Kermie's Girl (ushy-gushy fanfic)

[The Count]

Happy 3rd birthday Kermie's Girl. *Leaves slice of cake for Aunt Ru. for more story to be posted.

 

[Ruahnna]

Chapter 65: Family Party

The presence of Robin in the sound booth had left Beaker with a little more leisure than he was used to when a show was underway. Until the finale, he made himself useful but not indispensable, thoroughly enjoying the unexpected freedom. But it is an old and sacred truth that—as long as there are mothers in the world—you will be put to work if you look like you’re not busy. Mabel nabbed him right after “Bop” and whispered in his ear.
His eyes got larger and he nodded vigorously, disappearing in a patter of smartly shined shoes, only to return about ten minutes later.
His frantic meeping (coupled with his accent) gave even Mabel pause and she listened attentively while he reported the results of his reconnaissance.
“Mee meep meep-meep?” he asked breathlessly, and the troubled mole nodded.
“Yep,” she said. “Better tell Scooter.”

Scooter came alongside Kermit at intermission.
“Beaker says there was some guy hanging around the back of the auditorium. The ushers gave him the mean eye and he moved on, but nobody knew who he was or how he got in without a ticket.”
“How do you know he didn’t have a ticket?”
Scooter grinned. “Full house,” he said happily. “Every seat has a seat in it. That’s what caused the ushers to notice him.”
Kermit opened his mouth to say something, shut it and fidgeted. Scooter put a hand on his arm.
“It wasn’t Scribbler,” he said reassuringly. “Too tall. Too well-dressed. Description didn’t match.”
Kermit visibly relaxed.
“Might be a reporter,” he said hopefully. “You know where Brenda goes, others follow.”
“If they’re able,” said Scooter with a smile. “You’re probably right—a reporter.” He hesitated, wanting to say more, but like Kermit, he did not.
“Probably nothing,” said Kermit with false heartiness, then changed the subject abruptly. “Any idea when Brenda’s article is going to come out?”
“Soon,” said Scooter, matching Kermit’s heartiness. And it can’t be too soon to suit me.

“How’d it go over in Elvis-ville?” Thoreau asked as he helped Piggy into her silk wrap. She did not mind appearing onstage in her emerald green lingerie, but she was inexplicably shy about wandering around backstage in it. She tied the belt around her waist and plopped down in front of the mirror to see what could be done about her hair.
“The dress was almost as big a hit as I was,” she said archly, then sighed as she examined her tresses.
Between the wig and the, um, glowing, Piggy’s hair lacked it usual glorious sheen, and she took out a long-handled brush and began to brush it briskly from crown to stern.
“My hair is a fright,” Piggy said matter-of-factly. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with it for ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside.’”
Thoreau came up behind her and inspected her honeyed locks dispassionately.
“It’s not totally unfortunate,” he said finally, “but the curl is definitely suffering.” He took the brush out of her hand and began to brush the length of it thoughtfully, flipping it up just a tad on the ends to add body. “Why don’t you put it up for your duet?” He made a rueful face at her in the mirror. “Then that frog of yours can nosh on your neck.”
Piggy started to say something, but the next words surprised both of them coming, as they did, from Kermit who had slipped in unnoticed.
“Sounds like a good plan to me,” he said, smiling at Piggy in the mirror. Piggy blushed and looked down, not sure what to say in front of Thoreau. But Thoreau only rolled his eyes dramatically and handed Kermit the brush.
“Your pig, your problem,” he quipped, and slid out of the room.
“Kermit—“ Piggy protested, then fell silent as he took the gilt hairbrush and continued brushing her hair as Thoreau had done. He even managed to add the little flip on the end, making Piggy wonder how long he’d been standing there.
“So, you had a good time with Ace and Deuce and Trey?” Kermit asked.
“I did,” Piggy admitted. “I got lots of applause and they were so surprised to see me.” She looked at Kermit in the mirror, her eyes shining. “I liked doing it.”
“Hmmm,” said Kermit ruefully. He had known—almost as long as he’d known Piggy—that she craved the attention of an audience with an unswerving passion. “Well, don’t get any ideas. They get you for one song—one song—and then we need you here.”
The tone of his voice was so determinably light that Piggy was instantly on the alert.
“What happened?” she said swiftly, her face anxious.
Kermit, never a skillful liar, hemmed and hawed for a moment, then told Piggy about the unidentified interloper who had stood and watched their show. To his great relief, she did not seem alarmed.
“It was probably either a reporter—a real reporter—or the friend of someone who works here. “ She smiled up at him. “After all—you can’t buy a ticket anymore—we’re sold out. Anyone who wanted a peek would have to be sneaked it, right?”
“Right,” said Kermit. “And who wouldn’t want to sneak in and sneak a peek at you?”
But Piggy wasn’t buying. She took the brush from Kermit’s hands and began to brush her hair purposefully. “With this hair? No one?” She flashed him an impish look. “So kiss me quick and get out. I’ve got work to do.”
Kermit smiled and complied. He had work to do as well.

