Work Text:
“I love the weather this time of year.” Leslie is bundled in a trench-type coat, tan colored and smooth, her hands tucked firmly into her pockets. She shrugs as she breathes in, inhaling a lungful of crisp, fall air, and smiles.
Since you met her, you’ve heard her utter this phrase with the same pure conviction no fewer than five times -- at least once with sweat pouring down her face, looking up at you from your front yard where she was pulling weeds “because my landlord takes care of that stuff, and it’s good to get in touch with the earth sometimes, you know?” And you didn’t, not really, but it was Leslie so you smiled and let her use your shower and borrow an outfit when she was done rolling in the dirt. She complained when her fair skin rejected the sun’s appreciation and bubbled up, reddening across her shoulders and her nose, but she still looked out the window while you dabbed aloe on her damaged skin and sighed about the blue sky. (She started off the park safety seminar that next week with a rant about sun care, but other than that and a pinkish tinge, Leslie was Leslie.)
And at least during fall she has a point. It’s hard to argue with clear skies and leaves that change color, lining the yard like a fresh carpet. Neighborhood children who annoyed you all summer while you tried to sleep during the daylight hours are back in school, learning and doing homework and dreaming of winter holidays. Of course, things are a little different this year, with the Pawnee government still shut down and the state still running things from afar. The Fall Festival is just a memory, and the parade of lights probably won’t get off the ground, despite Leslie’s best whining.
And with her standing here, on your porch, like this, grinning up at the sky, it’s easy to forget that your best friend is indefinitely out of a job.
You know her well enough to know that Leslie is avoiding saying something with all this artifice -- not that it is actually artifice; you believe her completely -- but Leslie wouldn't come over just to talk about the crappy weather and how she loves it so much (well, probably not) unless there was something she didn't want to talk about.
"What's up?" You tug your sweater closer around your chest.
"Aside from the chance of snow and gusty winds this weekend? I have no idea." Leslie huddles against the door frame, allowing herself to shiver quietly.
You shake your head, feeling a little smile come through. "Come inside. I'll make cocoa."
"In that case..." Leslie ducks into the main room, bringing with her the scent of winter on the horizon. "I like your cocoa. You make it the way I like it."
Trial and error. In your first winter, Leslie sent back at least three cups complaining of bitterness and heat before you finally just shrugged and doubled the chocolate and topped the mug off with roughly half a can of spray whipped cream. Apparently, that combination was perfect, because you haven’t received any complaints since. Just smeary, overly sugared, grins.
As you heat up water, Leslie wanders into the living room. You hear “Ooh, ‘Billy the Exterminator’!” and any conversation you might have had is thrown out the window. You settle next to her as Billy and his brother take on an infestation of squirrels, flicking a bit of cream off Leslie’s lip after the first sip. She grins against your finger, licking at the rest.
She misses, but you don’t say a thing.
--
You’re barely able to keep your eyes open over the steering wheel a few days later as you come home after a long overnight shift, sometime during daylight hours. You make the trip from memory, practically, cranking up the chattering DJ on the radio -- anything to keep your eyes open.
There’s a buzz of your phone, the humming barely audible in between obnoxious jokes. It’s Leslie, you assume (no one else ever calls you), probably checking in, checking up. Letting you know the latest development, the latest news. About whatever is going on... whatever it is. You don’t answer, fearing the thought of your car going careening off the road while you close your eyes and listen to her voice.
Finally you reach your driveway as the digital clock on your dash hits 12:00 -- AM, PM. You can’t remember which one is which. You gather your various and sundry items and zombie-walk into the house, shivering against the cold. You lift your hand to wave at the old man in the clearing beside your house, and he nods, his wiener dog waggling beside him.
Inside, a blast of warm air hits you from the feet up and you blink, dropping your accessories slowly and in a scattered line on the kitchen chairs, table, counter... until it hits you. The old man. You’ve seen him before. The dog, too.
