The Fuschia Dress By:
Written: Fall, 2004
Fandom: Lilo and Stitch
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance, Humour, Drama
Pairing(s): Jumba/Pleakley
Warnings: Slash, fluff, suggestive content, crossdressing, closets (both literal and theoretical), Pleakley acting like a middle-aged woman, gratuitous knitting and general gay aliens silliness. There is a mildly tittilating sequence toward the end, but it doesn't get past the feeling up point. Still, if the idea of these two making out at all squicks you, you'd do best to skip over that bit -
Plot: When Jumba and Pleakley find themselves in a complicated mess, they also find themselves . . . well, finding themselves ::nudgenudgewinkwink::
Spoilers: None here.
Dedications/Thanks: Gratitude and many thank-you's to Nastyface for being awesome and betaing this for me. You deserve some serious bow-age, mate ::bowsbowsbows::
Disclaimers: The characters in this story are not mine and I am making no profit off of this. I have borrowed them from Disney and will return them by post at great personal expense.
Other comments/schtuff: For non-UKers, Alan Titchmarsh and Charlie Dimmock are the presenters of the gardening programme, Ground Force. Miss Dimmock is an attractive blonde bint, affectionately referred to by the author as The Bra-less Wonder. Pleakley would probably look lovely kitted up as her, but I think the blonde would clash with his skin tone. John Noakes and Valerie Singleton are the very, very 70's presenters of the long-running kids' programme, Blue Peter. Somehow, I think this look would not be quite as flattering. ::snort:: Not to mention the famous Lulu incident in which Mr. Noakes was peed on by a baby elephant, who, immediately afterward, trod on his foot. On live television. Not even kidding, here. If anyon wants to know what Titchmarsh, Dimmock, Nokes and Singleton look like, just look up Ground Force and Blue Peter in Google, or hit me on AIM. I have a few links to good pictures -
The Fuschia Dress
Jumba was plucking at the black wig with an interest that he hoped came off as morbid curiosity. You actually like to be wearing these things, do you?
At his left, Pleakley blushed, though Jumba couldn't see him doing it as his upper half had been swallowed by the dark depths of the wardrobe. It's not so much that I like it . . . he answered awkwardly as he tried to wrestle a dress shirt off of its hanger. . . . As much as I . . . well, it's . . . A break from the monotony of everyday life. Kind of a creative challenge, if you will. He laughed uneasily, glad for the sanctuary he found between two Hawaiian shirts, even if the screaming-yellow colouring was hard on his eye.
The four-eyed alien turned slowly toward his former associate, his stare fixing to drill four holes into Pleakley's back. You are meaning it is fun.
Pleakley made a great show of wheeling round as if in appalled shock, a show which was made even greater by the fantastic his head made as it collided with the wardrobe doorframe.
Jumba grinned wickedly. He could read Pleakley like an owner's manual and the fists-on-hips-and-insolent-glare combo had no effect on him. And the fact that Pleakley didn't have any sort of visible hips wasn't helping the image much.
Oh, bother! Pleakley murmured. Jumba grinned, amused. Pleakley moved huffily toward the adjoining bathroom, tossing a white dress shirt at Jumba with possibly a little more force than was necessary. Just put that on, will you? Our suits will be arriving any minute. That is, assuming you didn't give the delivery people the wrong address. Again. He directed a venomously accusing one-eyed glare at Jumba.
Jumba scowled in return and snorted indignantly. Look, I told you, pizza-human on telephone asks where we are, and I tell him. On the sofa, in front of the --how do you say? Idiot box,' is not a legitimate address! Pleakley snapped, struggling out of his pyjamas and into his own dress shirt. Nani wrote down our home address and stuck it to the phone specifically to prevent further such idiocy. Now did you give them that addr- Will you kindly put that back?! Pleakley all but shrilled, pointing at the wig which Jumba only just realised he was still holding. And stop picking at it like that! I've not got fleas, you know! He then snatched the wig right out of Jumba's hand and made his way back to the dresser to place it delicately back upon its stand, cradling the precious hairpiece in an almost maternal fashion as he went.
The larger alien was contemplating a witty quip along the lines of Au contraire, my little one-eyed one, but you are actually having an affinity for blood-sucking parasites whether you like it or not, but decided against it and made a rude earth-gesture in Pleakley's general direction. He had, of course, given the tailors the correct address, but this had not, by any means, staved off any potential problems. Phoning in an order for two tuxedos had proven something of a daunting task, especially given their vastly different and, literally, inhuman measurements. Not that he was going to admit that to Pleakley, of course.
Being an (evil) genius, Jumba was by no means unintelligent. He merely lacked cultural exposure. This had made preparing for upcoming events slightly tricky, especially when it came to those delicate but oh-so-crucial little details that could make or break a good first impression. An extensive knowledge of quantum physics really didn't help much when you weren't sure whether a was something you ate or wore.
The previous summer, David and Stitch had teamed up for the fire act and had brought revenues to an all time high. The manager of what Nani affectionately referred to as the stupid, fakey luau had decided to retire and David was nominated to take his place in running the business with Stitch at his side. There was to be a party to celebrate the transition of authority and David and Stitch had each been encouraged to invite their families. Of course, Stitch had taken this as a prompt to rope the entire ohana into coming, and, as Jumba and Pleakley were now honorary members of the Pelekai household, they had been asked to attend as well. It was to be a very fancy affair, the sort with white tablecloths and caterers and ludicrously intricate bite-sized cakes. And suits.
Thus, the day of the party arrived and Jumba and Pleakley were alone together in the house (Lilo, Stitch and Nani had left early to help set up), awaiting the delivery of their ridiculous earth clothes.