Johnny was hardly looking at the cue cards anymore, Sal thought proudly, swelling with pride for his hero. Off-handedly, Sal admired the chorus girls in their costumes, seeing how well they adjusted to every little nuance of Johnny’s song. Truth was, Sal had noticed that Johnny had put on a little weight, but—with touching loyalty—thought that the pounds looked good, adding a little heft to the crooner’s look. Sal had had a couple of bad days, but things were leveling back up now. He was more relieved than he could say about being wrong about Janice and Floyd. And Sal was used to being wrong, so he didn’t even have to waste time with self-recrimination. Johnny had been especially nice to the little primate before the show, handing over the last cannoli with a flourish.
“For you, Sal,” Johnny had said. “For all you do to help me look good.”
“Oh, gosh, Johnny,” he had stammered. “That’s easy.” But the little Italian pastry was sweeter than any he had had to date.
Johnny was coming off the stage now, ready to be congratulated. Sal rushed to do the job right, knowing all the right things to say. After all—hadn’t Johnny taught him?
They had nothing to worry about until after intermission—nothing to do but take time changing Johnny’s cummerbund for the final song. Sal set to with energy.

Another curtain call, another encore. True to his word, Kermit and Rowlf had put their heads together and come up with some options for the inevitable nightly encores, and had run the cast through a hasty harmony test so that the last thing the audience saw was as polished as the first number had been. Audience members screamed the clapped and called for more—and more, and more-but at last the tired and happy troupe trooped off to eat, sleep and recreate.
“So, h’okay, like, are you womens still up for some dancing?” said Pepe, striking a pose. Although they would have probably succumbed to unaesthetized root canals before admitting it, the girls in the chorus were actually viewing Pepe with a fonder eye than usual. His dead-on, over-the-top performance in “Bop” had given him a little professional cachet among the dancers, and Sally Ann looked down at his eager face benevolently.
“This womens is still up for a little foot action,” she said agreeably. “How about you, Amy Lu? You want to shake a hock with me and the, um,King here?”
Amy Lu giggled, her little black eyes wide with merriment.
“I could dance all night,” she said. “Let me grab my purse.”
Much to Pepe’s disappointment, Amy Lu returned with more than her purse. She had snagged half the Mayhem (the unattached half), Gonzo, Rizzo and Clifford, the sound booth occupants (sans Robin) and Sara had promised to round up Scooter and meet them with any stragglers. The king prawn’s hoped-for evening had quickly escalated into the usual circus. A quick head count assured Pepe that he stood a better than average chance of snagging a dance partner, so he put on his party face and offered two of his four arms.
“Come, come, ladies,” he said airily. “The night is young and we are so beautiful….”
Kermit watched him go, wondering if he’d have anyone up before noon tomorrow. Scooter trotted up and asked for his signature on something, and the amphibian gave it without looking at what he signed. He caught sight of Robin and waved, making come-over-here gestures with his hand. Robin saw him and waved back, signaling “in a minute.”
