A/N: Apparently a few people were worried the previous part was the last one. Have no fear, there are three more chapters after this and I promise when it's over you'll know it.
Leslie wakes the next morning to the smell of fresh coffee and the sight of Harrison sitting beside the bed staring at her. It's still dark out and for a moment she just lies there, taking in the quiet, the peace, the fact she's going to go downstairs this morning and not be immediately faced with three whiteboards full of schedules and to-do lists. It's been so long since she's let herself take a vacation, wake up anywhere that wouldn't immediately involve demands on her or require her to hit the ground running with a bullet-point plan of action in her head, that for a second she almost doesn't know what to do with herself.
The sound of Ben moving around downstairs draws her attention. And it's as though her mind just needs the project because immediately every thought is about him. About how good last night felt. About his lips on her forehead and his hand at her waist. About his really nice house and his really nice life and how she fits. About how she doesn't.
Idly her hand goes to the t-shirt, tracing the faded lettering, thinking about how he's worn and washed it so often it's faded and threadbare, trying not to read too much into what that might mean. It smells like him. Everything smells like him. Shesmells like him. His laundry detergent on the sheets, his soap on her skin, his shampoo in her hair. It feels like he's enveloped her, like he's holding her.
Feels like being cared for.
It's been a long time since she can remember letting anyone take care of her quite like this. It's been a long time since anyone's offered.
Harrison comes over to lick her hand, and she scratches lazily behind one of his ears, whispering, "Hey boy. In case you didn't know, you've got the best owner. Be good to him, okay?"
The dog remains neutral on the subject, just tilts his head so she can scratch the other ear. Leslie complies.
"You're spoiling him." The sound of Ben's voice draws her attention, and she looks up to find him standing in the doorway, mug in hand, watching her. The light from the hallway plays over his face casting odd shadows so she can't so much read his expression as feel it. It feels good, feels warm and happy and content.
"Hey."
"Good morning." He smiles. "I was coming to make sure you were up. But I see Harrison already took care of it for me. Sorry 'bout that."
"No, no it's okay." She sits up, swinging her legs to the floor, and leans over to scrub at Harrison's neck with both hands, laughing as his tail starts thumping repeatedly on the floor. "He's pretty nice to wake up to."
Harrison moves closer, nuzzling her legs in entreaty to keep her petting him, and Ben shakes his head, "Yeah, it's official. I'm never getting you back, am I buddy?" Harrison ignores him. He chuckles, "See? Flirt."
"Awww." Leslie looks over and gives him a teasing smile, "You're just jealous I'm getting all the attention."
"Maybe I am," he concedes, but something about the way he says it makes her feel like it might not be Harrison's attention he covets, and she's suddenly extremely grateful for the fact the room is still dark.
Refocusing on the animal currently in her thrall, she talks to him instead, "You're not really so easy, are you? No, I bet you know what a good thing you've got going."
Ben clears his throat and comes over to hand her the mug. "So I, um, brought up some coffee. No sprinkles, but I did have some of the whipped cream I made last night left over, so there's that."
She takes it with a laugh. "Thank you."
Kneeling down to take over petting duties, Ben says, "Okay, we're going to leave you alone now, so you can get dressed in peace. But first breakfast orders."
"Oh really you don't need to-"
"No that was the deal. You stay. I cook. Besides it's been awhile since I've had someone to make breakfast for, I'm kind of looking forward to it."
That piece of information should not make her as happy as it does. She takes a sip of coffee to hide it. "All right if I can't talk you out of it, what are my choices?"
"Well I don't have a waffle-maker, so that's out, but I can make a pretty mean French toast, plus I've got some leftover pancetta I could scramble up in some eggs. How does that sound?"
"Extravagant and fattening," she laughs.
"I'm taking that as a yes."
00
There's a lazy domesticity to breakfast that Leslie finds simultaneously unfamiliar and all too appealing. Ben's set out his iPad with both the Indy paper and the Pawnee Journal already cued up, and she sits at the breakfast bar with a fresh cup of coffee watching him cook, reading excerpts from interesting articles out loud and debating with him about a new bill coming across the House floor next week.
