar crystals on a waffle) “Les, you know it’s not going to happen if you talk like that.” Ann is sitting on her bed (their bed), eating a plate of fettuccine Alfredo with broccoli. Leslie is surrounded by notes from the day, her Kindle (open to page 224 of The Chamber of Secrets, comfort reading), and breakfast to-go from a little place called Mom’s Kitchen, which is delicious when drenched in syrup but no where near as good as JJ’s. “I know you’ve got some favors saved up. Do you think this is worth calling them in?” There’s a small slurping noise, and Leslie knows that Ann is getting serious with her pasta, phone on the bed next to her turned to speaker mode.
Leslie switches ears. “You know I think everything is worth calling in a favor or two, Ann.” She makes a note on the corner of her agenda: favors? and flops backwards into the pile of pillows. It’s then that she notices the dark line emerge from beneath her slacks. “Hang on, Ann,” she says tersely, and sets the phone down in order to truly examine something she managed to not notice until now.
Hello Leslie, the line says, when Leslie gets close enough to turn the line into words. She inches up the pant leg. I hope you weren’t planning on wearing a dress today, because this message isn’t for anyone else. It’s Ann’s handwriting, Leslie would recognize it anywhere. She picks up the phone. “Ann, you little minx,” she starts, smiling, trying not to jostle her food too much as she scrambles out of bed to undress and read the rest.
The tone on the line changes: Ann’s switched modes and has the phone tucked against her ear. Somehow, that makes Leslie feel closer. “You found it?” she asks, smiling. It’s true, you can always hear a smile.
Please stop wiggling in your sleep so I can write this! Okay. Very important: Leslie Knope, you can do anything. You can. I love you.
“I found it,” Leslie answers, sitting back down on the edge of the mattress. “I love you, Ann Perkins.”
“Hey,” Ann says after a moment. “Four more days.”
I have such feelings about these two because of you!
This is more than acceptable. *spreads feelings*