fic: "Another Thing Coming Undone"
title: Another Thing Coming Undone
author: shornt
pairing: Leslie/Ben
rating: PG13/light R
words: 1,597
spoilers: Through 3x11.
summary: Later, she'll blame her recklessness on the headband, or the cut of her shirt, or the twinkle in his eye. If Andy and April hadn't interrupted Ben and Leslie.
* Title comes from "Runaway" by The National, which I listened to on repeat while watching this, if you want some ambiance~
She says it without really thinking of it. Later, she'll blame her recklessness on the headband, or the cut of her shirt, or the twinkle in his eye.
“I’m just... I’m so annoyed… by all these rules lately…”
It's an exhale she's been holding in; admittance without admitting anything. She looks to him because she hopes he understands, and when his eyes meet hers, it’s confirmed.
“Me too.”
He knows. And she knows. And they’re in this together, which is nicer but also a little worse. It aches, physically, somewhere inside her chest. To be so close, but inexplicably far. And she’s waiting, waiting for the other foot to drop, because somehow it always does. But he’s holding her gaze, and nothing's stopping him. It’s unnerving in a way she can’t handle; she has to take a step back.
“I just… Chris means well,” Ben begins, weakly. “I doubt he’s actually mad about the painting himself.”
“He isn’t. It isn’t the actual painting at all.” They’re not talking about the painting. She throws him a lopsided smile, shrugging. “I still hate him a little.”
“Yeah,” Ben says with a chuckle. He takes a step forward, back into her space, peering down at her. But she needs to do something, needs a task to focus her attention on, because she’s going to do something crazy if they keep looking at each other like this. Her adrenaline’s been peaking, she’s been breaking rules, she's been acting out... but this rule is kind of a big thing, and she doesn’t know if it’s a chance they can afford to take.
A painting is one thing… this is something different.
She inhales sharply, then suddenly collapses back on the couch. When she looks up, Ben is still looking at her, and the air is still full of… whatever this is. She slides over, patting the space next to her, leaving it up to him to sit close or far. Either works. She just… needs someone right now. Needs him.
“I’m sorry about all of this,” he says, cautiously lowering himself down next to her. He's chosen intimacy, their thighs pressed against each other, but he’s careful to keep space between their arms. Too careful.
“It’s not your fault,” she assures him, and she’s moving before pausing, leaning against his arm, her forehead resting on his shoulder. And it’s like instinct, the way he moves an arm around her, the way his fingers drift against the fabric of her blazer, the way he exhales into the couch and lets her melt against him. It fits. It hurts.
“We probably shouldn’t be doing this” she murmurs, knowing this moment is delicate and the smallest thing could cause a fracture… but also not wanting to put them in this situation.
“I know.” But he just pulls her closer, and she feels the sting of tears, because he really is as distressed as she is. But something about being against him, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, anchors her to this moment. This is just about the two of them, because right now, there's nothing else.
She moves just a little, her hand skimming the expanse of his chest, and finds that she was right -- one little break, and everything shifts.
She isn't sure who moves in first, but she sighs several months of built-up tension against his lips, feeling the prickle of his hair between her fingers, wondering when she put her hand there. But she pulls him closer, changing the angle, changing everything. Her mouth slips open under his, he's tasting her, licking his way in like he can't get enough. She's dizzy, lightheaded when she feels her back hit the couch, feeling like she could float even with Ben's weight pressing down on her.
With this new arrangement, Ben's hands are wandering, slipping under the hem of her shirt, grazing her breasts through the fabric. She can't stop clutching him, his plaid balled up in her fists, her feet pressing into the cushion when his knee takes place between hers, adding pressure where she needs it. When she pulls her mouth from his to breathe, his lips are on her neck, his tongue dancing wildly around her skin, and she's overheated, how is she still wearing this blazer--?