Somewhere behind him, Jumba heard a crash and a loud, gutteral noise of anguish. He winced and turned round to find Pleakley had collapsed into a sort of three-legged kneel. The source of the crashing sound, a bottle of Nani's fiendishly expensive perfume, lay before him in shatters, its precious contents disappearing between the floorboards.
The look of utter defeat in the alien's single eye softened something in Jumba's heart. He moved from the bed and approached the other as gingerly as anyone with feet roughly the size and shape of an elephant's could. He then sank down into a kneel beside Pleakley and touched his arm very, very carefully. My little one?I just borrowed it, Pleakley said in a wounded voice. He turned to look at Jumba, his expression desperate and bewildered. I didn't mean to knock it off the dresser.I know, I know, Jumba said, hoping his tone was reassuring. Achieving a comforting presence was something of a woolly matter when someone as burly and brusque as Jumba was trying to comfort someone as slight and (though he'd never admit it) delicate, as Pleakley. No matter how many times Jumba observed the other alien, he could not help but marvel at just how small his little one-eyed one was.
Jumba felt the tug of an urge to put his arm round his friend and soothingly tell him to not cry over spilled perfume. However, he had his masculine pride to consider. He didn't make earth his home to be known as the cissy foreigner. That would be stealing Pleakley's glory. So, caring compromised with innate butch-ness and he simply laid a heavy hand on the other alien's shoulder, his thumb rubbing consoling little circles into the stringy muscle beneath the cold, smooth skin. By, but Pleakley really was a sinewy little thing . . .
Jumba felt a swooping sensation in the vicinity of his ribcage when Pleakley turned that one-eyed gaze on him. For a moment, the two simply regarded each other in a spell of blank questioning. Jumba knew that Pleakley . . . But did Pleakley know that he knew? He wished he knew whether Pleakley knew that he knew or not. Or something equally confusing. The way his heart seemed to be . . . fluttering inexplicably wasn't helping matters any.
What could have easily stretched into something extremely awkward was aborted by a sudden knock at the door.
Ah, that will be our suits. I'll be getting them, shall I? Jumba said, getting to his feet and trying to make like everything was going according to the norm and that he definitely, definitely hadn't begun to think about- He drove that (runaway) train of thought to the dark spot in his mind where decidedly disturbing trains of thought went, never to choo-choo again. Then, I help you clean this up and we get dressed, hm?
Pleakley, still knelt on the floor, nodded mutely, still looking at Jumba in that baffled, almost pleading way.
As Jumba turned away, symbolically putting his back to what had just happened, he caught a quick glimpse of Pleakley discreetly dipping his fingertips into the puddle of perfume on the floor and dabbing it onto his wrists and the underside of his jaw. It was strangely adorable and Jumba found himself smiling just the slightest bit as he went downstairs to retrieve their suits.
Cummerbunds, it transpired, were to be worn, though they'd have been better off edible for all the use the ones Jumba ordered were as articles of clothing. His was too small, so that the two ends simply refused to close round his ample middle. Pleakley's was too big and pooled round his legs like a skirt. He crossed his arms and glared. And just what size did you tell the tailor to make these?
Jumba shrugged a little hopelessly. How am I supposed to be knowing what size we are? We are not human. We are much different size than human, so I tell them send their biggest one for me and smallest one for you.I see. Pleakley was not impressed. Thankfully, he shrugged it off fairly quickly and began inspecting the rest of his outfit. The jacket, made to fit a child of Lilo's size, was a fair bit baggy, but the effect still held and the stylish tails in the back seemed to please Pleakley greatly. The bowtie came next. He had to loop the straps round his neck a grand total of three times, but it passed inspection. Jumba watched, delighted, as the Plorginarian paraded round the room they shared, admiring his reflection in the mirror and twirling so that the tails flew out and whirled about him. Cummerbund or no, he had to admit that Pleakley did look very smart in his tuxedo. He also privately marveled that his effeminate friend could ever be so chuffed with men's clothing.
Then, Pleakley found the trousers. He had impressed, above all else, that Jumba put in a special request for an extra leg to be sewn into his trousers. Jumba had, of course, made the request, but the young man on the other end of the line had gotten so horribly confused . . . He tried to explain as much to Pleakley, but Pleakley was having none of it. Jumba's consequent argument that Pleakley never wore trousers anyway and that there was nothing to see was not cutting much ice.
One screaming row, two pairs of split trousers and some considerable hesitance on Jumba's part later, the two came to a consecutive decision. They had to be at the party in less than half an hour and were without any sort of manageable attire. There was nothing for it. They were going to have to raid Nani's closet.
That evening, the two returned to the house in foul spirits. If events prior to the party had been chaotic, they were nothing in comparison to the drama that had unfolded at the party itself.
When the two aliens had come through the door at the party, an uproar of laughter broke out amongst the other guests. Pleakley had shown up dressed to the nines in a black vinyl stocking (part of a pair bought by Nani the previous year on a dare) that fit him like a strapless cocktail dress and was cinched at the waist with a studded wrist cuff. He had one of Nani's purses looped over his shoulder, though the effect was somewhat spoiled by it dragging on the ground behind him. The whole ensemble was topped off with his favourite black wig and an upturned takeaway carton dyed black with shoe-polish perched atop his head as a pillbox hat.
. . . However, he'd have to have been wearing a pink bunny suit to look ridiculous next to Jumba.
