Parks Fic: Not That Sneaky (3/7)
Title: Not That Sneaky
Pairing: Ben/Leslie, ensemble
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Originally posted on the kinkmeme: 5 times Ben and Leslie get caught/interrupted during sex.
Part Two
It isn't long after he finds out about Ben and Leslie's relationship that Chris decides he needs to see them have sex.
Perhaps that comes off wrong.
To clarify: it’s not that Chris gets off on watching. He's not a voyeur. He's not seeking a high, some new, exciting type of arousal that can only be found in darkened corners. Quite the contrary. If anything, the desire to watch is born of innate curiosity about the human body; the chance to learn; the opportunity to witness the physical act of lovemaking, which is possibly Chris’ favorite expression of the most beautiful emotion in the universe.
It's not exactly a desire he's had often before, to be honest. Sure, there has been occasion in the past, opportunities that Chris has taken advantage of, but this need to seek out the other party is entirely new. It takes him by surprise, at first. But, like all of his best ideas, the brilliance of it settles in and blossoms into something he cannot ignore. Were he to sit down and explain, he's sure everyone would agree that seeing Ben and Leslie together truly is a necessity.
To begin, it is born somewhat of ignorance. A snowballing effect as Ben and Leslie's relationship first came to light, and Chris slowly realized that he was the only one who didn't have a sense of what was happening. He's not blind, of course. On paper it makes sense. Adding the sum parts of Ben’s and Leslie’s personalities and their capabilities of working as a team means that their compatibility is solid. And they are both fantastic people-two of his favorite people, in fact. But the truth remains that he has known Ben Wyatt for over a decade now, and Chris truly believed he would never risk everything for love. He would never break a rule, let alone one so serious and important as to cost him his job. And Leslie, from what Chris knows, is the same. So, if he’s completely honest, he’s still not entirely sure he comprehends Ben and Leslie's relationship.
Truthfully, it’s a thought that has lingered for months now. Born in the moment he walked into his office and found Ben and Leslie, hands clasped palm-to-palm as though diving into some abyss together. It had pulled his focus, even as every nerve in his body tensed because he knew, even in that moment, that he was going to lose something of great importance. After they left, over the next few days as he prepared for the trial, it was that image of them holding hands that stayed with him: Ben’s thumb swiping over the back of Leslie’s hand; Leslie’s knuckles white, relaying her anxiety even as she never wavered; the contrast between their hands, Leslie’s petite and pale and strong, and Ben’s large and long, somehow fitting together seamlessly.
Through the trial, through Ben’s painful resignation, through every excruciating moment of those first few days without Ben-stern, reliable Ben, who scarcely took a sick day in all the time Chris has known him-that image is what remains.
It’s difficult, faced with these contradictions, this lack of understanding, to let go of his desire to know (know why and how this happened). In the past two months, he’s found himself cataloging their physical interactions. Each chaste kiss, each innocuous touch. It’s not enough to add up to total comprehension and, inexplicably, none of it has resonated like that first glimpse of them holding hands. It’s too contained, too deliberately ingenuous and conscious of the public eye. Chris approves, celebrates their discretion in the face of such an outcry of shame, but he longs to see them together uninhibited. That day in the office, the desperate truth of that act of holding hands, that must be Leslie and Ben at heart, what everyone else saw for so long, but Chris remained blind to. In the past few weeks, his desire to find out for sure has begun to border on fanatical, and Chris won’t deny himself the opportunity now that it presents itself.
They’re at The Bulge to celebrate Leslie’s birthday. He’s alone since the magnificent Millicent Gergich is working (her dedication to toil away on a Saturday evening is just one of the many reasons Chris loves her). And it really has turned out for the best because Leslie is quite intoxicated-apparently, for whatever delightful reason, she drinks for free-and in the highest spirits. And while Ben is not nearly so inebriated, it’s clear his inhibitions are lowered because he doesn’t protest when Leslie pulls him onto the dance floor.
Chris is acutely conscious of them all night. Can feel them lingering in the periphery of the room even when his attention isn’t focused on them. They're touching more openly than usual. Sloppy kisses punctuated by a tongue swiping against a lip. Hands slipping below the waistband of Ben's pants, fingertips pulling him closer. Deliberate, and hardly subtle, swipes of his fingers over her breasts. It's the most sexuality Chris has ever seen from them in public, and he feels down to his bones that tonight is the night. This isn't the soft cuddling of New Year's, the chaste hugs and kisses that mark their comings and goings. The difference is marked, the room literally charged with the energy between them, and Chris knows. When they finally slip away, disappear into the shadows like phantoms, Chris almost bursts out of his own skin in anticipation. His palms sweat, his heart-rate increases, his whole body longs to follow, but he forces himself to stay put.
After all, it would be rude to abandon the charming Ann Perkins, at least without a good excuse.