Kermit walked over to his wife. “Wanna go dancing?” he asked, doing a goofy impression of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Piggy bit her lip but was unable to stop a snort of laughter from escaping.
“Oh, Kermie, stop,” she said, reaching to put one satin-gloved hand on his chest. Kermit caught her hand and swung her under his arm, disco-style. Piggy squealed and—having no choice in the matter—allowed herself to be spun around and under his arm. Halfway through the return spin, Kermit snagged her to his side and led her through a snazzy jazz square.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” said Piggy, exasperated, and tried to pull free. Kermit tried to dip her, but a forewarned pig is a forearmed pig, and Piggy managed to head him off at the pass, so to speak. She disentangled herself and looked at him, melting at the sight of his lop-sided grin.
“You sure you don’t want to trip the light fantastic with yours truly?” he asked. “I’m told my feet are not only happy, but talented.”
What on earth had gotten into him? Piggy thought, grabbing his tux lapels to hold him still—and close.
“No. Moi does not want to trip the light fantastic—“
“Trip being the operative word,” he murmured.
“—nor does she intend to trip.”
Kermit put his arms around Piggy’s waist. The red silk dress was warm beneath his hands. “So, what would you like to do while all of our cast members are boogie-ing until dawn?”
She was silent for a moment, and Kermit paused, worried that, in his goofiness, he had missed some nuance of mood.
“Piggy—?”
“Moi would like to take her two frogs back to our hotel room, change into sweats and order an extra-large pizza with a side of stuffed breadsticks.”
Kermit grinned hugely, but Robin, coming up to them, said it for the frogs.
“Oh BOY,” he said. “And can we watch a late movie?”
“Sure,” said Kermit, mentally adding, “If we can find a clean one.” He turned his little family toward the hall, not sorry to be making it a family party. They walked in silence for a moment and waiting patiently for the elevator, but by the time they had stepped out onto their floor, Kermit’s brow was furrowed in concentration.
“Piggy?” his asked at last. “Do you even own sweat pants?”

 

[The Count]

Is happy... Is content... Is loving the fact this has not been abandoned. Thank you for posting again Aunt Ru. Rully lovely depictions of everything that's going on backstage and on stage and off stage. Hope for more to be added soonish.

 

[ReneeLouvier]

this is definately the story that's worth waiting for! More please when you can get to it Ru!

 

[Muppetfan44]

Hooray for the update!

Fantastic as always Ru! Can't wait to read what happens next!

Please post more soon!

Best Wishes!

 

[Davina]

yay!
loved it, as always...
and glad things have settled down enough for you that you were able to work on it.. (hopefully for all of us, your life will remain calm and settled... hehee)

 

[Alpha Centauri]

Love Kermit's line “Piggy?u201D his asked at last. “Do you even own sweat pants?u201D ROTFLOL!

 

[The Count]

Mmm Monsters are so hungry... We want an update right now! Please?

 

[Ruahnna]

Chapter 66: No Sweat (Pants or Otherwise)

