Fic: Out of Sight (1/2)
Title: Out of Sight (1/2)
Pairing: Ben/Leslie
Word Count: 4000
Rating: PG-13
Setting: Road Trip, right after Chris interrupts Ben and Leslie on the couch
Summary: AU version of Road Trip where Ben and Leslie decide to play Boggle with Chris.
A/n: A couple of weeks ago, sunnyday678 gave me a couple of prompts about Ben and Leslie during road trip. I had written this fic for her back in December, and at the time, I had been toying around with making it a longer fic but didn't have the time. When I got the new prompts, the two kind of coalesced in my mind and I came up with this. Since it was getting so long, I decided to split it into two parts.
Ben can tell his frustration is palpable. He feels it etched across his face, blatant as the sun on a cloudless day, yet Chris smiles at him as if there’s nothing untoward going on here. He’s oblivious, and on a more generous day, Ben would feel guilty about the fact that Chris has placed an immense amount of trust in his ethics; it’s clearly the one thing that keeps him from reading too much in to every interaction Ben has with Leslie, because even a senseless buffoon could sense the tension between them at this point.
Like he said, it’s written all over his face.
The thing is, Chris has always had the keen ability to thwart Ben’s romantic life. There have been many occasions before tonight, before Leslie, where Chris managed to wedge himself into the middle of something: embraces that turn into group hugs or set-ups interrupted by phone calls-or, if Ben ignores them, impromptu drop-ins at the restaurant because Ben can’t seem to learn the lesson never to take Chris’ recommendations. Given his past track record, Ben thought he might have better luck with the fact that Chris doesn’t know about his feelings for Leslie, except here they are again, and it’s even worse because he can’t pull Chris aside and tell him he’s being a well-intentioned pain in the ass. It would almost be fascinating, if Ben weren’t ready to lose his mind.
“Good,” says Leslie, like she might have actually been listening to whatever Chris was saying. Something about radishes? Ben can’t say for sure. “I’m gonna go to bed.”
She’s off the couch before Ben can protest, which is probably for the best since there’s no logical reason on earth why he should fight her on this, but instead of heading around the coffee table, she attempts to squeeze past him. He’s really not sure if it’s the enclosed space or the fact that she’s in such a hurry or because she’s deliberately trying not to touch him, but the next thing he knows, she trips. It’s a graceful movement, a hiccup in her escape that she’d probably gloss over with ease except that he panics, somehow moving a hand to balance her and contracting his body away from her all at once, and in his sporadic twitching, her foot catches on his. She falls forward as he shrinks back into the couch, and the next thing he knows, she’s on top of him.
He’s imagined holding Leslie a lot; a ridiculous number of times, really, and definitely more than he wants to admit. In his mind, it was never this awkward. There’s one blissful second where her breasts are pressed against his shoulder, but he’s too distracted by her hair in his face and the way her knee came perilously close to his balls; consequently he fails to notice until their warm, soft weight is abruptly pushed away as her hands scramble for some purchase. His hands, which wrapped around her lower back of their own volition, slip away as she squirms off of him, and he bunches them against the fabric of his pants, a lame attempt to look innocent even though he can hear his heart beating in his ears. He doesn’t dare look at Leslie as she rights herself.
“Whoops,” says Chris, and Ben makes a point not to look at him either, trying desperately to control his breathing and not to think about the unexpected flowery scent of Leslie’s hair. “Leslie, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Fine. And Ben’s fine. You’re fine, right?”
He’s far from fine, still staring at a spot on the floor and digging his nails into his thighs, and increasingly certain that both Leslie and Chris know exactly how far from innocent his thoughts are right now. He lets out a strangled grunt he hopes they’ll take as agreement, and Leslie says, “See? Fine.”
“Well,” says Chris, sounding not at all like he’s about to drag Ben into the other room for a lecture about appropriate places to touch a coworker. Not that Ben needs to be reminded of the way his fingertips grazed Leslie’s ass for one brief moment. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m wide awake now. You wanna Boggle?”
Ben finally manages to lift his head, not sure if he’s more surprised that Chris is still smiling pleasantly or that Leslie’s cheeks are the tiniest bit flushed or that a grown man just suggested they play a game Ben hasn’t thought about since elementary school. All of it is trumped by Leslie nodding, purposely navigating the other side of the coffee table this time, and agreeing, “Yeah. Let’s play.” There’s an unnatural timbre in her voice, falsely light and tinged with something taut, and she doesn’t quite meet his eyes when she looks back at him. “It’ll be fun.”
“Yeah, buddy. Come on.”
This is an inherently bad idea. His nerves, which were already wound tight with anticipation, have spiraled beyond his control, and the last thing he needs is a front row seat to Leslie’s competitive spirit and enthusiasm when Chris will be right there the whole time. But what is the alternative? Lie alone on the couch and try to ignore what’s going on a few feet away?