As quickly as you’re able, in your half-asleep state, you rush to the side window and push the curtains aside. There, in what was (what seems) long ago The Pit, and then The Lot, and now, more appropriately, the 'Clearing' but still designated by a number (48), a hunched figure shuffles across the frozen grass trailed by a dog in a sweater. You count back, quickly, through the past weeks. You’ve been home during the day roughly four times in the past two weeks. Awake for probably three of those.
Sure enough, the man looks familiar. And as you remain pressed to the cold window, he makes a turn through the clearing and seems to recognize your face there against the glass, nodding to you, his kind face bobbing up and down, his colorful snow cap catching the wind. The dog doesn't have a leash, but you don’t even think to mind -- after all, the small wiener doesn't appear to be a threat, struggling to keep up with his master's already slow pace. After a moment, you blink, fighting off sleep, your forehead absorbing the cold, determined to watch a while longer. You resist the urge to call Leslie as the man lifts his dog onto a golf cart's modified passenger seat (a box, scooped out with a dog-sized seat belt), scooting onto the driver's side himself. How did you miss this, pulling in? How did you miss this for three days, maybe more?
The cart starts up, and you jerk straight, lifting yourself free of the window. You won't tell Leslie about this. Not yet.
--
The phone rings right as you are nodding off, but you can't ignore it. There could be an emergency, and you are trained to respond to this sort of thing. Also, it could be Leslie. She did text on your way in. This is clearly escalation.
"Y’ello?"
"Ann! Ann, you have to help me."
Something isn’t processing right. Repeating words sounds like a good plan of action. "Help you?"
"That's what I just said. Ann, I need you to come over to my house. Right now."
"Leslie... are you," you wait, thinking, hesitating, "in danger?"
And with as much clarity and sureness as you’ve ever heard in her voice, she says, "The parks department is in danger, Ann. And we need to take action."
You sigh, but you’re already half out of your scrubs and changing into pajama pants, hoping that whatever danger the parks department is in, it won't call for any public appearances (though with Leslie, you can never be sure). You are, after all, trained to respond.
"I'll be there soon."
--
The exhaustion doesn't allow you to prepare for the chaos of casa Knope, which hits you full force when Leslie flings open the front door.
"Ann. Thank God." The first thing you make eye-contact with as you step inside is a life-size (well, human-size) wood carving of an owl. The intricacy is alarming.
Again, the question, said more cheerily and awake than you feel it, "What's up?"
"I've called a meeting of the department--"
You don’t expect the sharp pain that shoots through your chest. The words squeak out, despite your feeling pathetic about even thinking them: "Without me?"
"Ann, this is serious." And she doesn't mean to hurt your feelings. Leslie never would. She's just swept up in all of this. Months without a job, a title. A purpose. It’s something you can’t quite imagine.
So you nod, and you wait for her to continue.
"An official meeting. Here. For five o'clock." Half an hour ago, by the clock on Leslie's wall, which may or may not be right. "And, well." She steps aside.
There has been -- and you can tell -- an attempt at clearing a meeting space in the living room. But immediately, you see the problem. The only member of the parks department actually in attendance is Jerry, and he hardly looks prepared for whatever battle Leslie has planned. A cookie platter is haphazardly balanced on the coffee table (on top of books and newspaper) and Jerry is carefully making his selection, realizing, too late, that he is the center of attention, and looking up to wave, a bit sheepishly, at you.
"Hi, Jerry." You wave back.
Leslie makes a disgusted sound, interrupting whatever courtesy greeting you might have exchanged. "I made those for everyone. He's already eaten three."
"Two, Leslie,” he corrects her, gently, “And I appear to be everyone at this little gathering."
You pick at the collar of your coat, frowning. "I'm sorry. I don't know what to tell you."
"Jerry," Leslie ignores you. "This gathering is over."
Jerry stands up, giving you a forlorn look before shuffling out the door.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know. He cares about the department as much as you do.” You start to shrug out of your coat, realize there’s no easy place to put it, and opt to keep it on.