The other alien, had found that even the tailor's largest tuxedo simply would not accommodate his gorilla-ish limbs. He was kitted in the only dress he could find in Nani's closet that was roomy enough to house his not inconsiderable bulk. It was a muumuu and a truly fearsome sight to behold. The thing was a retina-searing shade of fuchsia that clashed hideously with Jumba's skin tone and trailed on the ground, inspiring awe and fear in those it left in its wake. Unfortunately, those it left in its wake were also inspired to point and laugh, which was something that Doctor Jumba Jookiba did not hold with.
Fed up with having ridicule hurled at him, Jumba had finally ended up tearing the dress off of himself and clean in half, leaving him in his usual shorts and nothing else. In the process, he upended the buffet table and sent a bowl of punch flying which left David sopping, sticky and covered in chunks of pineapple. During all of this, he'd managed to bellow out every swearword he knew in his native tongue, stopping for breath only after the punch bowl bombing was complete.
Of course, this did not go over well. Many people screamed. Some of them actually fled, knocking over chairs in their haste. Everyone backed away. The room's general populace broke out into a collective cry of alarm at the sight of an aggravated, half-naked beast of an alien, panting in a delirious, hysterical manner, his leftmost eye having adopted the obligatory manic twitch so common amongst idiot scien- Evil geniuses.
David just excused himself in a soft, careful voice that indicated barely-restrained wrath and went to wash up. Lilo hid under a table whilst Stitch made protective, angry hissing noises at the world at large.
Nani, however, was silent. She had gone wide-eyed and rigid and remained so for a full minute. Then, she finally creaked out in a thin voice, That was our mother's maternity dress while she was pregnant with Lilo.
The words struck him right in the heart and, for once in his life, Doctor Jumba Jookiba was properly ashamed. Oh, shëol,'his mind had said.We are leaving, Pleakley had said, each word more of a shrill bark, as he took hold of Jumba's arm with surprising force.
They'd quit the party several hours early, leaving a heap of mayhem, madness and a trail of punch-pink footprints behind them.
When they arrived back at the house, Pleakley was still furious with Jumba for humiliating him. The smaller alien was positively shaking with rage and at the point where trying to reason with him would be like attempting to piss through the eye of a needle: dangerous, futile, and inevitably messy.
Jumba had always insisted upon talking out their problems, but Pleakley was refusing to speak to him face-to-face. Needless to say, this made things a bit more complicated.
The cord of the telephone trailed out of the kitchen and into the sitting room to where Jumba was sat on the sofa. A torrent of Plorginarian abuse was coming down the line and he held the receiver at a safe distance from his ear. For someone so innately ladylike, Pleakley could certainly swear in his native tongue (tongues?). Being devoted to science, Jumba was not all that keen on reincarnation, but he would not have been at all surprised if, in another life, Pleakley had been a Scottish lumberjack.
ICHTHILLWARLARK! Ahn Záidlái ihth al-WLLAINDRENHTHLÁI! CLANG! At the opposite end of the sofa, Pleakley had slammed down the phone -the one that lived in the sitting room, and was staring pointedly at the television with fiercely silent determination. He had barricaded himself into the corner of the sofa with the telephone, a titanic bowl of popcorn and a towering glass of lemonade which he was sipping at with a Silly-Straw that was shaped like a pineapple. The one-eyed alien was sat with his long body in a tight curl, looking every bit as dangerous as a coiled-up cobra. Jumba sighed and returned his own telephone to the kitchen. No sooner had he hung up the receiver when it rang and he ended up picking it up again. Nani's voice, far more stiff and even than usual, answered, I have been trying to reach you for the past half hour. We're straightening up here and won't be home till late. Stitch started making trouble, so we sent him home. Lilo will coming home later with us. Good night. Click. Jumba hung up the receiver and sighed. What a mess . . . And it was all his fault. He'd never been one to let guilt bully him into a corner, but this was different. There was something in Nani's eyes, in her voice, that had touched a sensitive spot in his heart. That dress was her mother's and was obviously very important to both of the girls. As someone who had never really had one, the subject of family always left Jumba feeling as though he were prodding a bad tooth. The ache was small, but it ran deep and was bothersome to no end. He always brushed it aside in his typical couldn't-give-a-trog's-arse way because thinking about it made him feel vulnerable. Jumba hated feeling vulnerable. He supposed this feeling stemmed from the fact that there was strength in numbers and he had no one to call on. He had never been close to anyone, really, except maybe Pleakley, and even then, he still hadn't allowed himself to become as close as he really could be. His thoughts were interrupted by the slap of the doggie-door and Jumba turned to find that, true to Nani's word, his brainchild had returned. Now under the kitchen table, Stitch was making curious-hungry wibbling noises. He removed the tiara that Lilo had adorned his head with for the party and began chewing on it with gusto. Oh, but you should not be eating that, my most prodigious creation! Jumba chided. That is fibreglass. It could kill you. Stitch paused to blink at his creator, then resumed happily munching. Jumba rolled his eyes. There was simply nothing for some people. Aliens. Evil Genius experiments. Whatever. His thoughts wandered back to Pleakley. Pleakley was . . . different. Jumba, as former Lead Scientist of Galaxy Defence Industries, had grown accustomed to having fellow scientists at his hand whom he could direct and instruct as he pleased. When he was stripped of his title, he'd been partnered with Pleakley, who had been sent along to keep him in check. Pleakley, in other words, was authorised to direct and instruct Jumba. This was a shock to Jumba's system. He did not take kindly to the idea of a lowly Agent holding dominion over him. The other alien, however, had not abused his privileges as almost any other in his stead surely