“Sure,” he agrees, throwing Leslie a somewhat petulant look. “Let’s play Boggle.”
“Excellent.” Chris claps his hands together and wanders off to find the game, leaving Ben to stare at Leslie. He wants her to explain, to give reason to the fact that she’s asking him to follow her further down this rabbit hole when five minutes ago she was about to go to bed, but she seems no more able to communicate with words right now than he is. She stands there, hands stuffed into the pockets of her sweatshirt, and while he’s pretty sure she’s still as frustrated as he is, he can more clearly read the resignation in her eyes. He can’t tell its direction, though-if she’s given up on this night being anything more or on them being anything more-and if he had one wish in the world right now, it would be for everyone else on the planet to disappear for an hour so he could just talk to her about this.
Well, maybe he’d do a little more than just talk.
“You guys know how to play, right?” Chris reenters the room and steals Leslie’s attention; Ben, whose focus has been at least mostly directed at Leslie for weeks now no matter what else is going on, barely looks at Chris long enough to nod. His friend leads the way to his dining room table, Leslie following, and Ben trails behind like someone being led to his execution. “You know,” says Chris thoughtfully; he seats himself at the head of the table and Ben takes the seat to his right, across from Leslie, “people always ask me why I prefer Boggle to Scrabble, since they’re both delightful word building games. Some even say it boggles the mind.”
Ben groans. His appreciation of puns aside, he’s in no mood for this right now. Leslie manages to smile, temperate enthusiasm for the joke, but Chris takes the whole thing in stride. “The best thing about Boggle is the delightful noise you get to make when shaking the tray.” He picks up the game and holds it out to Ben, wearing that telling look that says he’s going to make it his personal mission to cheer Ben up. In the grand scheme of things, he guesses he’s lucky a bad mood is all Chris has taken away from tonight. "Come on, buddy,” he encourages. “Try it. It's guaranteed to perk you up."
Ben raises an eyebrow, sardonic and incredulous the only feasible alternatives to irritable and sullen. Since Chris’ arrival, the night has been an unwelcome mixture of all four at various moments. He gives the Boggle tray few halfhearted shakes and sets it down between them, lifting the lid and nudging one stubborn die into its spot. Immediately, Leslie leans toward the board, and the movement loosens the neckline of her shirt; for a minute, his eyes lock on the swell of her breasts, weakly repressed fantasies bubbling back to the surface as he imagines what it would be like to press his lips against that smooth expanse of skin, and then Chris delivers another quick, if much needed, dose of reality. “Are we ready?”
Ben tears his eyes from Leslie’s chest to her face, flushing at her knowing look, and glances at his friend for a second before guiltily averting his gaze. He’s certain that both Chris and Leslie know where his eyes were a moment ago, and he clears his throat, suddenly aware that his mouth is parched. It’s sweltering in this apartment, actually, and Chris’ masterfully designed workout clothes are certainly working overtime to absorb the sweat from his overheated body, even if he’s sure they’re only making him warmer; he resists the urge to unzip the jacket and strip down to his undershirt, and instead reaches for the timer.
“Go!” shouts Chris, lunging for his pen and pad of paper. Leslie already has hers in hand, and he has the surreal feeling that he’s isolated in some alternate understanding of reality. Frowning, he turns over the timer.
Chris is already scribbling words, and Leslie’s brow furrows in concentration, this ridiculously adorable look that only makes him want to kiss her more, and he’s only vaguely aware that he hasn’t even picked up his pen yet. With Chris absorbed in the game, though, it feels like a gift: three minutes to watch Leslie without interruption, to see the way she chews on her lip as she’s thinking and study the soft curve of her cheek and examine the way her pen moves across the paper.
Except that last thing isn’t happening. The tip of her pen rests against the tablet, ready to move at a moment’s notice, but Leslie doesn’t seem to have found a word yet, which seems impossible given the rate at which Chris is writing. She releases her lip from between her teeth, slightly reddened and swollen, and Ben can’t be bothered to analyze her lack of participation in the game. He imagines what it would be like to kiss her right now-to lean across the table and cup her cheek with his hand, capturing her lower lip between his and soothing it with his tongue. The thought makes him squirm, back straightening and legs fidgeting beneath the table, and before he can indulge his fantasy further, Leslie kicks him hard in his shin.
It’s an admonishment, to be sure. Even if her eyes are glued to the board, she’s not oblivious, and it serves as a reminder that Chris may not be either. Still, he feels reluctant when he picks up his pen, unwilling to focus on this stupid game when he’s fixated on how torturous this is.
Torturous, yes. Solving the world's most obnoxious word search in Chris' apartment while having to sit across from this beautiful woman who just two hours ago told him he wasn't alone in the way he feels about her and not being able to do anything about it, is practically the dictionary definition. But Leslie seems to take his halfhearted attempt at participation as acquiescence to let this go; her pen moves with rapidity now, scribbling words in her hurried, slanted handwriting, singularly determined to beat Chris.
