Work Text:
1.
The bed is shaking. Ann's breath catches and she opens her eyes to see the fuzzy glow of her alarm clock -- 4:29. "Ann, Ann. Wake up. Ann?" Leslie's voice comes from somewhere above her and, having deduced that she's being assailed with Knope and not an earthquake, Ann groans and rolls over, knowing that in a few seconds she'll be wide awake and ready for whatever Leslie needs her for.
"Ann?" Leslie says again, her voice now reduced to a whisper. She sounds, and this is what causes Ann to finally jerk the covers away from her face, scared.
"'m up, Leslie. Are you okay?"
Leslie, dressed in a pantsuit that Ann helped her pick out (a jaunty blue and white polka-dot scarf tucked around her neck the perfect finishing touch), stops jostling the bed and sits down heavily. "Ann, I'm in crisis." She looks at Ann sadly, and sighs, exhaling and causing her bangs to flutter. Ann's up now if she wasn't before, scooting next to Leslie and wrapping her best friend in her comforter (feeling, now, vastly under-dressed in a tank top and boy shorts). Leslie tugs the blanket closer and shoots Ann a defeated smile, and Ann doesn't think she's ever seen something so sad. She takes Leslie's hand, squeezes it, and waits. Eventually, it comes: "You know I have a contingency plan in place in the case that I lose," Leslie pauses, and Ann nods, squeezing tighter. Leslie looks sick. "There are some truly viable options, given that scenario, and I'll be fine, great, even, and," she waves her free hand, jostling the comforter. "Maybe you don't understand this feeling because you're so beautiful, Ann, and you never let anyone down, but..." Leslie trails off and slumps against Ann.
Ann has no idea how to tell Leslie that she feels like she's letting people down every day, that all you can do is try your hardest and stand up when you fall down, that even a losing Leslie Knope is a winning Leslie Knope in her eyes. She doesn't know how to say any of that, so she tucks her hand through Leslie's hair, encouraging her to rest for a moment there on Ann's shoulder. "You know," Ann begins, seemingly ignoring the subject at hand. "There aren't many people I'd allow to keep a key to my house after waking me up at four thirty in the morning--" Leslie sits up stiffly, beginning to protest, but Ann continues. "And whatever happens in this election, and I do mean whatever, that isn't going to change." It may not mean much, but it's something Ann can say with certainty -- something Leslie doesn't have a lot of right now.
It's that certainty (and the uncertainty behind it) that leads Ann to do what she does next. Leslie, relaxing again with a hint of a smile on her lips turns to Ann to speak, and Ann, thinking of how that list of people is exactly one, kisses her quickly. And, despite the chaotic rumbling in Ann's heart and to her credit, Leslie simply smiles. "You're amazing, Ann. Amazing and beautiful."
"I try," Ann says, wishing the had the guts to push this issue, knowing it isn't the time.
"So," Leslie continues, now free of the worried pallor she started with, "beautiful and amazing Ann, would you mind if I slept here? I've been up all night, and despite proven facts I hear that doctors (and nurses) actually recommend getting some sleep before starting the work day."
Ann laughs against Leslie's shoulder and nods. "Those fuzzy pajamas you like are clean." Her heart's still beating wildly, and she wonders if Leslie can feel it, if Leslie knows what that kiss meant, what the potential of that kiss meant.
"Oh good!"
2.
The bed is still, but Leslie is wiggling her toes in an attempt to lull herself to sleep. She looks past Ann's head at the alarm clock -- 5:22, almost time to get up and dressed again. Leslie sighs. All of the ingredients for sleep are at hand: fuzzy pajamas (literally the most comfortable thing she's ever slept in. Ann's had them for years, and even a dedicated internet search doesn't pull any results, so Leslie relishes the opportunity to stay over at Ann's, first of all because fuzzy pajamas are not the dime-a-dozen commodity that everyone assumes, and second of all because sleepovers are probably the number fifteen best invention of anyone ever, after Democracy and waffles and body pillows and whipped cream), a warm bed, the silence of pre-dawn Pawnee lingering outside the window, and a resting body beside her.
Of course, that body belongs to Ann (who just kissed her).
Should Leslie have gone to Ben's house, woken her boyfriend with her anxiety, risked waking April and Andy and Champion? She would probably be sleeping now, if she had, not trying desperately to not think about her best friend.