would have and Jumba, who had vowed that he would never share power, somehow found himself in an unspoken agreement with his little one-eyed one: They were equals. Now, Doctor Jumba Jookiba, who had only ever speculated on possibilities inherent in this molecular density or that genetic code, began to speculate on what might happen if he were to explore this equailty just a bit more. En route to the sitting room, Jumba grabbed himself a can of Tennents, an earth-drink he'd grown rather fond of for the way it warmed him from the inside and make everything look so soft and comfortable. As he resumed his position on the end of the sofa, he briefly flirted with the idea of trying to talk to Pleakley. However, one look at said alien squashed his resolve. As if he'd sensed the other's intent, Pleakley had begun to munch his popcorn in a very menacing manner and the overall cobra image was frighteningly enhanced by the striped pyjamas. Vertical stripes, even. Jumba shuddered. Accepting defeat, he popped open the Tennents and turned to the Idiot Box where some stupid programme or another was on. -something, he seemed to remember it being called. ? ? One of those Irish places at any rate. He was really paying attention. He was rather deep in thought at the moment. He couldn't say when, exactly, it had begun becuase he honestly didn't know. Sometimes he felt as though he'd only just begun to feel this way, while at others, he could almost recollect feeling it all the way back to that night where he had wrestled Pleakley for the wig. One moment, he'd been engaged in some good old-fashioned horseplay, the next he was carefully helping his associate bandage himself. That had been a point at which they'd reached an understanding of companionship, at any rate. This was all a very new and strangely, very good feeling for Jumba. It was either a liberation or a revelation for him. Either way, he was surprised and pleased to find that he didn't mind at all. He could not, however, remember when he'd begun to feel that particular swoop in his heart any more than he could indicate an exact moment when he'd realised exactly what Pleakley was silently professing to him. A warm smile, a playful word, a random (or perhaps not so random) touch . . . He smiled a bit and that particular sensation tickled his heart with warm fingers. Sweet, innocent little Pleakley, probably completely unaware as to how very obvious he was. And Jumba had to wonder, would it be so decidedly disturbing after all? At the end of the programme, Jumba had braved the tension and gathered up his courage to bring his thoughts into the open. Steeling himself, he turned to Pleakley. He was only slightly alarmed to find that the Plorginarian was sobbing into one of the decorative pillows. The programme had been the keenly sappy sort, being even more melodramatic than Pleakley was, himself. Jumba fought the urge to chuckle. Pleakley was, in the kindest possible terms, easily moved to emotional displays (though Jumba often skipped out on the niceties and just called him ), but it was never anything a gentle word and a pat on the back could not fix. Not that Jumba was currently on any sort of terms with Pleakley to be speaking gently to him or patting him. Not unless he wanted to be on the receiving end of a ballistic, tear-covered pillow. . . . Still, it would not do to have his friend crying his eye out without so much as a flicker of concern on Jumba's behalf. Grudge or no grudge, they were still partners and they had to look out for each other. My little one . . . ? Pleakley heaved a particularly violent sob and fell silent. Jumba watched, no little bit apprehensive, waiting for the other alien to respond. Watching Pleakley lift his head from the pillow was like watching a time-lapse video of a tree falling in reverse. For a moment, Pleakley could only make pitiful little chirping noises, but Jumba was nothing if not patient. He had, after all, created 626 and raised him from a foetal life form. Not only that, he'd helped Lilo to teach him how to behave like a civilised, domesticated animal. Paper training an invincible, lightning-swift weapon of mass destruction is no easy task. Finally, Pleakley recovered his power of speech and Jumba was a trifle surprised and very much relieved that the smaller alien didn't erupt in a gruesome fountain of swearing again. Why do you always call me that? Your little one, I mean, he queried shyly. That was an odd question, Jumba thought. If not odd, it should have been obvious at any rate. Still, he humoured a fellow alien in need. Because it's true. You are little. Next to me, anyway. Jumba laughed, but Pleakley, unruffled, shook his head. Not that. I meant the part. Why not just little one? Why am I always your little one? Jumba was struck silent. He had not been expecting that. His mind wrenched itself out of the suspension of shock and his thoughts fluttered back to his musings from earlier that day. Did Pleakley really not know that he knew . . .? While he'd been eager to get this out into the open, he'd planned on initiating the admission from Pleakley, rather than Pleakley getting it from him. This reversal threw him off quite a bit and he felt blank and awkward as a result. As if sensing his unease, Pleakley was regarding Jumba with a combination of anticipation and trepidation. Jumba swallowed, balking under that look. Well, he was trapped now. There was nothing for it. He was going to have to own up. he began. When we first met, you are assigned to me, you remember? Grand Councilwoman made you my partner, did she not? So, you are being mine from the start, you see?. . . Oh, Pleakley creaked, still staring almost expectantly at Jumba as if he knew precisely what was coming next and was daring him to continue. Jumba did just that. Besides, we live together for long time now, and I am thinking that you are wanting to be mine, am I right? At this, Pleakley blushed. A brief spell of silence passed before he was able to speak again. So, you . . . he started, only to trail off and look away, toying with the fringe along the pillow with long, slender fingers. You never had any doubts? About me, I mean. Jumba just smiled and laughed. Please, my little one. I know you are gay before I know there is even a word for it. Pleakley said nothing. Jumba continued, When we are watching Idiot Box, you curl up at my feet like faithful pet, sometimes even in my lap. You like it when I do this . . . Jumba reached out and, beginning at the base of the