Somehow her singlemindedness is both sexy and infuriating, and the combination has some lethal authority over any sense he might have had left. Before he realizes he’s doing so, his foot crosses the space between them and rests against hers, toe brushing against her ankle.
Leslie freezes. Doesn't look at him, not even a glance out of the corner of her eye, but her pen stops moving across the paper, and it's obvious that she's no longer focused on finding words. And as pathetic as it is, her reaction is enough to make his heart beat faster; whatever resignation was in her eyes earlier has nothing to do with how she feels about him.
"Time's up!"
Leslie jumps, but for once, Ben turns to Chris calmly, still sliding his foot across Leslie's soft skin. There’s something bizarrely satisfying about maintaining contact right under Chris' nose, of finally being able to touch her after hours of his constant interference.
"Why, Ben," Chris exclaims. "You didn't get any words."
"Nope."
Chris slaps him on the shoulder, too distracted by Ben's failure to notice the way Leslie is looking at him-a mixture of exasperation and want that leaves Ben reeling. "Don't worry, buddy. You'll catch up in the next round. I know it."
He turns to Leslie, who tears her eyes from Ben a beat late, and they begin to tally their points. There’s a rule Ben forgot about common words canceling each other out, and despite her shortened playing time, Leslie ends up only six points behind. When she closes the lid over the board and shakes it more vociferously than Ben did, Chris gives him a pointed look of encouragement, as if to say, “That’s how you do it.”
Frankly, it’s a lot less annoying while playing footsie with Leslie. She sets down the tray and pulls off the lid, staring at him as she picks up her pen. “I think you’re afraid you can’t beat us.”
He couldn’t care less about winning the game at this point. As far as challenges go, this one does little more than arouse his already heightened desire for her, which he would bet is probably her point. He raised the stakes when he deliberately touched her, but Leslie isn’t one to fold, and despite the fact that this couldn’t be more foolish, he doesn’t want to back down now.
“Ben, is that true?” asks Chris, so unaware of what’s unfolding in front of his eyes that Ben almost pities him. “I happen to think you’re an exceptionally literate person. Don’t doubt your Boggle abilities.”
“I’m sure I’ll do better this time,” he says, and both Leslie’s and Chris’ faces light up, albeit for very different reasons. He inches his toes up Leslie’s pant-leg, rubbing them against her skin and then moving his foot back to its resting place on top of hers. Her toes curl up beneath him for a second, tickling the arch of his foot, and he reaches for the timer to cover his shiver at the sensation. He flips it before Chris can shout go this time and tries to concentrate on the board instead of Leslie.
If there is one advantage Ben will cede to this game, it is this: it’s easy to pretend he’s making some sort of effort. Lazily jotting down a few three letter words that immediately jump out at him, putting something on his paper so he can mask what’s really going on-there’s no challenge to it. Of course, he’s not going to win; he doesn’t have anything that won’t be knocked out of play, but that’s of little concern when Leslie’s foot circles around his, hooking around his ankle.
He sneaks a glance at her with all the subtlety that his earlier gawking lacked, pausing at the hint of her smile. She looks the closest to coy he’s ever seen her, and he wonders if this could really be so simple. If they could have a relationship cut into discreet parts, one public and one private. Considering, that is, that Chris manages to give them one minute of privacy at some point.
Leslie’s foot begins to travel, inching under the hem of his pant-leg until her foot strokes his calf. Her toes are cool against his skin, a strange contradiction to how everywhere else she radiates heat, but the sensation is relief in the sweltering confines of this room. Only Chris seems unaffected, judging by the slight flush of Leslie’s cheeks and neck, and Ben imagines how warm her skin would feel under his hands, against his lips, pressed against him as he kissed her. He shifts in his seat, acutely aware that he’s treading a thin line between turned on and fully aroused, and mercifully, he realizes the timer has run out. For once, he needs Chris to act as a bucket of cold water.
“Why Ben, you’ve made a marked improvement,” Chris gushes. It’s the type of positive reinforcement a parent would give to a child, instantaneous and overemphasized, and Ben isn’t surprised when Leslie lets out an inelegant chuckle. His list consists of five words, one of which, he belated realizes, he wrote twice. “Although I’m sorry to say I have all of those words as well.”
“Better luck next time,” Leslie intones brightly. She lightly scrapes her toenail down his leg, and Ben nearly strangles his pen.
Ben, are you feeling all right?” Chris asks, somehow radiating concern while pulling away from him. “You look peaked.”
“I’m fine. Just a little warm.”
Leslie smirks as Chris frowns, and Ben barely manages to maintain any control over the situation. “It looks like you got a lot,” he prompts, and though his skeptical look lingers, Chris turns to Leslie to compare words. Somehow, she’s able to tie up the game, and he has to wonder how she’d fare if the game had her full attention. Maybe she can teach him to double task the way she does; at this rate, he’ll be lucky if Chris isn’t feeding him word puzzles for the next month to improve his skills.