"Ann?" Leslie whispers, unmoving. She's sure that Ann is sleeping peacefully by now and doesn't want to actually wake her if that's the case. After all, Leslie's a little afraid she might have offended Ann, who, after the kiss had to sit alone in the dark while Leslie grabbed the pajamas and kind-of-okay-really ran for the bathroom to change, even though they've changed in front of one another countless times, in countless places (it just makes sense to share a dressing room), in countless stages of sobriety. And if Leslie had been the one doing the kissing, and Ann the furtive changing, Leslie knows that she would feel confused at best.
In fact, she feels that way now. Confused, and shy (an emotion she almost misidentifies as desperate hunger because she's almost positive she's never felt this way, and desperate hunger seems like a likely alternative), and a little bit disappointed.
She doesn't have time to ponder why, exactly, she might feel disappointed, because Ann rolls over, apparently not asleep after all, and lays her hand under her cheek. "What's up, Les?"
Leslie actually has no idea what she was planning to say, and so does what she always manages to do in those rare situations: blurt out the first thought on her mind.
"Why'd you kiss me, Ann?" And then, while Ann is preparing to answer, "I thought you were straight." Which, while true, is absolutely irrelevant. Isn't it? And Leslie hasn't thought about Ann's sexual orientation at all. Ever. Has she?
Ann bites her lip. "I don't know. I just... wanted to make you feel better."
"You did!" Leslie is quick to reassure. And she does feel better. She isn't thinking about the campaign at all. Except now she is. She's thinking about kisses in the dark of a friend's bedroom, kisses that might gain her the gay vote but lose a lot of others (probably, she thinks, there are about a million more people who wouldn't vote for a gay lady -- gay? what? -- than a sleeping-with-her-supervisor lady). Kisses, that if she thinks about it, and she does, that are really nice (like a breakfast of waffles and strawberry syrup and hot cocoa and whipped cream while the sun comes up). "I just. You don't normally kiss me."
Ann closes her eyes. She is so still and so quiet for so long that Leslie assumes she's fallen back asleep and gently taps her on the shoulder, smiling nervously when Ann's eyes fly open. "Do you want me to kiss you? Normally, I mean."
Leslie feels hot and itchy all over, like lightning is striking or she's touched her finger to a socket. She wiggles her toes. Their faces are really close together, and Ann shouldn't look this good after being deprived of sleep. She takes a breath. "Ann," Leslie starts, moving around under the comforter to find Ann's hand which grips hers tightly. "I--" And then, again, for the second time in the space of less than an hour, Leslie has no idea what she was going to say. So, instead, she says the first thing that comes to mind, and that is "Yes."
3.
Ann's heart thuds, and she knows she isn't going to get any more sleep regardless of the time of the clock or the sunrise just starting to spike through the sky. She wants to ask Leslie all sorts of questions, the words flying fast through her mind, but nothing feels right. What does: pulling Leslie close and leaving their tangled fingers trapped between them.
---
Later:
Dearest Ann, the text begins, Thanks to your FABULOUS late-night counseling (what I like to call heart-nursing, have I told you this? I call it heart-nursing) I had an amazing day and believe I am currently well-equipped to tackle a BRAND NEW contingency plan entitled, and I quote, Ways to Ask Ann to Dinner Tonight. So be prepared to say yes and please please please wear your black dress with the red thingy on the trim, and don't worry, I have thought long and hard and will not be sporting a sexy hat. And I am not sure if I should tell you this (are there rules for this sort of thing? Wikipedia was down today in protest of SOPA so I couldn't find an accurate listing of things one is supposed to discuss when (possibly? sld pbly clarify) dating a woman) but! I have planned for a number of post-dinner options including Ann makes AMAZING cocoa and lets me add half of the whipped cream can (why mess with a classic?), Hit the Snakehole, or even the Bulge (there's a note here that I think it worth noting - HA! - about the issue of 'soonness' but I don't think that's a word), Sex (and yes, believe it or not, I have taken VALUABLE time out of my work day (which I'll be happy to tell you all about at dinner, hint hint, reply soon!) to consult Tom on the art of
Ann stops scrolling, torn between feeling horrified, concerned for the amount of sugar that is obvious coursing through Leslie's system right now, and slightly gobsmacked. There's feelings she doesn't question, too, that mostly involve grinning at the screen and typing back -- quickly, before Leslie can send the details of whatever knowledge Tom imparted on her (oh, God) -- Yes.