little antenna on the top of his head, lightly ran a single knuckle down the length of his partner's back. Pleakley tensed at the first touch, but as that knuckle progressed, he could not help but arch and melt beneath it. I suppose I do rather like that, he admitted a little sheepishly when he'd recovered. Jumba grinned, pleased with the progress he'd made, however awkward all of this was. Now, it was time to go in for the kill. And . . . He smirked wickedly. You talk in your sleep. At that, Pleakley paled dramatically and backed away, bringing himself dangerously close to the gap between the cushion and the armrest where popcorn went to die. W-wha-? I-? You-? Jumba just grinned beatifically. The one with us dressing up as . . . What was name? Alan Titchmarsh and Charlie Dimmock, was very interesting. Pleakley blinked and his expression darkened. I never had a dream about us dressing up as Alan Titchmarsh and Charlie Dimmock! From what Jumba could tell, he was trying to decide whether to be alarmed or offended. Either way, he was blushing so beautifully. Jumba shrugged. All right, so you haven't, but would be interesting, don't you think? Understanding and an edge of skepticism crept into Pleakley's expression and words. Jumba. Are you saying what I think you're saying? Even hope you're saying if it comes to that?That you would make good Charlie Dimmock? Pleakley made an exasperated sound in his throat and rolled his eye. That you would actually consider ever, well . . . being with me. After a few seconds' consideration, Jumba decided that the best way to answer that would be to fairly launch himself across the sofa, sweeping the smaller alien into his arms. Pleakley let out a squeak that was either surprised or delighted or both and looked shyly up at Jumba who was now holding him very close. Surely you must've known that I . . . How I felt- feel about you- Jumba broke in suddenly. He fished round in the gap between the cushions till he found the remote and muted the television. When Pleakley regarded him, puzzled and perhaps a little annoyed, Jumba explained with a grin, Ruins mood. Pleakley said, his expression going from annoyed at being interrupted to appreciative of Jumba's sentiment. He smiled and shyly lifted a hand to touch Jumba's ear, eliciting a tiny noise of pleasure. Pleakley grinned to himself, making a mental note that this was one of Jumba's sweet spots. The others, he would find in turn. He smiled, laying his head over Jumba's chest. I used to dream about this. Jumba grinned, almost cruelly. I know.Oh, right. Pleakley smiled sheepishly and blushed for about the frillionth time that night. Jumba wondered as to whether he'd done any blushing himself. He certainly hoped not. Evil geniuses. Did. Not. Blush. Pleakley then surprised him by saying, So . . . this is the part where we kiss and stuff, right? At this point, his blush might as well have been a placard that read Colour me innocent and take me NOW! As much as he wanted to laugh, Jumba felt it might hurt Pleakley's rather fragile feelings and simply brought his hand up to stroke his little one's scant neck with a forefinger. I am thinking so, but perhaps we are to be continuing this up in bed room, hm?Mmm, finally, the evil genius has a good idea, Pleakley intoned, smirking, and received a friendly swat over the head before he found himself being carried up the stairs. Being in Jumba's arms was every bit as warm and wonderful as he'd dreamed it would be. He couldn't help but feel lighthearted as he registered the fact that he would now be able to find sanctuary in those arms he'd wanted to be held in for so long. The stairs ended and the two were soon at their bedroom door. Jumba carefully shifted Pleakley to one arm as he reached for the doorknob with the other. So . . . Pleakley began a little timidly, nestling in the crook of his partner's arm. D'you really think I would make a good Charlie Dimmock? Jumba tilted a brow and smiled suggestively. We could find out.But I haven't got a curly blonde wig.Well, we could doctor your black one up a bit and be John Noakes and Valerie Singleton instead.Okay, ew, Jumba. Ew. By the time Nani and Lilo came home, the television had been shut off, all of the unpopped popcorn kernels at the bottom of the bowl had found their way to the garbage bin and the empty Tennents can had been crushed (against the side of the drinker's head, no doubt) and deposited into the recycle. The door to Jumba and Pleakley's room was shut, firm and silent as stone in the darkness of night. Stitch was snoozing under the kitchen table, twitching erratically. It took a great deal of poking on Lilo's part to wake him up. When he finally did open his eyes, he immediately rose to his feet and, after giving his little mistress a quick lick set off with his nose to the ground. Between vigourous sniffing, he was babbling quietly to himself and Lilo could have sworn she heard fibre of the glass . . .! After persuading Lilo that going to bed was definitely a better idea than sitting in front of the television in the spirit of it's late already, might as well stay up, Nani got herself a glass of milk (not Tennents, though it was very tempting) and slumped back onto the couch, rubbing her temples. She vaguely swept at her eyes where tears might or might not have still been lingering and sighed deeply. What a day . . . What a night . . . Pleakley scooted, if possible, even closer to Jumba and placed a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth. Aaw, how cute, he had morning breath. Pleakley then noticed the unsavoury tang in his own mouth and after a few seconds' consideration, decided that mutual morning breath was okay. The pair had awoken a few moments ago and were resting in a peaceful nimbus of warmth and comfort. They constituted a pleasant tangle of limbs, a glaring lack of clothing and memories of the previous night, which, as Jumba had pointed out, had been one to remember. It had been awkward and frightfully embarrassing but beautifully so. However many blushes and uneasy Shall I put this here, now?s had been exchanged that night, both of them knew that they would look back on every moment with a smile. So . . . Jumba started, toying with the edge of the sheets, I am thinking we should be getting up? Pleakley raised his brow and smiled. It is customary to present your mate with breakfast in bed after you've shagged him or her into next week, he said matter-of-factly. Emily Post says so. Jumba narrowed his eyes. Does Miss Manners