They sit in Ann's living room alone, pouring over extensive notes.

It's a mess, really, a complete mess. Papers and pens are scattered, notebooks lying open, a large bulletin board lying on the floor between them with pictures and quotes tacked on, a handful of pins by Ben's knee. And still, despite it all, there's not enough of a connection.

"Go through it again," Ann sighs, rubbing her face. "Just… the whole thing, one more time."

Ben takes a deep breath and picks up the nearest notebook, filled with his cramped handwriting, surveying the board. "Okay. First thing on the timeline: the janitor, Jerry, and I witnessed Leslie with Shauna, who was crying. Shauna was begging for help, but Shauna was also begging Leslie not to do something."

"Right. Kind of contradicting."

"And next, Shauna dropped out of school. Leslie proceeded to act weirder, until she got at her weirdest on the last day of school. You talked to her."

Ann nods. "I did, at lunch. She wasn't really talking much, for once. And we know she had plain coffee and didn't participate in class. Swanson sent her home early because she looked like a mess, where she ran into you. You both fought—"

"Fought, yeah." Ben's face heats up, and it occurs to him, then, that the last time he saw Leslie Knope, they fought. They attempted to tear down the very thing they had spent precious time working towards, little moments where a rivalry didn't sound so great anymore. It crumbled down between them on that day, the very last day, and the worst part is? Even if she didn't disappear, it could've very well been the last time they ever saw each other. And they knew that. "She didn't… look good. It was bad. And she left me."

"And nobody saw her since. Okay, so we know she didn't reach her car in the senior parking lot, because it was still there even after graduation. And the school security footage shows nothing in the parking lot, according to the police. She didn't even get that far."

"It happened inside the school," Ben whispers, staring at the pulled up roster on his laptop, full of student names and staff information. "And the people within the school that might've had a grudge on her include her exes— Mark Brendanawicz, and… what was the other guy? Dave Sanderson."

"Oh god, Dave," Ann groans. "I don't think we need to worry about Dave. He was an ass, but in a different way than Mark. Besides, his dad is the police chief. He couldn't get away with anything even if he wanted to."

Ben shrugs, but doesn't cross Dave's name off the list. "We could still talk to him, maybe. We might be able to get some insider information on the leads his dad has. And the staff, the teachers—"

"They all love Leslie. They always have."

"Right. What about her mom? Marlene?"

A strange tension fills the room, and he can see Ann flinch, just slightly, like she's trying to hide it. But Ben notices, sees the way she turns away from him, fiddles with her pen in her fingers. "Marlene…" Ann mumbles, low and cautious. "She's… interesting. She and Leslie never really had a good relationship."

He thinks back on junior year, one drunken conversation, several confessions, and a phone number. "I heard," he says grimly. "At least, I heard a little. I know she never went to any of Leslie's events."

Ann shakes her head. "None of them. And she didn't really act like a mother in the house, either. Marlene… she's really withholding. And never really believed in Leslie. It's like she thought she was this goofy, clumsy little thing with childish hopes and dreams."

It's strange to think of Leslie like that, if only because it makes no sense at all. How do you look at bright, burning Leslie Knope and decide she can't do anything she sets her mind to? How do you live with a daughter but manage to not really raise her or love her at all? Not for the first time, Ben feels pity for her, but he also feels connection. A sense that they understand each other more than they ever let on, if only because Ben's family has never been one to brag about either.

"We'll write her name down," he decides, pulling out a pin to stick to the bulletin board. "Just in case. Maybe we can talk to her, see if Leslie might've said anything at home to allude to what was going on. Now, Shauna said Leslie saw something, and that's why she's gone. So the motivation… Leslie saw something she wasn't supposed to see, and somebody got pissed. Is there anybody else with a grudge against Leslie, someone who doesn't like her?"

"Well…" Ann shifts in her seat on the floor, pulling her knees up to her chest. She looks at him, but sideways, very cautiously, like she's afraid of what's about to happen. "There's you."

It hits him like a punch in the gut, or more than that— a twisting knife. "You… what? Do you seriously still think that I might've—"

"No! No, no, no, I don't, that's not what…" she sighs, and puts her head in her hands. "I just… I know you didn't like her. But I've been watching you lately, just kind of paying attention, and this really means a lot to you, doesn't it? Finding her, getting her back, figuring out what happened. It means so much to you, even though you didn't like her."