Kermit did not claim to be an expert on fashion—he had long ago learned to pay the haberdashery bills without question and—on no account whatsoever—to look at the ones that came from Thoreau unless he was sitting. But the little green CEO usually had claim to expertise on one high-maintenance pig, and he had been right—Piggy did not own and probably never would own a pair of sweat pants. He was rewarded for his illustration of knowledge by a lip-smacking lip-smack while he and Piggy changed into something more comfortable; this meant blue cotton pajamas for him and one of approximately 37 silk wraps over one of about 82 sets of equally lip-smacking lingerie for her. They joined Robin in the sitting area where he and Piggy had endured Brenda’s piercing interview what seemed like decades ago.
They found a Disney rendition of A Christmas Carol while delighted Robin and caused Kermit and Piggy to exchange rueful expressions above his head.
“We did it better,” Piggy mouthed at him and Kermit laughed silently, but they enjoyed the old story and Robin’s pleasure in it.. Kermit mentally ticked off the online shopping that Scooter had helped him accomplish in the microsecond of spare time he’d had that afternoon, and made a mental note to announce the plans for the Christmas party at tomorrow morning’s rehearsal. He mused about the costumes Piggy had told him about, picturing them in the New Year’s Show with approval, and worried a little about pulling everything together for the new show while they worked the old show and tried to have a holiday in the midst of it. Holiday made him think of vacation and vacation made him think about what a welcome vacation this had been from their filming back home, filming which would have to resume at a monster pace once they returned home. The studio had not been pleased about the delay, but the publicity had pushed them over the edge and they had agreed. Kermit thought wryly that they would probably forgive him anything once the interview with Brenda hit the streets, and hoped—fretfully, again—that their public would be continue to be kind, that Piggy would approve of all the pictures, that he would not come off as nebbishy and weird and controlling and that dredging up their romantic foibles and his romantic failings would not make him unpalatable in the glaring eyes of the world…
Piggy was saying something. He tried to drag himself back to the present, abashed and worried that his inattentiveness would be obvious. She was saying something about Penny, and he wracked him brain frantically trying to think who Penny might be. Was she the hotel concierge assigned to help them? Maybe she was the woman who was going to help when they filmed the rappelling scene for Fozzie’s Angels? He shook his head but no gumball appeared, and he turned contrite eyes on Piggy.
“What about Penny?” he asked.
Piggy let out a feminine exhalation that stirred the wispy bangs on her forehead.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she repeated, and for just a moment, Kermit tried to make Foryourthoughts into someone’s last name before the meaning penetrating the fog.
“Oh,” said Kermit, clearing his throat and sitting up a little on the couch, only then noticing that Robin was stretched out full length over their laps and was producing little whistling snuffles in his sleep. He put a gentle hand on the back of Robin’s head, and Piggy reached out and covered it with her own.
“Don’t worry,” Piggy said simply. “Everything will be fine.”
Kermit stirred himself to protest.
“I wasn’t—“ he began, but stopped when Piggy put a satiny hand over his lips. Her blue eyes were stern, but he thought her snout twitched a little with mischief. “Okay, I was.”
“No,” said Piggy with feigned astonishment. “You? Worry?”
Kermit squirmed uncomfortably and, taking her hand from his over his mouth, kissed it and then held it over his heart.
“I can’t help it,” he said morosely. “I’m responsible for so many people and things that it rattles around in my head even when I don’t want it to.” He looked at her, hopeful of sympathy, but Piggy’s eyes were suddenly ablaze.
“Oh, you’re just like Professor Higgins,” she huffed. “Afraid the tide won’t come in without you, or the sun won’t rise if you don’t call it.”
Kermit looked at her flushed face and smiled, feeling suddenly light-hearted and goofy. “I delegated that sun thing to Scooter,” he said seriously, and watched with pleasure as Piggy fought not to laugh—and lost.
It came out more like a groan that a laugh, but it took the stiffness out of her posture. Kermit pulled her closer, careful not to unsettle the young frog sprawled so trustingly across their laps. Piggy snuggled against him.
“Truce?” Kermit suggested. “I’ll try not to worry anymore tonight, and you think of something to take my mind off all my troubles.”
There was a lovely moment when Piggy just looked at him, brimming with 800 different emotions, and then she kissed him and withdrew.
“I’ll see what I can think of,” she whispered, and turned toward their room.
Kermit waited for his knees to stop feeling wobbly and then heaved to his feet with Robin in his arms. He tucked the little frog in tenderly, turned out the light, and set his face toward Piggy and the night.