She pushes him up, and is grateful for a reason to laugh -- he's wide-eyed, his hair sticking straight up in random places, his hands fidgeting against her waistband. She can't help but palm his face, kissing him sweetly, as he helps her shrug off her blazer, rubbing his hands down her sides. She's caught the giggles now, burying her face in his shoulder, pushing him back until he's lying beneath her, playing with the buttons on his shirt. He's gripping her waist like she might slip away, a goofy grin on his face.
She feels more relief than she's felt in years.
Leaning down to kiss him, she untucks his shirt, feeling his skin, mapping his ribs. Her tongue brushes his bottom lip and a strangled noise slips out the back of his throat, prompting her to pull him deeper. She has a vague sense of his hands gripping the back of her thighs and something in her suddenly sets off warning signals... She swipes her tongue against his once more, pulling back even as she feels his hand skim the snap of her bra, even as she's shifting her hips pleasantly against his, because...
"This isn't helping," she gasps between breaths, putting a hand to her forehead, realizing her headband is lost somewhere beneath them. When he pulls himself up to sit, she doesn't know how to handle the fact that she's still straddling his lap, and his hands are still on her back, lightly rubbing like he's comforting her, and she blushes slightly because she can feel him, hard, against her thigh.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, and she shivers. His forehead drops to hers.
"I don't know what to do," she admits.
"Andy and April are gonna be home soon." And she sits back to look at him, his lips swollen and his cheeks red, and she's dying to grab his hand and not let go until she's led him to her place. But they shouldn't. Either way... they really shouldn't.
"I, um," she's trying to regain her bearings, but her mind is going in at least ten different places, wondering what would happen if they were caught, wondering where her left shoe ended up, wondering what exactly this means. Surrender or defeat? "What are we--?"
"I want to be with you," he says suddenly, his hands tightening against her. "But I don't want to jeopardize your job." His face strains at every word, and she slides off his lap guiltily, landing in an awkward heap against the arm of the couch.
"I don't want that for you, either."
"Well."
Checkmate. She feels the tears returning, just a little, in the corners of her eyes, and she has to look away from him. Because now she knows what it's like, knows how it feels, knows more certainly than ever that he's what she wants... and it still can't happen. But she feels a tug on her hand, and he's perched on his knees in front of her, rubbing her knuckles.
"We're going to figure this out," he promises, his other hand reaching up to tuck one of her errant curls in place. "Just, fuck... just trust me, okay? We'll make this work."
"I trust you." And she does. God... she really does. She kisses his jaw, lingers, breathing him in. "I'm gonna go clean up a little, I'll get out of your hair before they get back." To punctuate her point, she reaches up and musses his hair further. His hand lingers on her wrist until she's out of his reach, and she hears it fall back against his thigh with a solid thud.
She's predictably a mess once she looks in the mirror, and it's hard to locate a hairbrush amongst the clutter in the drawers (a broken guitar tuner, in the bathroom?), but she can't wipe the grin off her face and... she likes that. She likes feeling a little crazy, a little wanton.
She ends up taking her time, only emerging when she feels her face has returned to its usual color. Her blazer is distinctly wrinkled, but she'll have to live with that. She sees Ben shuffling around in the kitchen, his shirt buttoned back up to the collar and his hair haphazardly slicked back down with water from the sink. He turns at her footsteps and smiles crookedly.
It's at that point that a key is heard in the front lock, and April and Andy parade inside, armed with marshmallows and kitchenware.
"Come on, Leslie, it would be so fun!" Andy whines when she announces her immediate leave, turning down his offer of being pelted with marshmallows while April watches Ben put their dishes away.
"Another time," she promises, looking pointedly at Ben. He holds the door open for her as she drags the painting out. He lets it shut behind them, and she struggles to contain herself when he reaches up and brushes the pad of his thumb just under her ear, kissing her so softly it's like his lips aren't even there.