The next few rounds continue in the same fashion: Chris and Leslie neck-in-neck for the win; Ben lagging behind and celebrating his private victories. He takes a certain pride in the moments he sees Leslie falter in the game, when a brush of his skin against hers or an unexpected movement makes her lose her train of thought. He catalogues the slight changes in her face when he does so-the flutter of her eyes or the slight duck of her head or how she bites down on her lower lip. All the flirting they’ve been doing for weeks is finally manifested in physical contact, and he is privy to how it translates.
Not to say that Leslie isn’t doing the same. He watches her make mental notes of which movements make him squirm, which make him shiver, which rid him of any ability to think. Deep down he knows everything is amplified by the forbidden nature of this and the sense that they’re getting away with something; somehow it only manages to excite him more, though, sparking the exquisite anticipation of what’s to come.
Ben loses track of how long they play before Chris suggests a final round. He and Leslie are five points apart while Ben remains hopelessly in last place, but Chris’ announcement doesn’t strike a fear of losing so much as it reminds him that a long, unsatisfying night alone lays before him. This doesn’t end with him and Leslie in bed together.
Chris picks up the Boggle tray and begins to shake it like a maraca, eyes closed and head bobbing in time to his own music. Under any other circumstances, Ben knows he’d be holding back a laugh, meeting Leslie’s eyes across the table and sharing a private joke. When he looks at her now, though, all he feels is frustration and self-deprecating resignation that this is the end for now. For the first time since this game began, she meets his gaze, her eyes dark and unreadable.
“This is for the win,” Chris reminds them as he plunks the tray down and whips off the cover. He gives Ben an encouraging slap on the shoulder, as if he’s going to make up a twenty-eight point deficit in one round. “Make it count.”
He glances back at Leslie, but her eyes are already on the board. Sighing, he flips over the timer for the last time and watches his opponents take off.
It’s like the first round all over again. He’s not even bothering to try, instead basking in three unadulterated minutes to watch Leslie and play footsie under the table. She’s gotten better at ignoring him-or possibly she just really wants to win-and her pen races across the paper this time. Her foot begins to tap against his, a nervous staccato, and he responds by lightly pinning her down beneath the table.
So this is it for now. Tomorrow they’ll be back in Pawnee, and Ben will find a few minutes alone with her even if it means locking Chris in a bathroom. He can be patient; in the grand scheme of things, twelve hours isn’t insurmountable, just long.
Excruciatingly long.
Leslie’s foot slips from under his, lightly stroking the top of his foot and then moving up his leg to wrap around his calf. He imagines using this as proof tomorrow, reminding her that they spent an hour maintaining physical contact while Chris remained none the wiser. They can be sneaky. They can be together, and no one has to know.
He feels her big toe brush the back of his knee as he ponders meetings that might go like this (if, of course, he can learn to split his focus as Leslie does; they’ll probably have to practice). His mind winds around surreptitious kisses and secluded moments, an ode to how they can make this work and see if it’s worth pursuing. He’s known for a while now that their potential exceeds all the risks, and this night is as much as testament to that as anything else.
Lost as he is in his quickly curtailing fantasies, Ben doesn’t notice that Leslie’s foot continues to steadily creep up his leg until the arch of her foot slots against his inner thigh. He jumps at the contact, drawn forcibly back from the future to this moment, and one of his knees hits the table. Chris looks up in concern. “Are you all right, Ben?” he asks, the words garbled like Ben’s head has been pulled below water; he sees the words form on Chris’ lips more than he hears them. Dimly, he nods, one hand gripping the edge of the table as Leslie’s foot continues to slide up his leg until it is fully extended. Her toes flex, brushing perilously close to his dick, and he stands abruptly, chair tipping back and nearly crashing to the floor.
“Water,” he rasps, eyes flitting everywhere but to Leslie; one mischievous smile would be enough to propel this situation beyond control. “I think-I’m going to get some water.”
“Ben?”
He ignores Chris’ alarm, stumbling toward the kitchen and rounding the corner so he’s out sight. Gripping the edge of the counter, he takes a few long, steadying breaths, focusing solely on the intake and expulsion of air from his lungs. Other thoughts, much more dangerous ones about Leslie and deliberate touches and how if her legs were one inch longer…, flit about the edge of his mind, and it takes effort not to indulge any of them. Annoyingly, for once Chris is nowhere near the periphery of his inappropriate thoughts about Leslie, and it’s the one time Ben most needs him to be.
“Ben?”
He stiffens at Leslie’s voice, hands tightening against the counter and then falling away as he turns to face her. It’s a bad idea, given that he’s teetering on the edge of losing control; control that’s strained to its breaking point when he sees her standing there. The apology he expected to see in her eyes is absent, replaced by something darker and more desperate, and he feels the last of his resolve disappear.