There was at least one other couple not tripping the light fantastic-or otherwise. Rowlf and Foo Foo had lingered after the show, not declining the invitation to go dancing but not exactly accepting it either. They strolled through the casino crowds slowly, not looking at each other as much as taking in the sights. Usually the most easygoing of canines, Rowlf looked a little uncomfortable, and Foo was more that a touch constrained, but there was a general air of attempting to be agreeable that seemed to soften things enough for Rowlf to speak.
“Foo—are you mad at me?”
The little white dog started a little, then tilted her head on the side and opened her eyes wide.
“Mad at you? Why would I be mad at you?” Her dark eyes were a little anxious.
“Well, you know, bugging out of the chapel this afternoon.”
“Oh, that,” said Foo Foo uncomfortably.
“Yeah,” Rowlf repeated. “That.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, then Foo put one paw out as if to shake, although she did not complete the gesture.
“Well,” she began earnestly, then stopped, shaking her head and making her jingle-bell collar jingle.
Rowlf dropped to the carpet and lay on his tummy. He put his chin on his hands and looked up at her. “Tell me,” he said.
“Look, Rowlf. I’m sorry about this afternoon. I love parties but I’m not real good with thous and vows. I’m sorry I ducked out, but I just felt so…I don’t know, antsy that I had to go for a walk.”
“I mean, I don’t blame you if you were sore or—what did you say?”
“That I like parties?”
“No—after that.”
“That I got antsy and went for a walk?”
“Bingo,” said Rowlf.
“Nice enough guy,” said Foo Foo cheekily, “but he never could come when he was called.”
But Rowlf was smiling at her.
“What?” she said nervously, backing up a little.
“You ducked out?”
Foo Foo nodded cautiously. “Yeeesss.”
“Foo--I ducked out.”
“Yes, but—oh. Oh.” Foo Foo sat down where she was, her pink tongue lolling, and laughed and laughed. “Well,” she said at last, wiping tears from her eyes. “If that doesn’t beat all.” She walked up to Rowlf and gave him a delicious lick on the nose. Rowlf fought the urge to roll over on his back and beg. What a canine!
“Foo, dear,” he said solemnly. “Could I interest you in a bite?”
“Sure,” said Foo Foo impishly. “And I’ll even let you buy me dinner first.”

A man in a dark suit was talking urgently into cell phone. Much might have been inferred by anyone witnessing this little conversation, but there were—of course—no witnesses.
“Timing is going to be an issue,” he said. “There doesn’t seem to be any time when she’s not rehearsing, on-stage or in the company of hubby or that scary costume guy. It’s going to be delicate work to cut her out of—“
“Okay, okay,” he said, holding up a hand to ward of an apparent torrent of words from whomever he was talking to. “Did I say I wouldn’t do the job? Did I?”
There was more from the phone, met with eye-rolling impatience by the man with the phone. He waited until there was silence, and then said, carefully, as though presenting a particularly fine wine for inspection.
“And there’s still the matter of money,” he said silkily. After a pause, he named a number—a rather substantial number.
This induced a speechlessness in the party on the other end of the line that the man would not have thought possible, and he held his hand over the phone so that his smile would not be heard. “It’s not going to be any easy job, and the fallout’s going to be huge.”
There was a bark of sound, heard dimly through the speaker, and a couple of staccato phrases, but the man interrupted smoothly.
“Of course, if you don’t really want her—“
This time he did not try to hide the sound of his smile.
“Certainly. You can count on me.”
Something else was apparently snarled into the phone, but he refused to take offense.
“Of course,” he said soothingly. “I’m the very soul of discretion.”
And he hung up.