"Another time," he echoes, but his smile assures her that time won't be far away. She trusts him. And with a last grin and squeeze of his hand, she hauls the painting back up, shuffling down the sidewalk.
author: shornt
pairing: Leslie/Ben
rating: PG13/light R
words: 1,597
spoilers: Through 3x11.
summary: Later, she'll blame her recklessness on the headband, or the cut of her shirt, or the twinkle in his eye. If Andy and April hadn't interrupted Ben and Leslie.
* Title comes from "Runaway" by The National, which I listened to on repeat while watching this, if you want some ambiance~
She says it without really thinking of it. Later, she'll blame her recklessness on the headband, or the cut of her shirt, or the twinkle in his eye.
“I’m just... I’m so annoyed… by all these rules lately…”
It's an exhale she's been holding in; admittance without admitting anything. She looks to him because she hopes he understands, and when his eyes meet hers, it’s confirmed.
“Me too.”
He knows. And she knows. And they’re in this together, which is nicer but also a little worse. It aches, physically, somewhere inside her chest. To be so close, but inexplicably far. And she’s waiting, waiting for the other foot to drop, because somehow it always does. But he’s holding her gaze, and nothing's stopping him. It’s unnerving in a way she can’t handle; she has to take a step back.
“I just… Chris means well,” Ben begins, weakly. “I doubt he’s actually mad about the painting himself.”
“He isn’t. It isn’t the actual painting at all.” They’re not talking about the painting. She throws him a lopsided smile, shrugging. “I still hate him a little.”
“Yeah,” Ben says with a chuckle. He takes a step forward, back into her space, peering down at her. But she needs to do something, needs a task to focus her attention on, because she’s going to do something crazy if they keep looking at each other like this. Her adrenaline’s been peaking, she’s been breaking rules, she's been acting out... but this rule is kind of a big thing, and she doesn’t know if it’s a chance they can afford to take.
A painting is one thing… this is something different.
She inhales sharply, then suddenly collapses back on the couch. When she looks up, Ben is still looking at her, and the air is still full of… whatever this is. She slides over, patting the space next to her, leaving it up to him to sit close or far. Either works. She just… needs someone right now. Needs him.
“I’m sorry about all of this,” he says, cautiously lowering himself down next to her. He's chosen intimacy, their thighs pressed against each other, but he’s careful to keep space between their arms. Too careful.
“It’s not your fault,” she assures him, and she’s moving before pausing, leaning against his arm, her forehead resting on his shoulder. And it’s like instinct, the way he moves an arm around her, the way his fingers drift against the fabric of her blazer, the way he exhales into the couch and lets her melt against him. It fits. It hurts.
“We probably shouldn’t be doing this” she murmurs, knowing this moment is delicate and the smallest thing could cause a fracture… but also not wanting to put them in this situation.
“I know.” But he just pulls her closer, and she feels the sting of tears, because he really is as distressed as she is. But something about being against him, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, anchors her to this moment. This is just about the two of them, because right now, there's nothing else.
She moves just a little, her hand skimming the expanse of his chest, and finds that she was right -- one little break, and everything shifts.
She isn't sure who moves in first, but she sighs several months of built-up tension against his lips, feeling the prickle of his hair between her fingers, wondering when she put her hand there. But she pulls him closer, changing the angle, changing everything. Her mouth slips open under his, he's tasting her, licking his way in like he can't get enough. She's dizzy, lightheaded when she feels her back hit the couch, feeling like she could float even with Ben's weight pressing down on her.
With this new arrangement, Ben's hands are wandering, slipping under the hem of her shirt, grazing her breasts through the fabric. She can't stop clutching him, his plaid balled up in her fists, her feet pressing into the cushion when his knee takes place between hers, adding pressure where she needs it. When she pulls her mouth from his to breathe, his lips are on her neck, his tongue dancing wildly around her skin, and she's overheated, how is she still wearing this blazer--?