Ben purses his lips, looking down at his lap and tearing at an empty sheet of paper just for something to do. "It's not that I didn't like her," he admits, trying to find the words. "Okay, I… I didn't like her for a while. But things changed. Overtime, they kind of changed. Never completely better, but enough. And I was so stupid, I didn't even realize what she meant to me until she was gone. So yeah, this means a lot to me. I want to get her back."

"And what will you tell her? When we get her back?"

The question makes him pause, curling the sheet of paper in his fist. She's not asking if they'll get her back, but instead presenting the possibility as fact, something that's bound to happen any day now. And it occurs to him that hope, real hope, is infectious— it spreads, one tiny spark into a wildfire. And while one spark won't kill someone… a wildfire is bound to send the whole operation up in flames. He chokes, trying to breathe.

"The truth," he says.

Ann stares at him for a long time, but she doesn't ask him what the truth is. He's thankful for that, because he doesn't think he could've found it in himself to tell her even if she did ask. It's quiet, for a while, the words hanging in the air, the rest going unspoken. But the subtext is enough. He feels like she knows, if only because Ben has never been good at hiding how he feels. He tries to, he desperately tries to, but the cold reality is that he has his heart on his sleeve, and his eyes betray him every time.

But Ann doesn't ask him what the truth is. No, she asks about something maybe much, much worse.

"There was more to your relationship, wasn't there?" she says suddenly, and though it's phrased like a question, he knows it's not, really. "Like I've said, I've only ever heard Leslie's side of things. Never yours."

Ben shrugs, refusing to make eye contact. "I don't even know what she told you."

"Little things. A couple big stories."

"Big stories?"

She shifts slightly. "Like, there was this Model UN story."

Ben groans, putting his head in his hands. Just his luck, really, that Leslie decided to tell Ann that story— it embarrasses him just to think that she knows it, and only from her perspective. "I don't even think I want to know how she told that story."

"Then tell your story," she says, tugging on his arm so that she can look at him properly. "I think you need to talk about this more. You can't keep running away from your feelings and the past, no wonder all you feel is regret. Tell your story, and what it meant to you. And for once, be totally and completely vulnerable. Honest."

He doesn't want to free himself, and he's terrified that the moment he opens his mouth, everything will come bubbling out of him with reckless abandon. He's not ready yet, not that ready, not enough to completely let her in, not enough for her to know…

But that's what being vulnerable is, right? In order to be vulnerable, you first have to be uncomfortable. You first have to let a little bit of your walls down and allow it to hurt, allow it all to pour out of his system.

He's not sure he wants to hold it in anymore.

SENIOR YEAR

FIVE MONTHS BEFORE GRADUATION

Palms slammed on tables, voices turned to yelling, insults were exchanged, and once again Ben started to wonder if being in Model UN was even worth it.

He didn't even know what they were arguing about anymore. They were so far from the original point that they were spinning in circles, pointing fingers and casting blame, and he couldn't even hear himself anymore. It was sad, just sad, and it infuriated him that his all-time favorite club had become a mess like this, all because he and Leslie couldn't keep themselves from fighting.

And this fight felt different. Nobody's words meant a single goddamn thing— it was all about one-upping the other and seeing just how mad they could make each other. They were both standing, every student watching them, papers and flags flying, treaties being torn up, a hush over the crowd.

"I have a right to be mad!" Leslie hissed, taking one step closer to them. Mr. Newport sat at the front of the classroom, head in his hands, as if trying to see how long he could ignore what was right in front of him. He was looking older lately, as if students like Ben and Leslie had completely and utterly worn him down. But both were too focused to even notice. "You wrote me out of the treaty!"

"Maybe if you had been paying more attention to the treaty, you wouldn't have been written out of it," Ben told her, brandishing a piece of paper— the treaty in question. "But no, you were too busy gallivanting around, trading with other countries, even when I warned you—"

"You couldn't have just waited? God, you're selfish, you just wanted to write me out of it because you hate me—"

"God, don't be obtuse, not everything is about you—"

"Okay," Mr. Newport called out, his voice rising above theirs. "Okay, that's my cue to put a stop to this. The two of you really need to get your act together—"

"I think Ben needs to get his act together, I agree—"

"Leslie," he snapped, giving her a look, and she instantly paled, realizing her choice of words.

"Sorry, Mr. Newport," she mumbled, sounding genuinely ashamed to have upset him, while still shooting Ben a death glare when Newport looked away.

"The two of you haven't been arguing this much in months, what's going on here?" Newport asked, looking between the two of them. Ben shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor. "You were working well together, getting along—"

"Well, we don't anymore," Ben said, beating Leslie to it. "Maybe because she was too busy to involve herself with the treaty."