concur?Of course. Satisfied, Jumba nodded and rolled over onto his back. All right. Be getting to it, then. Pleakley looked affronted. Me?! Why me?You always make breakfast.You woke up first!I can not cook!Don't have to. There's meusli in the pantry. Jumba gave Pleakley a withering look. What kind of lover would I be if I serve you meusli for breakfast-in-bed? Pleakley nodded, but made no move to get up. All right, let's do this fairly. Rock-paper-scissors all right? Jumba agreed and lifted his hand. Rock, paper, scissors, GO!I win!You don't either! Pleakley snapped, waving his hand in Jumba's face. Paper goes round stone!That is not paper, is scissors!It's paper!You put out two fingers!I only have two fingers! Jumba shook his head. Is not working, this rock and paper nonsense.Okay then, we'll draw straws . . . Pleakley hopped up and crossed the room to retrieve a bit of scrap paper from the wastepaper basket. Jumba, grabbing the opportunity with both hands, seized all of the blankets and wrapped them tightly round himself. As long as you are up . . . Pleakley lobbed the paper at Jumba's head. Nani came downstairs later that afternoon and was puzzled to find an apron-clad Pleakley holding a tea tray and apparently talking to the storage closet. Would you like some tea? He addressed the door. This being the first she'd seen of Pleakley all day, Nani briefly contemplated whether it was she or Pleakley who was hallucinating till she heard a muffled reply from the other side of the closet door. TEA! Would! You! Like! Some! Oh, tea! I'd love some, thank you.One lump or two?Never mind, Pleakley grumbled, only to break out into a smile barely a second later. I know you well enough that I don't need to ask, he added in a sly undertone, then, with utmost grace and a ton of culture, he took hold of the sugar bowl and dumped the entirety of its contents into the teacup. Nani watched, open-mouthed, as Pleakley knocked on the door with a foot, both of his hands being full. The door then opened and a large, distinctly Jumba-like hand took the tea, then withdrew back into the closet, shutting the door. An awkward silence twinkled by as Pleakley stared- was it adoringly. . .? at the door. He turned to head back to the kitchen and jumped, seeming to notice for the first time that Nani was there. Oh! Nani! he half shouted, half yelped amongst the ominous clatter of dishes from atop an almost-upset tea tray. Uh, tea? He held out the tray in offering, something akin to desperation laced into his movements. Nani, still a fair bit gobsmacked, shook her head and took a few seconds to collect herself. Er, thanks, but I've got pop in the fridge. Why is Jumba in the storage closet? Panic flashed behind Pleakley's eye. Oh, er, he fancied tidying it up a bit.I thought that was your job.Well, it is, that's true. But! But, he said he was looking for these really nice argyle socks he lost, so he thought he might as well tidy whilst he searched for them.I thought Jumba didn't wear socks. A long, painful pause. He's developing photographs . . . ? Nani raised her eyebrows and snorted. Sorry Pleakley, but you're as bad at fibbing as you are at matching. She indicated his outfit, which consisted of a pink apron with yellow, frilly trim and the puce and green spotted handkerchief he had tied round his head. Unable to withstand such a barrage of logic, Pleakley sighed, defeated. All right, he's working on a super confidential, top-secret project. That's all I can say. A tremor of fear passed over Nani's features. It's not some Experiment Six-Two-Bucklemyshoe or anything, is it?Super confidential! Top-secret! Can't say any more!If it's so confidential and secret, how come you know about it? Pleakley just smiled and ran away. Jumba remained holed up in the closet for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening, bypassing supper. It was while Lilo was brushing her teeth for bed that he finally emerged, only narrowly escaping Nani's inquisitive clutches. Pleakley was sat on his bunk, wearing a purple-flowered nightdress (a hand-me-down from Lilo) and working at the beginnings of something knitted, when Jumba barrelled into their room, toting a bundle under his arm. He was panting and wide-eyed in a manner that suggested that he'd just escaped a very nasty capture. This was, to some degree, an accurate analogy. Things could have gotten very evil if Nani had caught him up for the dread interrogation. In deference to Jumba's arrival, Pleakley set the intricate mesh of soft yarns aside and smiled. Is everything ready, then? A sly grin shaped Jumba's mouth. All preparations have been made. All that remains is to be planting the prize, he answered, indicating the parcel he held. It was a lumpy bundle and looked like little else to the uninformed viewer. he added, looking grave, I dropped one small implement on return trip. Could not go back for, unless being caught by recipient of our . . . item. Pleakley's features fell into grim, military deadpan. Do you think it will clue her in to our intentions? Jumba replied. I am thinking will confuse her more than clue her. She will be confused as to why for I, of all people, am carrying round such a thing and will not understand-Fine. That will do. Pleakley said sharply, and solemnly added, I would have taken care of the necessary preparations myself . . . He indicated the parcel. But my duties round the house left no opening large enough, you understand. Jumba nodded. I understand and was doing everything in genius power to make preparations for you. Pleakley said. He folded his arms fastidiously behind his back and rose from his seat, approaching Jumba as an officer approaches a soldier. Now then, our plan is set. We will plant the . . . item at twenty-two hundred hours, by which time our target will be asleep and in no state to catch us in action. She will then come upon it tomorrow morning, completely unawares, whereupon it will have the desired effect upon her. Then and only then, will the mission be complete. Jumba replied with a clipped grunt of understanding and a single sharp nod. Very good, then. Now, do you have any questions before we proceed?We are to plant item at eleven o'clock?Is eight now, Jumba informed him, a smirk stealing along his lips. What are we to be doing for next three hours? Pleakley simply stared, his affronted dignity stiffening his upper lip even more, if possible. Then, he broke out in cheeky giggles and skipped over to Jumba who happily caught the Plorginarian at a flying leap