He closes the space between them in three steps and kisses her.
Part Two!
Pairing: Ben/Leslie
Word Count: 4000
Rating: PG-13
Setting: Road Trip, right after Chris interrupts Ben and Leslie on the couch
Summary: AU version of Road Trip where Ben and Leslie decide to play Boggle with Chris.
A/n: A couple of weeks ago, sunnyday678 gave me a couple of prompts about Ben and Leslie during road trip. I had written this fic for her back in December, and at the time, I had been toying around with making it a longer fic but didn't have the time. When I got the new prompts, the two kind of coalesced in my mind and I came up with this. Since it was getting so long, I decided to split it into two parts.
Ben can tell his frustration is palpable. He feels it etched across his face, blatant as the sun on a cloudless day, yet Chris smiles at him as if there’s nothing untoward going on here. He’s oblivious, and on a more generous day, Ben would feel guilty about the fact that Chris has placed an immense amount of trust in his ethics; it’s clearly the one thing that keeps him from reading too much in to every interaction Ben has with Leslie, because even a senseless buffoon could sense the tension between them at this point.
Like he said, it’s written all over his face.
The thing is, Chris has always had the keen ability to thwart Ben’s romantic life. There have been many occasions before tonight, before Leslie, where Chris managed to wedge himself into the middle of something: embraces that turn into group hugs or set-ups interrupted by phone calls-or, if Ben ignores them, impromptu drop-ins at the restaurant because Ben can’t seem to learn the lesson never to take Chris’ recommendations. Given his past track record, Ben thought he might have better luck with the fact that Chris doesn’t know about his feelings for Leslie, except here they are again, and it’s even worse because he can’t pull Chris aside and tell him he’s being a well-intentioned pain in the ass. It would almost be fascinating, if Ben weren’t ready to lose his mind.
“Good,” says Leslie, like she might have actually been listening to whatever Chris was saying. Something about radishes? Ben can’t say for sure. “I’m gonna go to bed.”
She’s off the couch before Ben can protest, which is probably for the best since there’s no logical reason on earth why he should fight her on this, but instead of heading around the coffee table, she attempts to squeeze past him. He’s really not sure if it’s the enclosed space or the fact that she’s in such a hurry or because she’s deliberately trying not to touch him, but the next thing he knows, she trips. It’s a graceful movement, a hiccup in her escape that she’d probably gloss over with ease except that he panics, somehow moving a hand to balance her and contracting his body away from her all at once, and in his sporadic twitching, her foot catches on his. She falls forward as he shrinks back into the couch, and the next thing he knows, she’s on top of him.
He’s imagined holding Leslie a lot; a ridiculous number of times, really, and definitely more than he wants to admit. In his mind, it was never this awkward. There’s one blissful second where her breasts are pressed against his shoulder, but he’s too distracted by her hair in his face and the way her knee came perilously close to his balls; consequently he fails to notice until their warm, soft weight is abruptly pushed away as her hands scramble for some purchase. His hands, which wrapped around her lower back of their own volition, slip away as she squirms off of him, and he bunches them against the fabric of his pants, a lame attempt to look innocent even though he can hear his heart beating in his ears. He doesn’t dare look at Leslie as she rights herself.
“Whoops,” says Chris, and Ben makes a point not to look at him either, trying desperately to control his breathing and not to think about the unexpected flowery scent of Leslie’s hair. “Leslie, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Fine. And Ben’s fine. You’re fine, right?”
He’s far from fine, still staring at a spot on the floor and digging his nails into his thighs, and increasingly certain that both Leslie and Chris know exactly how far from innocent his thoughts are right now. He lets out a strangled grunt he hopes they’ll take as agreement, and Leslie says, “See? Fine.”
“Well,” says Chris, sounding not at all like he’s about to drag Ben into the other room for a lecture about appropriate places to touch a coworker. Not that Ben needs to be reminded of the way his fingertips grazed Leslie’s ass for one brief moment. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m wide awake now. You wanna Boggle?”
Ben finally manages to lift his head, not sure if he’s more surprised that Chris is still smiling pleasantly or that Leslie’s cheeks are the tiniest bit flushed or that a grown man just suggested they play a game Ben hasn’t thought about since elementary school. All of it is trumped by Leslie nodding, purposely navigating the other side of the coffee table this time, and agreeing, “Yeah. Let’s play.” There’s an unnatural timbre in her voice, falsely light and tinged with something taut, and she doesn’t quite meet his eyes when she looks back at him. “It’ll be fun.”
“Yeah, buddy. Come on.”
This is an inherently bad idea. His nerves, which were already wound tight with anticipation, have spiraled beyond his control, and the last thing he needs is a front row seat to Leslie’s competitive spirit and enthusiasm when Chris will be right there the whole time. But what is the alternative? Lie alone on the couch and try to ignore what’s going on a few feet away?
“Sure,” he agrees, throwing Leslie a somewhat petulant look. “Let’s play Boggle.”