"Oh, you jerk, you absolute—"

"Okay, enough." Newport stood between them, his hands out, and the entire Model UN club was watching, even if they were pretending not to. "How about the two of you take a little break, okay? Go for a walk. A breather, away from each other. Can we do that?"

"Fine," they both said together, before spinning on their heels and glaring at each other as they walked out the door. It slammed shut behind them, and as soon as it did, Leslie whirled on him again, even with his back turned, expecting to walk away.

"You did that on purpose," she said, pointing her finger, and Ben just sighed. "Admit it, jerk, you knew what you were doing, you just wanted to get a rise out of me."

"Weird, I thought we were supposed to be taking a breather alone," he retaliated, walking off down the hallway. "I wasn't aware that involved shouting at each other."

Of course, she followed him. And he had no idea where he was going, opting to just continue walking and hope for the best. "Oh, get off your high horse, Wyatt, you're no better than I am."

"And yet you're the one following me. What's your problem anyway?"

"What's my problem?" she shrieked, right as he turned out of the hallway to the back of the school, the empty locker rooms. "You're the one that wrote me out of the treaty out of nowhere. I've tried to be civil, tried to be good to you—"

"Oh, you've tried to be good to me? Is that it?" It was enough now to make him spin around to face her, and she was right on his tail, needing to take a step back as soon as he turned. They were outside now, the empty boys' locker room starting to sound like a great escape plan. "How the hell have you ever been good to me?"

She glared at him, puffing out her chest and standing straight up, unafraid, trying to reach her full height. "Plenty of times," she said. Her voice dropped, much lower now, and a chill ran down his spine. Suddenly this argument had a very, very different undertone. "I kissed you once."

Ben sucked in a breath, his body tensing. "What… a spin the bottle kiss? That meant nothing?"

"Did it?" she breathed, with a wicked smirk, and he swallowed hard. "I think you liked it."

It was the way she grinned at him, maybe, something evil, or the way she bit her bottom lip, her tongue sneaking out to slide across it. Maybe it was the way she said it so knowingly, like she read his mind, with a raspy voice one would save for the bedroom. Or maybe it was the way she kept stepping toward him until her chest was pressed to his, her winter clothing suddenly leaving far too much to the imagination. Her eyes flickered up to meet his, and he knew he was a goner.

Ben shifted uncomfortably and shoved his hands in his pockets, hoping to god that his long coat would hide the tenting of his pants. Goddammit, goddammit, right as she was yelling at him. Right as she was riling herself up and getting in his face, and now he kind of wanted her to yell again just to feel something, wanting to grab her by the waist, hike up her thigh, and have her feel him pressed right to her center, just so she knew exactly what she did to him.

He had to get out of here.

"I don't need this," he gasped, hating to be the first to break their eye contact, but he didn't really have a choice anymore. He shoved past her, pushing her away, making a beeline for the boys' locker room. The heavy door slammed shut behind him as he travelled deeper inside, resting his head on a locker and taking a moment to breathe.

He shifted and pulled at his pant leg, praying to god the erection would go down without him having to do anything. He would take a cold shower if he had to, there was no one around to witness his shame, and right as he was about to undo his belt buckle, the locker room door slammed open and shut again.

Tiny footsteps pounded over to him, and he didn't even have time to hide. She was here, red faced and full of fury, hair flying around her head, looking for all the world like she was about to murder someone.

"Leslie, what the fuck—"

"You don't need this? Excuse me? You think you can just walk out and avoid this conversation, Wyatt?" she hissed at him, and he kept backing up as she walked towards him, not stopping until his back was pressed against the lockers. "Don't hide from it, I know exactly how you feel right now."

This wasn't at all helping his situation, especially not as she was right up on him again, keeping him pressed to the lockers, and he knew, right then and there, that she could feel exactly what she was doing to him. And she definitely knew she had the upper hand here.

"What do you mean?" he asked, feigning innocence, but he choked on the words. "I don't… what conversation?"

"You like this," she whispered, so different compared to her yelling, and yet somehow much scarier. "You liked that kiss last year, and you like this. I don't know why. But you're into this. It's not my fault."

It very much is your fault. He bit his lip to keep himself from saying something he would regret, but his body did it all for him— she quirked a brow at him, and he knew damn well his erection was currently pressing against her thigh. "It's nothing," he insisted again, shaking his head. "Maybe you're just into this. Maybe you're projecting. You like this, don't you?" He could feel himself snapping, pushing his body against hers as if fighting her back, staring down at her. "Did you think of me after that kiss, when you were in bed alone?"