in his arms. With snakelike grace, Pleakley crawled up Jumba's arm and round behind his head, situating his slender body along the larger alien's shoulders like some bizarre, overamorous fur wrap. He nipped affectionately at Jumba's ear. I'm sure we'll think of something. Unable to keep from grinning from ear to (nibbled-on) ear, Jumba toted his cargo to the bottom bunk and sat down. Pleakley slid nimbly down his arm and into his lap, finally taking a seat on one basketball-sized knee. For a moment, two simply regarded each other before Pleakley broke out into an embarrassed grin and looked down at his hands, his fingers twining and untwining almost manically. Jumba knew that Pleakley fidgeted when he was anxious or excited. During their professional relationship as 626 retrievers, Pleakley had taken to tugging on the collar of his uniform when interrogated. However, the uniform was hung up at the back of the closet at the moment, Pleakley was wearing a flimsy, spagetti-strapped nightdress and there was no collar to be tugged. With both hands, Jumba carefully disengaged Pleakley's tangled digits, taking one of the frail, two-fingered hands into his own. The sight of it gave him pause. He'd always marveled at how small Pleakley was in comparison to himself, but seeing it, experiencing it, from this perspective and proximity positively took his breath away. Delicate muscles quivered beneath smooth, cool skin against Jumba's palm as Pleakley's long, slender fingers spread themselves against his hand like little vines, only to coil a moment later round one of Jumba's own fingers, each of which was nearly twice as big around as Pleakley's wrist. For an achingly beautiful moment, the two contented themselves with simply exploring each other's hands. Pleakley tenderly traced every crevice that time and hardship had etched onto Jumba's palm. Jumba dipped a single finger into the sloping that Pleakley's two fingers formed, gently outlining the gap with the whisper-soft touch of one pointed nail. It was innocent and sensual all at once and Jumba noted, to his delight, that Pleakley had actually closed his eye and tilted his head back with pleasure. He had a sudden flash of inspiration and took advantage of Pleakley's suspended state. Slipping a hand round behind the narrow back, he surprised the Plorginarian by lightly dragging a single knuckle down the column of disjointed cartilage that formed his impossibly pliable spine. The muscles along Pleakley's back seized with pleasure, only to fall completely lax in succession like the teeth of a zipper being undone as Jumba's knuckle progressed downward. The other alien's long, slender body sloped backward into a graceful arc of ecstasy, supported by Jumba's other hand, which lovingly cupped his lower back. Lifting his hands to Jumba's muscular upper arms and grasping them for support, Pleakley eased himself back into an upright position, leaning slowly forward until their lips met. As they had discovered the previous night, their vast size difference made kissing -among other things- awkward and borderline impossible. Pleakley's mouth was fairly large and the elasticity of his physique allowed for further give, but even at its widest, it was still less than half the size of Jumba's broad jaws. Jumba had to open his mouth at an exact width and Pleakley had to tilt his head at precisely the right angle to be able to accommodate his partner. And still, they had to go through a brief and rather embarrassing bit of trial and error to get exactly the right fit. However, after some clumsy fumbling, they would both agree that it was well worth the effort as three tongues mingled heatedly in the shared space between their lips. When they broke apart, both were breathless. Jumba's strength, ferocity, and size would have given him the upper hand (tongue?) had he been able to keep with up the deft ministrations of Pleakley. To his credit, he had also been outnumbered tonguewise and thus, he could hardly be blamed for his submission. However, brute strength still had to be taken into account and he had given Pleakley quite a run for his money. The other alien was resting against his partner's broad torso, fairly panting from the exertion. Once he'd recovered, Pleakley made short work of wriggling out of his nightdress. He then unbuttoned Jumba's shirt, a brightly-coloured barrier between flesh and flesh. The larger alien's tough hide was softer, more sensitive in the regions of his neck and upper chest. Pleakley placed a light kiss on Jumba's throat, only to follow it with another, and another after that, intensifying the contact until he was working his entire mouth against the flesh beneath. Oh, what two tongues could do. Jumba shivered pleasurably and titled his head to the side to give Pleakley better access, lifting both arms so as to hold him even closer. He slipped a hand downward, sliding his palm along the curve of one of Pleakley's legs and caressing the tender flesh on the underside of his thigh. Pleakley uttered a faint cry of pleasure in response and continued working wet heat into already flushed skin. His head now fully pressed to Jumba's ribcage, he could feel the tremors along the much larger body. Heavy muscle trembled between flesh and bone, the other alien's ribcage lurched as his breath hitched, and there was something else, too: a rich, throaty rumble, quiet and secreted away in the back of his throat. Pleakley stopped and looked up at Jumba, a smile twitching along his lips. Jumba, are you purring? Jumba's left brow quirked and his gaze darted in several directions before he made an incredulous noise. Psh! Am not purring! Is silly earth feline noise, not evil genius noise! he rattled off, as if he were trying to get it all out at once. He was obviously fighting back a blush. Pleakley's smile was devilishly knowing. You were. They stared at each other in defiant silence, one grinning fit to crack, the other scowling, until he caved. Only little bit, maybe, Jumba grumbled, looking off to the side. The Plorginarian laughed and shook his head. Záidlái, Jumba, but you're perfect. He laid a hand against the side of Jumba's face. You're absolutely perfect. Pleakley smiled gently and for me' positively dripped off the end of his statement. Heat rose in Jumba's face and his heartbeat quickened. As recalled the previous night, Jumba vaguely wondered how he could ever have had any doubts, why he had never felt this way before. He was riding on pure instinct, stumbling along on this new