“Excellent.” Chris claps his hands together and wanders off to find the game, leaving Ben to stare at Leslie. He wants her to explain, to give reason to the fact that she’s asking him to follow her further down this rabbit hole when five minutes ago she was about to go to bed, but she seems no more able to communicate with words right now than he is. She stands there, hands stuffed into the pockets of her sweatshirt, and while he’s pretty sure she’s still as frustrated as he is, he can more clearly read the resignation in her eyes. He can’t tell its direction, though-if she’s given up on this night being anything more or on them being anything more-and if he had one wish in the world right now, it would be for everyone else on the planet to disappear for an hour so he could just talk to her about this.
Well, maybe he’d do a little more than just talk.
“You guys know how to play, right?” Chris reenters the room and steals Leslie’s attention; Ben, whose focus has been at least mostly directed at Leslie for weeks now no matter what else is going on, barely looks at Chris long enough to nod. His friend leads the way to his dining room table, Leslie following, and Ben trails behind like someone being led to his execution. “You know,” says Chris thoughtfully; he seats himself at the head of the table and Ben takes the seat to his right, across from Leslie, “people always ask me why I prefer Boggle to Scrabble, since they’re both delightful word building games. Some even say it boggles the mind.”
Ben groans. His appreciation of puns aside, he’s in no mood for this right now. Leslie manages to smile, temperate enthusiasm for the joke, but Chris takes the whole thing in stride. “The best thing about Boggle is the delightful noise you get to make when shaking the tray.” He picks up the game and holds it out to Ben, wearing that telling look that says he’s going to make it his personal mission to cheer Ben up. In the grand scheme of things, he guesses he’s lucky a bad mood is all Chris has taken away from tonight. "Come on, buddy,” he encourages. “Try it. It's guaranteed to perk you up."
Ben raises an eyebrow, sardonic and incredulous the only feasible alternatives to irritable and sullen. Since Chris’ arrival, the night has been an unwelcome mixture of all four at various moments. He gives the Boggle tray few halfhearted shakes and sets it down between them, lifting the lid and nudging one stubborn die into its spot. Immediately, Leslie leans toward the board, and the movement loosens the neckline of her shirt; for a minute, his eyes lock on the swell of her breasts, weakly repressed fantasies bubbling back to the surface as he imagines what it would be like to press his lips against that smooth expanse of skin, and then Chris delivers another quick, if much needed, dose of reality. “Are we ready?”
Ben tears his eyes from Leslie’s chest to her face, flushing at her knowing look, and glances at his friend for a second before guiltily averting his gaze. He’s certain that both Chris and Leslie know where his eyes were a moment ago, and he clears his throat, suddenly aware that his mouth is parched. It’s sweltering in this apartment, actually, and Chris’ masterfully designed workout clothes are certainly working overtime to absorb the sweat from his overheated body, even if he’s sure they’re only making him warmer; he resists the urge to unzip the jacket and strip down to his undershirt, and instead reaches for the timer.
“Go!” shouts Chris, lunging for his pen and pad of paper. Leslie already has hers in hand, and he has the surreal feeling that he’s isolated in some alternate understanding of reality. Frowning, he turns over the timer.
Chris is already scribbling words, and Leslie’s brow furrows in concentration, this ridiculously adorable look that only makes him want to kiss her more, and he’s only vaguely aware that he hasn’t even picked up his pen yet. With Chris absorbed in the game, though, it feels like a gift: three minutes to watch Leslie without interruption, to see the way she chews on her lip as she’s thinking and study the soft curve of her cheek and examine the way her pen moves across the paper.
Except that last thing isn’t happening. The tip of her pen rests against the tablet, ready to move at a moment’s notice, but Leslie doesn’t seem to have found a word yet, which seems impossible given the rate at which Chris is writing. She releases her lip from between her teeth, slightly reddened and swollen, and Ben can’t be bothered to analyze her lack of participation in the game. He imagines what it would be like to kiss her right now-to lean across the table and cup her cheek with his hand, capturing her lower lip between his and soothing it with his tongue. The thought makes him squirm, back straightening and legs fidgeting beneath the table, and before he can indulge his fantasy further, Leslie kicks him hard in his shin.
It’s an admonishment, to be sure. Even if her eyes are glued to the board, she’s not oblivious, and it serves as a reminder that Chris may not be either. Still, he feels reluctant when he picks up his pen, unwilling to focus on this stupid game when he’s fixated on how torturous this is.
Torturous, yes. Solving the world's most obnoxious word search in Chris' apartment while having to sit across from this beautiful woman who just two hours ago told him he wasn't alone in the way he feels about her and not being able to do anything about it, is practically the dictionary definition. But Leslie seems to take his halfhearted attempt at participation as acquiescence to let this go; her pen moves with rapidity now, scribbling words in her hurried, slanted handwriting, singularly determined to beat Chris.