“Actually-” he starts, but you interrupt.
“Not helping. Have a good night, Jerry.”
And as he steps from the room she turns back to you, her face falling, crumbling a little. Your throat tightens. "Tell me how to save my department,” she says, her voice low.
You eye the documents Leslie has spread on a side chair, leaning over to shuffle through the few on top -- budgets, numbers. Lots of copies of the parks department logo. You have to look away for a moment. The intensity of her face is almost too much sometimes.
Leslie’s voice is solemn when she takes a breath and addresses you.
“Ann, sit down, please.” She pauses. “I need your help. More than I’d like to admit.”
There is enough room on the couch for the two of you, and you sit down facing your friend, one leg curled up underneath your thigh (maybe -- you don't want to admit -- you’re a little afraid of any direct contact with the furniture, before a proper cleaning).
“I mean,” Leslie continues, waving an arm carelessly, nearly swiping you across the face. “Imagine if this got out! The deputy director asking for crucial government assistance from a nurse!” She laughs, the sound sudden and almost chirpy. She’s near the breaking point. You can’t help but place a hand on hers.
"Leslie. Please tell me what's going on. I can't help if you won't tell me anything." You’re a little slumped over, your eyes starting to droop. Despite being of questionable cleanliness, this couch is comfortable. Comfortable enough.
She’s avoiding your eyes, and you know something bad is coming. With a build-up like this... it just isn’t going to be something simple, easy to solve. After all, if it was, Leslie would have done it already.
“Ann, I really, I just hate talking about this. I want us to talk about good things.”
“But if you think I can help?”
“What about kittens, Ann? What do you think about kittens?” She scoots closer and grips your hand with both of hers, squeezing tight. It breaks your heart, a little, and you let it go, again.
“Alright. We can talk about kittens.” You lean forward, press your forehead to hers. She’s warm, not feverish, just warm enough. “Just for a little while.”
In the end, Leslie sends you home with a plate-full of the cookies she has apparently baked for this auspicious occasion, shooing you out the door and mumbling about needing to plan without distractions.
--
The next morning you wake up without your alarm, disoriented and confused. After wandering through your house on feet that are far too cold on the bare floor, you realize that the golf cart is parked outside.
Sure enough, the old man is across the field, and with a few glances you spot the dog. Without much effort you dress (half-heartedly -- pajama pants over boots don’t really count in most circles) and rush outside, trying to be as quiet as you can.
The cart is pretty ingenious, up close, the way the passenger seat belt is woven through the dog’s box. Quickly going inside, you make up a plate of the left over cookies and then place them on the seat, covered in saran wrap.
You wouldn’t eat them anyway.
--
In the second week of December, Leslie is in a better mood, though it’s hard to tell the difference unless she’s actually throwing a fit. Leslie is generally cheerful. You attempt to ask a few times, but she just smiles, in her attempt at a mysterious look, and says “Oh, nothing, Ann.” And then she throws you an exaggerated wink, so you know something is up. Not very subtle, that one.
You sort of love her for it.
But, subtle or not, she’s still not making any real money, so you take her out to dinner and a movie (“You don’t have to, Ann -- this isn’t like a pity date, is it?”) where she ends up getting dressed out of your closet and having you do her makeup beforehand. It’s more fun than most dates you’ve been on in the past six months before you even get to the restaurant.
She orders salad and you order steak, and while you’re waiting for the food you get her to admit she was trying to save you money, so you end up splitting both. It’s better that way, anyway, reaching across the table into her bowl and accidentally brushing your hand against hers.
The movie -- something with a guy who looks like that guy from that pirate movie -- ends up totally sucking. And that’s okay, too. You text each other, back and forth, after Leslie gives up any pretense of paying attention, and during the climax when the guy’s love interest/cousin is dying of cancer Leslie sends you “Bet she would have looked hot bald” and it’s so ridiculous, with her deadpan face next to you, that you bust out laughing and get kicked out of the theater.