Her face went bright red— got her. "Stop it."

"Did you stick your hand down your pants and think of me?" He poked her shoulder, testing her stability, and she stumbled, slightly. "Do you wish I would kiss you right now? Oh, or maybe you want me to stick my hand down your pants—"

"Shut up," she hissed, covering the unmistakable sound of a tiny little whimper, something to prove that this wasn't one-sided, not by any means. She even covered her mouth momentarily, realizing she had exposed herself, before pushing back at him, eyes hard. "Shut up, shut up, shut up—"

"Make me."

It slipped from his mouth, something seemingly innocent and yet so very inviting, and it was all the permission she needed. She didn't say one more word, didn't even take a moment to breathe before getting to work, wasting absolutely no time in slipping her fingers to his belt and snapping it undone, tugging it from its loops. And Ben found himself frozen, everything moving so quickly as he became instantly undone, his palms flat on the lockers behind him.

Leslie fell to her knees in front of him, and he knew then what was about to happen before she even reached for his zipper— and all he could manage to do was gasp.

She tugged his jeans down his legs and then his boxers in quick fashion, his cock springing free, and it was absolutely embarrassing how utterly clear his arousal was, fully hard in front of her, and it seemed to surprise her so much that for a moment, she just stared, eyes wide, Ben shaking under her touch.

Frankly, he had never wanted something more.

"Leslie—" he gasped, unable to help himself, but she cut him off quick.

"Shut up," she hissed under her breath, and it was just the push she needed. He opened his mouth to say something else, but all that came out was a strangled groan as her tongue met his dick, sealing her lips over the shaft, her fingernails digging into his thighs for support.

"Fuck," he whispered, slamming his palm back against the locker, uncaring about the noise. "Fuck, I…"

Leslie was relentless, and she was absolutely no tease. She wasn't here to torture him with slow, methodical strokes, edging just on enough but never giving more. No, she aimed to send him over the edge, that much was very clear. She bobbed her head up and down on his cock at an almost cruel pace, quick enough that he was building fast, his brain going fuzzy, and all he could think about was her.

He didn't think she would, but she let his hands slide into her hair, gripping a fistful of blonde locks to keep himself upright, to push himself deeper into her, groaning whenever he felt himself hit the back of her throat. Goddammit, she was good at this, way too good, and it was all he could do to hold on and not make a total fool out of himself by finishing way too quickly.

He gripped her hair like his life depended on it, his knees weak, wincing and throwing his head back, trying to find his control. She slid off him with a pop of her lips, pressing just her tongue to the tip, before her nails left his thigh and her fingers wrapped around the base of his cock. Her hands were so soft, and so small, and he couldn't lie— he had thought about this before. On lonely, shameful nights when he would come home angry after another fight with her in the hallway or in class, when his only relief was his right hand and an overactive imagination.

One that he never told anyone about, because he didn't even want to think it of himself. He spent years of his life insisting he didn't even find Leslie Knope attractive, that she wasn't his type, just to completely succumb to her when her lips touched his skin. It wasn't supposed to be like this, but here he was, moaning like a desperate animal as she jerked him off, and all he could think was that it was better than he ever imagined it.

She pushed him back against the lockers, slamming him there, but he didn't even care, because her lips were back on him and working alongside her hand, twisting and sliding up and down, pushing the hair out of her face as she deep-throated him, reveling in the way she took complete control over him so easily. And he brought this on himself, just by saying make me.

"Oh god," he gasped, finding it difficult to speak. "Fuck, oh god, Leslie, I'm gonna—"

She sped up at his words, understanding enough, and he actually whined with the progression of it all. He knew it was a pipe dream, totally out of the question, but part of him wanted to wait to finish, to pull her up and kiss her, taste himself on her lips, and bend her over the locker room bench. He wanted to touch every inch of her skin and watch her face scrunch up and hear her moan, just as vulnerable as he is now.

But it's fine, he decided. If he finished now, he could still make it up to her.

His whole body shook as she descended on him, and he knew he was done for. With just one last single flick of her tongue, his cock down her throat, his orgasm hit him all at once like a bag of bricks. It was a punch in the gut, a strangled cry, eyes squeezed shut, both hands gripping the sides of her head like a lifeline. He came in her mouth, shoved in up to the hilt, gasping as he released, trying to even his breaths.

Leslie swallowed, pulling herself off of him as he tried to compose himself. He released his grip on her in favor of pressing his hands to his heart, and then on his knees to hold himself up, feeling as if his life must've left his body for a moment. Her lips were swollen and wet with him, wiping her face with her arm, getting up off her knees with a satisfied grin on her face.