path as a child stumbles in the dark. It wasn't that Jumba was inexperienced. He had, after all, been married once. Even so, it wasn't as if that relationship was without problems. Jumba was, to say the least, not the most romantically apt creature in the universe. The marriage had ended because he was, in his wife's words, a distant, obsessive workaholic with a motherboard for a heart. Jumba, for one, found this diagnosis a bit harsh, but he had to admit that the little thing that begins with an was one science that was somewhat beyond him. Pleakley, however . . . Well, as Jumba had long since discovered, Pleakley was different. If romantic ventures with his ex-wife had been dizzying, Pleakley positively knocked him for six. At least she had been female, and of the same species. Even for a deviant personality such as himself, there were certain comforts in conformity. However, Jumba would have been the first to admit that there was a certain thrill that came with exploring uncharted and, in some respects, forbidden territory. It was practically Universal Law that any relationship that could not potentially include offspring was generally looked down upon. Then again, Jumba was never one to play by the rules. In fact, he privately thought of his budding romance with the male Plorginarian as one long-term illegal experiment in the making. Letting Pleakley push all of his buttons and making his own tentative advances in return brought with it the familiar nibble of adrenaline that came with cultivating illegally imported organisms. The only difference was that there were no equations, no formulas, no regulated procedure of any sort. It was all guesswork, all trial and error, but such was the way of the adventurer. In the past day and night, Jumba had felt more uncomfortable, even helpless, than he had in years, but somehow, it all felt so . . . right. It was frustrating, it was humiliating and it was beautiful. He embraced Pleakley again, allowing the other alien to lay his head in the juncture between his own larger head and shoulder. Over the massive shoulder, Pleakley happened to catch sight of the knitting he'd been holding earlier. Slowly releasing Jumba, he said, Before I forget. He dropped a kiss on the corner of his lover's mouth and slid off of him to retrieve the blob of yarn from the other side of the bed. How is it? Jumba inquired, pointing to the knitting in Pleakley's hands. Is going to be all right since mistake?Oh, it's just fine. I fixed it up in a tick, no biggie. Pleakley grinned, then handed the knitting over to Jumba. Thank you, my little one. I was so worried when I dropped stitch . . . He began to work the two needles artfully together and slid an earnest smile toward Pleakley. I do not know how I would ever manage without you. The next morning, Nani stumbled downstairs and into the kitchen, sleep deprivation showing itself in her lagging strides. Stitch came plodding sleepily down the steps after her and stumbled out the doggie door, mumbling something about Lilo kicking in her sleep. As Nani vaguely fumbled with the coffee maker, she thought back on the previous night. It had all been very strange. First, she had awoken and gone into the bathroom to brush her teeth only to find her most expensive bottle of perfume missing. Then, the previous day, there was Jumba's retreat into the closet and Pleakley's evasive, panicky responses when he was questioned. Lastly, Jumba had mysteriously dropped a spool of magenta thread that on his way up the stairs. Nani had picked up the little spool and spent most of the night puzzling over it. Those two were up to something, she'd thought to herself. Even Pleakley had admitted that Jumba was hard at work on some new project. The words and in the same sentence made the little hairs on the back of Nani's neck stand on end. But why, of all things, was he using thread? Jumba was a scientist, all complex machinery and virulent chemicals. What could he possibly want with- At that moment, Nani spotted the parcel. It was sat in the middle of the kitchen table, wrapped in a bedsheet and secured with a few of Lilo's old shoelaces, which had been tied together at the ends. Puzzled, the elder Pelekai sister finished fixing her coffee and took a seat at the table. For a moment, she stared at the parcel. The parcel did not stare back. Finally, with some trepidation, she reached out and pulled the bundle to her. Having deduced that there was little to no chance of the contents of this parcel being generally lethal, she carefully untied the shoelaces and unwrapped the bedsheet. A tiny noise of surprise escaped her lips as her mother's fuchsia maternity dress fell onto the table. The pieces had been painstakingly stitched back together with magenta thread that matched the stuff on the spool Jumba had dropped. Lifting the dress from the tabletop as if it were made of glass, Nani lightly ran her thumb over one magenta-stitched seam. The stitches were untidy, but strong and showed that the seamstress was inexperienced but determined. She had to grin as she pictured a familiar, bear-like hand struggling to thread a needle with short, stumpy fingers in the dim light of a small closet. The surprises did not end there, however. Underneath the dress was a new bottle of perfume to replace the one that was missing. She giggled a bit to herself as she pictured another hand, this one a great deal smaller with long, slender fingers, reaching for the bottle in the cabinet above the sink. Shaking her head, she thought to herself, I might have known.' She picked up the dress again and began folding it. A folded bit of paper came tumbling out of one of the sleeves. Gently setting the dress down for the moment, she picked up the paper and unfolded it to find a familiar, sprawling script that she recognised as Pleakley's handwriting. Halfway through, she had to sit back down in order to finish reading what could have possibly been the world's most tear-jerkingly sweet We're very sorry about last nightThank you so much for everything that you do for us letter. It was signed, With gratitude, Doctor Jumba Jookiba, former lead scientist of Galactic Defence and biogenetic engineer, first class, and Agent Wendy Pleakley, earth scientist and environmental contamination specialist, third class. Nani squinted slightly at something that Pleakley had apparently penciled into the last available inch of paper, and she smiled. Written in tiny, hastily scribbled letters was Dr. and Mrs. Jumba Jookiba-Pleakley. end