It’s probably the best night you’ve had in a long time.
--
The Pawnee government has been suspended for five months and twenty-five days when it happens -- when Lot 48 becomes a park, all on its own. There’s no snow -- when you look out the window in the morning, the sun is out for the first time in days. It doesn’t feel the 32 Fahrenheit your phone greeting informs you for once. It must be a combination of the sunlight or the smile on your face.
It’s the perfect day for lunch with Leslie. And maybe she’ll finally tell you what she’s been hinting at. You don’t have work, so the afternoon is yours to spend however you see fit -- and laughing with your best friend sounds better than any alternatives.
You even pull out the kind-of-for-warmer-weather pea coat that you’ve been wanting to wear for weeks, but it’s just been too cold and gusty, and that’s icing on the cake.
As you start your car, it happens -- well, you notice it happening. It could have been happening for days and days without your noticing. But you look up from the steering wheel and there, by the edge of the woods is a woman spreading out a picnic blanket (and, okay, you wouldn’t go that far) and three children bundled up, dangling scarves tossing a kickball between them.
Your heartbeat kicks up. These are things that happen at a park. A real park.
The woman stands up, brushing at her thighs. She smiles at the kids and says something, gestures.
You have to tell Leslie. There’s no more waiting.
--
The second Leslie sits down, she’s atwitter. Her eyes are bright. “I got a call this morning.”
Again, you fall back on the echo strategy. “A call?”
“From Indianapolis.”
This should be important, you know it should, but god help you, you’re blank.
“From the state government, Ann.” She grins, far too excited to really notice your lack of ability to follow the conversation. “They called me directly. I didn’t even have to hear the news from Ben.”
Oh, whoa. This... is this it?
“Good news?”
“Great news!” Leslie stabs a piece of salad enthusiastically and jabs her fork in the direction of your face. “Well, really, really good news, anyway.”
You wait for it.
Leslie takes the bite of salad and chews thoughtfully.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Oh! Yeah, of course!” Swallows. “Well, they’re considering the proposal I’ve put forward.”
“And...?” There has to be an and.
“Ann,” she scolds, going so far as to reach out and tap your hand in an approximation of a slap. “That’s it. But don’t look under the gift’s wrapping.”
You’re pretty sure that isn’t the saying. “I...” Whatever you had to say, it shrivels in your mouth when Leslie settles back contentedly into her chair. The smile on her face is worth whatever runaround the government is giving her -- you just pray for their sakes that it will go somewhere.
After a few bites, you chance a glance at your watch. “Les, can you get the rest to go? I have something to show you.”
She’s confused, but always willing to go along with this sort of thing.
You sort of love that about her.
--
She complains during the ride back to your house, full of questions (“Do you have room in your fridge for this?” “Will you take me back to my car?” “Don’t you just love this weather?”) and poking at the radio. By the time you pull into the driveway, she’s reset all of your favorite stations and changed the CD. But taking the long way was worth it, because you pull in right as he does -- the old man, and Leslie sits up a little.
“What is this?” she asks, but you just tell her to “Shh,” putting the car into park. He goes about his usual routine, ignoring you, undoing the dog’s harness and setting him tenderly on the ground. They begin to walk, following what has become a worn-down path in the grass, and -- maybe Leslie notices at the same time you do, because she gasps, a soft, quiet noise -- the family is still there, one of the boys attempting to climb a tree, though the process is difficult with his over-sized coat.
She doesn’t look away for a long time, inching her hand up to the window and pressing against it.
“We did it,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“I know,” you answer, touching her shoulder.
When she looks at you again, her eyes are wet, and god, you love that about her.
She touches your hand on the steering wheel, wiggling her fingers in between yours. “Wanna go for a walk in our park?”
Somehow, over the past months, this all became real. You don’t want to let go. “You know I do.”