There was no doubt about it— she absolutely succeeded in shutting him up.

He barely took a moment to fully calm himself down before he reached for her, moving for her hips, having every intention of pressing her against the lockers and burying himself between her legs. His fingers reached for the button of her jeans and just barely got a tug in before he was pushed back, slamming back against the locker with a force that made his back ache.

"No," Leslie commanded, her palm lying flat on his chest, shoving him completely off of her. "No. You don't get to touch me, Wyatt. You don't deserve to touch me."

She released him then, backing up and spinning on her heels. She wiped her cheek once more for extra measure and popped the thumb into her mouth, sucking gently, letting go with a pop, before straightening out her unruly hair and leaving the locker room with a single look back at him.

One thing was clear, as Ben stood in the empty locker room with shaky knees and his pants at his ankles— Leslie Knope had absolutely won this round.

PRESENT DAY

He keeps the story brief, and just vague enough for a girl who's really only just become his friend, someone who doesn't need to know the intimate details of his sexual life. But he tells her, without holding back, exactly what it meant to him, and how that day he realized— truly realized— that Leslie Knope was something more than just a rival. Something more than someone he liked to argue with to get his kicks.

Back then, he didn't know entirely what she was yet. Just that something had shifted, maybe even long before their moment in the locker room. Maybe even before their senior year of high school.

It means something to Ann, that much is obvious. She listens to him intently, nodding at the right times, never interrupting him. She twists her hands in her lap and breathes deeply, and when he finishes his story, she's silent for a long time.

"She thought you really hated her, you know," Ann says, so delicate that he almost doesn't hear her. "She would… sometimes she would cry to me because she thought you hated her so much. I would hold her and make her chocolate chip cookies and tell her men are dogs." She laughs, just softly, almost nervously, and he can tell she's right on the edge of some sort of confession. "It hurt her a lot. She would wonder what was wrong with her, sometimes."

But this makes no sense to Ben, because she hated him just as much. Leslie despised Ben, and took every opportunity to tell him exactly that. "Wait," he mumbles. "So… so you're saying that she…"

"She didn't hate you," she cries. "She definitely didn't hate you."

"She must have at some point though, right? I mean, we fought for years—"

"She really didn't like you the first two years, no. But something… changed, I don't know. Sometime around junior year, after your spin-the-bottle kiss at Tom's party. And then a couple months later, she had your number memorized."

"She never called me," he recalls. "She asked for my number to make sure I would get home safe. But then she didn't—"

"She wanted to," Ann promises. "She really wanted to. That one was on me, actually. I kind of refused to let her put your number in her phone."

They both laugh then, and even though they try their hardest to make it count, it sounds empty, hollow, like two bad actors who can't even pretend to love what they're doing. And they fall silent again, the laughter dying on their lips, the sad smiles fading.

"She could never hate you," Ann whispers. "I don't think she had it in her."

He understands Ann, then, and all her protectiveness, how long it took her to tell Ben even this much. She's fiercely loyal to her best friend even now, taking her time to make sure he's not a complete asshole who just wanted to use Leslie before she spilled her feelings, before she told him how Leslie really and truly felt at the end of the day. Ben can't be mad. He wants to tell her as much, even, to break the eerie silence, when Ann's front door opens.

They both spin their heads around from their spots on the living room floor to find Ann's mother walking in, a bag of groceries in one hand and her tiny phone in the other, staring blankly down at it as if shocked into silence.

"Hey, Mom," Ann greets her, getting up on her knees to better see her. "What's wrong? Why are you—"

"Oh, Ann," her mother sighs, shoving her phone aside and looking at her daughter with wide eyes. "And Ben, hi."

"Uh, hi Mrs. Perkins. Is everything okay?"

The woman fiddles with her grocery bag, clearly on the edge of something big that she's unsure she wants to spill, unsure that she wants to be the bearer of bad news. "God, I didn't want to tell you two—"

"Mom," Ann interrupts immediately, her face paling. "What happened? What happened—"

"The news only just came out, I just saw…" She shakes, and Ben and Ann both stand, too scared to do anything but look at this woman. Ben knows, even before he hears it, that a bomb is about to drop, and he can feel his heart in the pit of his stomach, tearing itself into tiny pieces so he can never feel again.

"They're dropping her case," Mrs. Perkins rushes out. "Leslie's case. The police just put out a statement that they're halting all investigation from this moment on."

And Ben's not sure if his mind has gone blank or if he's completely passed out, but suddenly, everything goes dark.