Somehow her singlemindedness is both sexy and infuriating, and the combination has some lethal authority over any sense he might have had left. Before he realizes he’s doing so, his foot crosses the space between them and rests against hers, toe brushing against her ankle.
Leslie freezes. Doesn't look at him, not even a glance out of the corner of her eye, but her pen stops moving across the paper, and it's obvious that she's no longer focused on finding words. And as pathetic as it is, her reaction is enough to make his heart beat faster; whatever resignation was in her eyes earlier has nothing to do with how she feels about him.
"Time's up!"
Leslie jumps, but for once, Ben turns to Chris calmly, still sliding his foot across Leslie's soft skin. There’s something bizarrely satisfying about maintaining contact right under Chris' nose, of finally being able to touch her after hours of his constant interference.
"Why, Ben," Chris exclaims. "You didn't get any words."
"Nope."
Chris slaps him on the shoulder, too distracted by Ben's failure to notice the way Leslie is looking at him-a mixture of exasperation and want that leaves Ben reeling. "Don't worry, buddy. You'll catch up in the next round. I know it."
He turns to Leslie, who tears her eyes from Ben a beat late, and they begin to tally their points. There’s a rule Ben forgot about common words canceling each other out, and despite her shortened playing time, Leslie ends up only six points behind. When she closes the lid over the board and shakes it more vociferously than Ben did, Chris gives him a pointed look of encouragement, as if to say, “That’s how you do it.”
Frankly, it’s a lot less annoying while playing footsie with Leslie. She sets down the tray and pulls off the lid, staring at him as she picks up her pen. “I think you’re afraid you can’t beat us.”
He couldn’t care less about winning the game at this point. As far as challenges go, this one does little more than arouse his already heightened desire for her, which he would bet is probably her point. He raised the stakes when he deliberately touched her, but Leslie isn’t one to fold, and despite the fact that this couldn’t be more foolish, he doesn’t want to back down now.
“Ben, is that true?” asks Chris, so unaware of what’s unfolding in front of his eyes that Ben almost pities him. “I happen to think you’re an exceptionally literate person. Don’t doubt your Boggle abilities.”
“I’m sure I’ll do better this time,” he says, and both Leslie’s and Chris’ faces light up, albeit for very different reasons. He inches his toes up Leslie’s pant-leg, rubbing them against her skin and then moving his foot back to its resting place on top of hers. Her toes curl up beneath him for a second, tickling the arch of his foot, and he reaches for the timer to cover his shiver at the sensation. He flips it before Chris can shout go this time and tries to concentrate on the board instead of Leslie.
If there is one advantage Ben will cede to this game, it is this: it’s easy to pretend he’s making some sort of effort. Lazily jotting down a few three letter words that immediately jump out at him, putting something on his paper so he can mask what’s really going on-there’s no challenge to it. Of course, he’s not going to win; he doesn’t have anything that won’t be knocked out of play, but that’s of little concern when Leslie’s foot circles around his, hooking around his ankle.
He sneaks a glance at her with all the subtlety that his earlier gawking lacked, pausing at the hint of her smile. She looks the closest to coy he’s ever seen her, and he wonders if this could really be so simple. If they could have a relationship cut into discreet parts, one public and one private. Considering, that is, that Chris manages to give them one minute of privacy at some point.
Leslie’s foot begins to travel, inching under the hem of his pant-leg until her foot strokes his calf. Her toes are cool against his skin, a strange contradiction to how everywhere else she radiates heat, but the sensation is relief in the sweltering confines of this room. Only Chris seems unaffected, judging by the slight flush of Leslie’s cheeks and neck, and Ben imagines how warm her skin would feel under his hands, against his lips, pressed against him as he kissed her. He shifts in his seat, acutely aware that he’s treading a thin line between turned on and fully aroused, and mercifully, he realizes the timer has run out. For once, he needs Chris to act as a bucket of cold water.
“Why Ben, you’ve made a marked improvement,” Chris gushes. It’s the type of positive reinforcement a parent would give to a child, instantaneous and overemphasized, and Ben isn’t surprised when Leslie lets out an inelegant chuckle. His list consists of five words, one of which, he belated realizes, he wrote twice. “Although I’m sorry to say I have all of those words as well.”
“Better luck next time,” Leslie intones brightly. She lightly scrapes her toenail down his leg, and Ben nearly strangles his pen.
Ben, are you feeling all right?” Chris asks, somehow radiating concern while pulling away from him. “You look peaked.”
“I’m fine. Just a little warm.”
Leslie smirks as Chris frowns, and Ben barely manages to maintain any control over the situation. “It looks like you got a lot,” he prompts, and though his skeptical look lingers, Chris turns to Leslie to compare words. Somehow, she’s able to tie up the game, and he has to wonder how she’d fare if the game had her full attention. Maybe she can teach him to double task the way she does; at this rate, he’ll be lucky if Chris isn’t feeding him word puzzles for the next month to improve his skills.