Gonzo wasn’t having a horrible time. He told himself this periodically to remind himself to keep smiling, but after a while, he didn’t have to remind himself quite as often. Camilla wasn’t snubbing him—she danced with him when he asked and did not show especial favoritism to any other partner—but it was the lack of especial favoritism shown to him that hurt Gonzo like the regret of too many strawberry and olive crepes. Still, moving was good, shaking your bon-bons (as Pepe would say) was good, and the music and the food the general camaraderie went pretty far. Not for less would Gonzo have given up the glamorous life of a plumber.
The other conspicuous bachelor seemed to be bearing up well under the strain. Clifford did not leave the dance floor for anything but partner changes and to occasionally snarf a stuffed mushroom from trays of appetizers. Rizzo danced with Gloria Jean and Pepe was not content until he’d been almost slapped by every woman in the place—including those he’d come with. Janice sat on Floyd’s lap over in the corner and they talked about—who can say? Music? Eternal Jams? Where Zoot really got his suits? Whatever it was, the conversation appeared universally uninteresting to everyone else and endlessly fascinating to the two lovers. People smiled and moved around them as though they were part of the furnishings.
Honeydew and Shantilla cleared a substantial portion of the floor when they danced (perhaps to leave a path for the paramedics, should they be needed) but the enthusiasm that permeated the little group of muppet performers was generating good buzz for the establishment. There was easily twice the crowd that had been there the first time they’d arrived, and there were enough cell phone cameras’ blinking and flashing to make Scooter feel a little nervous.
“Relax, Sweetie,” Sarah said gently. “This is not your watch. Let ‘em take pictures if they want to. The Queen, um, Bee isn’t here to protest.”
Scooter grinned sheepishly. “True,” he agreed. “Force of habit, I guess.”
Sarah put both arms around him as a slow, sinuous ballad came on.
“Here,” she said. “Develop some new habits, why don’t you?”
Years of taking orders from, well, everybody, had honed Scooter’s skills.
“Yes ma’am,” he said energetically, and did

“Have mercy,” said Deuce. “That was a mighty fine show.”
“And the porcine pulchritude exhibited by Kermit’s missus was not at all amiss,” added Ace. “That little darlin’ sure knows how to pack ‘em in.”
“And pack ‘em on in all the right places,” said Trey wickedly. There was a general school-boyish snicker while they reminisced about their lovely costar. Someone knocked on the dressing room door and the hilarity subsided instantly. It would not do to be caught out by their little green bud extolling the charm of his wife’s charms.
“You may enter,” said Trey, shooting his fingers at the door although the person on the other side couldn’t see him. The door opened and one of their stage-hands, Xander, poked his head around the door.
“Nice set tonight, fellas. Tomorrow’s show is about to be sold out.”
There was much congratulatory back-thumping and you-are-the-man-ing all around. When the hubbub died down, Xander looked at them apologetically.
“Um, because of the, um, wardrobe needs of your guest, I had to clear out one of the closets. Where do you want these jumpsuits?” He coughed delicately and lowered his voice. “Um, and there are some, um, old…er…wigs out here that should probably go somewhere.”
No one looked at anyone else for a moment. Although it was unmistakably true that maintaining perfectly coiffed Elvis dos all the time was beyond most men, it was still a sore subject when one of them had to resort to, um, hair enhancements.
Ace recovered first. “We best take the, ah…” He struggled for a word but Xander helped him along by simply handing him the rack of hair-pieces. Ace placed them discreetly on the makeup table behind him. “And you can leave the jumpsuits out in the hall. Nobody here but us Elvises until tomorrow.”
“Sure thing,” said Xander. “And congrats on the show.” He shut the door and started toward the back door, but there was a puzzled look on his face as he went. The stagehand stopped and almost went back to knock again, but decided not to bring up an uncomfortable subject twice in one evening. Still, he thought unhappily. I could have sworn there were more wigs back there before the show. A thought occurred to him, and his face relaxed into a smile. Miss Piggy might have accidentally gathered up some of their things into her own. He made a point to ask her about it tomorrow. If he remembered.
Which he didn’t.

The tricky part with this crowd, though Mabel, is making sure none of the performers end up on the menu. She smiled to herself, kneading dough. Once the mass was firm and elastic and dusted with flour, Mabel rolled it out lengthwise and smothered it with butter, cinnamon and brown sugar. She rolled it sideways into a log and then proceeded to cut cinnamon twirls with machine-like precision. She covered them carefully with a soft cloth and left them in the oven to rise alongside the sticky buns until morning. It would be a nice surprise for a change, she thought happily. And heaven knew they could all use one.

 

[The Count]

*Blinks. Wha-huh? Ru! Update! More importantly, you're back! *Cheers excitedly. Hope you have a vonderful holiday season. *Leaves delicious honey-drizzled 16 cookies, goes to read the latest chapter, glad since I've been finding little gems while rereading the entire thing.