She pushes him up, and is grateful for a reason to laugh -- he's wide-eyed, his hair sticking straight up in random places, his hands fidgeting against her waistband. She can't help but palm his face, kissing him sweetly, as he helps her shrug off her blazer, rubbing his hands down her sides. She's caught the giggles now, burying her face in his shoulder, pushing him back until he's lying beneath her, playing with the buttons on his shirt. He's gripping her waist like she might slip away, a goofy grin on his face.
She feels more relief than she's felt in years.
Leaning down to kiss him, she untucks his shirt, feeling his skin, mapping his ribs. Her tongue brushes his bottom lip and a strangled noise slips out the back of his throat, prompting her to pull him deeper. She has a vague sense of his hands gripping the back of her thighs and something in her suddenly sets off warning signals... She swipes her tongue against his once more, pulling back even as she feels his hand skim the snap of her bra, even as she's shifting her hips pleasantly against his, because...
"This isn't helping," she gasps between breaths, putting a hand to her forehead, realizing her headband is lost somewhere beneath them. When he pulls himself up to sit, she doesn't know how to handle the fact that she's still straddling his lap, and his hands are still on her back, lightly rubbing like he's comforting her, and she blushes slightly because she can feel him, hard, against her thigh.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, and she shivers. His forehead drops to hers.
"I don't know what to do," she admits.
"Andy and April are gonna be home soon." And she sits back to look at him, his lips swollen and his cheeks red, and she's dying to grab his hand and not let go until she's led him to her place. But they shouldn't. Either way... they really shouldn't.
"I, um," she's trying to regain her bearings, but her mind is going in at least ten different places, wondering what would happen if they were caught, wondering where her left shoe ended up, wondering what exactly this means. Surrender or defeat? "What are we--?"
"I want to be with you," he says suddenly, his hands tightening against her. "But I don't want to jeopardize your job." His face strains at every word, and she slides off his lap guiltily, landing in an awkward heap against the arm of the couch.
"I don't want that for you, either."
"Well."
Checkmate. She feels the tears returning, just a little, in the corners of her eyes, and she has to look away from him. Because now she knows what it's like, knows how it feels, knows more certainly than ever that he's what she wants... and it still can't happen. But she feels a tug on her hand, and he's perched on his knees in front of her, rubbing her knuckles.
"We're going to figure this out," he promises, his other hand reaching up to tuck one of her errant curls in place. "Just, fuck... just trust me, okay? We'll make this work."
"I trust you." And she does. God... she really does. She kisses his jaw, lingers, breathing him in. "I'm gonna go clean up a little, I'll get out of your hair before they get back." To punctuate her point, she reaches up and musses his hair further. His hand lingers on her wrist until she's out of his reach, and she hears it fall back against his thigh with a solid thud.
She's predictably a mess once she looks in the mirror, and it's hard to locate a hairbrush amongst the clutter in the drawers (a broken guitar tuner, in the bathroom?), but she can't wipe the grin off her face and... she likes that. She likes feeling a little crazy, a little wanton.
She ends up taking her time, only emerging when she feels her face has returned to its usual color. Her blazer is distinctly wrinkled, but she'll have to live with that. She sees Ben shuffling around in the kitchen, his shirt buttoned back up to the collar and his hair haphazardly slicked back down with water from the sink. He turns at her footsteps and smiles crookedly.
It's at that point that a key is heard in the front lock, and April and Andy parade inside, armed with marshmallows and kitchenware.
"Come on, Leslie, it would be so fun!" Andy whines when she announces her immediate leave, turning down his offer of being pelted with marshmallows while April watches Ben put their dishes away.
"Another time," she promises, looking pointedly at Ben. He holds the door open for her as she drags the painting out. He lets it shut behind them, and she struggles to contain herself when he reaches up and brushes the pad of his thumb just under her ear, kissing her so softly it's like his lips aren't even there.
"Another time," he echoes, but his smile assures her that time won't be far away. She trusts him. And with a last grin and squeeze of his hand, she hauls the painting back up, shuffling down the sidewalk.