The next few rounds continue in the same fashion: Chris and Leslie neck-in-neck for the win; Ben lagging behind and celebrating his private victories. He takes a certain pride in the moments he sees Leslie falter in the game, when a brush of his skin against hers or an unexpected movement makes her lose her train of thought. He catalogues the slight changes in her face when he does so-the flutter of her eyes or the slight duck of her head or how she bites down on her lower lip. All the flirting they’ve been doing for weeks is finally manifested in physical contact, and he is privy to how it translates.
Not to say that Leslie isn’t doing the same. He watches her make mental notes of which movements make him squirm, which make him shiver, which rid him of any ability to think. Deep down he knows everything is amplified by the forbidden nature of this and the sense that they’re getting away with something; somehow it only manages to excite him more, though, sparking the exquisite anticipation of what’s to come.
Ben loses track of how long they play before Chris suggests a final round. He and Leslie are five points apart while Ben remains hopelessly in last place, but Chris’ announcement doesn’t strike a fear of losing so much as it reminds him that a long, unsatisfying night alone lays before him. This doesn’t end with him and Leslie in bed together.
Chris picks up the Boggle tray and begins to shake it like a maraca, eyes closed and head bobbing in time to his own music. Under any other circumstances, Ben knows he’d be holding back a laugh, meeting Leslie’s eyes across the table and sharing a private joke. When he looks at her now, though, all he feels is frustration and self-deprecating resignation that this is the end for now. For the first time since this game began, she meets his gaze, her eyes dark and unreadable.
“This is for the win,” Chris reminds them as he plunks the tray down and whips off the cover. He gives Ben an encouraging slap on the shoulder, as if he’s going to make up a twenty-eight point deficit in one round. “Make it count.”
He glances back at Leslie, but her eyes are already on the board. Sighing, he flips over the timer for the last time and watches his opponents take off.
It’s like the first round all over again. He’s not even bothering to try, instead basking in three unadulterated minutes to watch Leslie and play footsie under the table. She’s gotten better at ignoring him-or possibly she just really wants to win-and her pen races across the paper this time. Her foot begins to tap against his, a nervous staccato, and he responds by lightly pinning her down beneath the table.
So this is it for now. Tomorrow they’ll be back in Pawnee, and Ben will find a few minutes alone with her even if it means locking Chris in a bathroom. He can be patient; in the grand scheme of things, twelve hours isn’t insurmountable, just long.
Excruciatingly long.
Leslie’s foot slips from under his, lightly stroking the top of his foot and then moving up his leg to wrap around his calf. He imagines using this as proof tomorrow, reminding her that they spent an hour maintaining physical contact while Chris remained none the wiser. They can be sneaky. They can be together, and no one has to know.
He feels her big toe brush the back of his knee as he ponders meetings that might go like this (if, of course, he can learn to split his focus as Leslie does; they’ll probably have to practice). His mind winds around surreptitious kisses and secluded moments, an ode to how they can make this work and see if it’s worth pursuing. He’s known for a while now that their potential exceeds all the risks, and this night is as much as testament to that as anything else.
Lost as he is in his quickly curtailing fantasies, Ben doesn’t notice that Leslie’s foot continues to steadily creep up his leg until the arch of her foot slots against his inner thigh. He jumps at the contact, drawn forcibly back from the future to this moment, and one of his knees hits the table. Chris looks up in concern. “Are you all right, Ben?” he asks, the words garbled like Ben’s head has been pulled below water; he sees the words form on Chris’ lips more than he hears them. Dimly, he nods, one hand gripping the edge of the table as Leslie’s foot continues to slide up his leg until it is fully extended. Her toes flex, brushing perilously close to his dick, and he stands abruptly, chair tipping back and nearly crashing to the floor.
“Water,” he rasps, eyes flitting everywhere but to Leslie; one mischievous smile would be enough to propel this situation beyond control. “I think-I’m going to get some water.”
“Ben?”
He ignores Chris’ alarm, stumbling toward the kitchen and rounding the corner so he’s out sight. Gripping the edge of the counter, he takes a few long, steadying breaths, focusing solely on the intake and expulsion of air from his lungs. Other thoughts, much more dangerous ones about Leslie and deliberate touches and how if her legs were one inch longer…, flit about the edge of his mind, and it takes effort not to indulge any of them. Annoyingly, for once Chris is nowhere near the periphery of his inappropriate thoughts about Leslie, and it’s the one time Ben most needs him to be.
“Ben?”
He stiffens at Leslie’s voice, hands tightening against the counter and then falling away as he turns to face her. It’s a bad idea, given that he’s teetering on the edge of losing control; control that’s strained to its breaking point when he sees her standing there. The apology he expected to see in her eyes is absent, replaced by something darker and more desperate, and he feels the last of his resolve disappear.
He closes the space between them in three steps and kisses her.
Part Two!