It’s nearly ten minutes before the opportunity presents itself. Ann is an unfocused drunk, and when Tom and Jean-Ralphio-whose dancing is superbly synchronized-bop over to them, Ann’s attention sways like a small child’s. Tom takes her hand and twirls her, her drink spilling over Chris’ shoes, and Ann laughs loudly, swept away in a largely sloppy group dance.
Everyone is too drunk to notice Chris disappear into the shadows as well. Too drunk to question anyone’s whereabouts. Too drunk to care.
It is, literally, the most exquisite opportunity.
It doesn’t take him long to find them. Back where the music is merely a thumping background to such depraved acts, in the dimly lit corridors of a hallway off limits, Chris flits like a moth to the flame. It’s clear Ben and Leslie have foregone caution: the door to the supply room is open well enough to easily see inside, and Chris sidles up with the thought that alcohol truly does destroy the propriety of even the most prudent individuals.
Chris peers into the room carefully, but his suspicion that Leslie and Ben will be too far gone to notice anything proves correct. Leslie is perched on the top of a four-tiered stepladder, gripping the front of Ben's shirt with both hands. One long, milky leg is wrapped around Ben, and her foot rubs against his calf. The action is somewhat stilted, but Chris zeroes in on the detail: the way the arch of Leslie's foot hugs Ben's calf; the point of her toe offering the tiniest hint of tension; the fiery orange color of her nail polish juxtaposed against the muted brown of Ben's pants. This is what he seeks--these gestures and movements that will never be seen in public; Ben and Leslie explained through touch. It's an intoxicating, addicting craving, and tonight, Chris feels like a glutton.
He follows the line of Leslie's leg, taking in how her knee grazes Ben's ass, how her thigh presses against Ben's hip, and then he pauses at Ben's hand. His palm lingers against Leslie's thigh, his thumb kneading at her skin. With each pass, he inches almost imperceptibly up her leg. It's teasing, almost torturous, watching him move: the slowness of it; the way he comes a fingertip away from her underwear before running his hand to her inner thigh. He tugs with the forceful command of authority that Chris has been dependent on for so long, pulling Leslie's leg away from his body and spreading her wide. It exposes her center, and Chris can see that her panties are damp, the purple fabric darker where Ben has now exposed her body. "Fuck," Ben hisses, low and unhinged, and without warning, he drops to his knees in front of Leslie and licks right over that spot.
Instantly, Leslie's hands spring to life, one flying back and gripping the shelf behind her, steadying her precarious position, the other landing in Ben's hair and pulling roughly. Ben takes the encouragement and somehow presses himself closer to her, mouthing at her panties as his hands go to her ass and hold her to him, his forearms continuing to brace her legs. With effort, Chris tears his eyes from Ben to watch Leslie--the delicate arch of her back, her chest heaving, her head thrown back and neck exposed. She seems desperate to move: her hips roll as much as they can in Ben's grip; her legs are tense; she's biting her lip as her head lolls, intensely lost in the feeling. Ben is no better, almost ravaging her, his fingers now pulling roughly at her underwear in an effort to remove them. Their lack of control is obvious and strangely beautiful, so unlike anything Chris has ever seen before. They've lost reason, rationality, any semblance of propriety. They are completely consumed by one another, and Chris realizes that this is it. This is that connection he's been focused on recapturing since that day in his office.
Ben and Leslie, fitting together perfectly, and risking everything because they know it's too rare a connection to pass by.
It's too rare.
It is then, with sudden, startling clarity, that Chris understands the inevitability of this. Of them. Of the idea that their meeting was a collision of stars, and the burning fire that resulted could never be stopped. He now sees what everyone else has been aware of for so long: that the risk had nothing to do with their jobs or reputations--the risk was letting work keep them apart and believing that they might ever find with someone else what they have together.
And for some reason Chris can't fathom, it almost hurts more to know.
To know. The whole reason he set out on this expedition to begin with.
He should look away. He should melt back into the shadows and leave them alone because this was about understanding--nothing more. But for whatever reason, Chris can't tear his eyes from them. Ben has removed Leslie's underwear, and now works his fingers over her folds, thumb brushing against her clit with every few passes. The movement makes Leslie moan and her hips buck, and Ben grins, pressing a kiss against her thigh. "Please," she whimpers, and yes, Chris thinks, please don't stop.
Don't ever stop.
From out in the club, there is a loud burst of laughter and the curtain that blocks this hallway wavers and is then pulled back, exposing the world Chris left behind. It literally makes him jump, and he takes a large step back, as if it will account for his actions. Two very drunk, very amused men stumble toward him. "Are the bathrooms back here?" one of them asks loudly. Chris gives Ben and Leslie one last, hopeful glance, but the disturbance has broken the spell; Leslie stands, somewhat unsteadily, trying to smooth her skirt down, and Ben, looking quite pained, kisses her temple and mumbles something into her ear. Leslie nods, and Chris realizes he's a heartbeat away from discovery.
"Gentlemen!" he says, hurrying toward his new drunken friends and throwing an arm around each of their shoulders. "Allow me. I would be absolutely thrilled to direct you to the bathroom!"
Part Three