And it wouldn't even matter if the French toast was inedible. It's still the best breakfast she's had in recent memory.
(His French toast is amazing, by the way).
It's not something she's ever thought of her life as particularly lacking. Maybe because it's something she's never really had it before (her mother isn't exactly one for lazy anything). But she finds herself wishing she could get used to it.
Or maybe it's just that she wants to get used to him.
00
They let the time get away from them so despite Ben's promises it's almost seven-forty-five before she's leaving, and he has to call in to work to move a staff meeting (sometimes there are privileges to being the boss). He and Harrison see her to the door, and she's just going through her mental checklist to make sure she hasn't forgotten anything when he speaks up:
"Hey, so, um, I get election-day off. Government office and everything. And I was thinking I could drive down Monday night and be there on Tuesday to lend a hand, provide moral-support? You know, if you, um- if you want. I mean I know how there's always a- a last-minute push and it can be kind of all hands on deck."
Usually Leslie would have cut him off by now, but he's doing that thing where he's trying so hard to be offhand, he's practically holding up a flashing sign that says "This matters." And she likes mattering too much to cut it short.
"Anyway it's just an idea. Not a big deal."
And maybe she shouldn't be so quick to jump at the offer, so eager to integrate him into such an important moment in her life. Maybe she's ignoring a thousand warning signs and falling into old patterns and maybe Ann will tell her tomorrow what a terrible idea this is.
And maybe right now she doesn't care.
"No, it's- it's a wonderful idea. I'd love for you to be there." Then something occurs to her and she asks, "It won't be a problem though? Helping out with my campaign, given your position. I don't want to be the cause of any trouble."
Ben shakes his head, gives her a small embarrassed smile. "I actually, um, declared your campaign on my annual conflict of interest statement back in September. Haven't heard a word about it." He shrugs. "Maybe if you were running for mayor it would be a problem, but really there's not enough direct influence between my office and the State-Assembly to raise any eyebrows."
"Oh," she blinks and her heart does a little somersault at the revelation that she was important enough for him make official declarations about all the way back in September. That somewhere in a file in the Statehouse there is a signed piece of paper verifying under penalty of perjury that one Leslie Knope is a potential conflict of interest for one Benjamin Wyatt. And she knows she's smiling like an idiot, like he's given her some kind of spectacular gift, but she can't help it and she doesn't want to try.
"Okay good. That's good. Great even. It'll be great to have you there. Fair warning though?"
"Hmm?"
"I can't promise you won't have to excavate the bed in the guestroom. Or that there will be clean sheets, or that the house will ever be quiet enough to use them."
Ben laughs, "I'll manage."
"Okay, well I did my best to dissuade you." And they both know she didn't try very hard.
"It would take a lot more than that to keep me from being there for you."
The 'this time'is unspoken, but she hears it all the same.
"Yeah, so I should- I should get going."
Ben pulls her into a quick hug. "Call me when you get in?"
"Of course."
And the entire exchange goes so fast, feels so natural, so familiar and comfortable, like a well-worn routine they've been doing for ages, that Leslie's almost halfway out of the neighborhood before she realizes Ben kissed her on the cheek.
She's another block before she realizes she kissed him first.
It's a miracle she makes it home in one piece.
00
Election day is an odd combination of extreme anxiousness and utter boredom punctuated by momentary crisis. There aren't any events to go to, no speeches to give or questions to answer. Madison still has most of the volunteers out around the district—replacing signs that have fallen; standing the mandated distance from voting sites with handbill summaries of Leslie's resume and platform; calling in with the occasional updates from the party's pollsters when they can get two minutes of their attention. But Leslie herself is somewhat at loose ends.
There's a momentary flurry of activity around one when she gets word that one of the democratic observers has concerns about voters being turned away over at the Whitcomb Avenue polling place. But as a candidate there's not a lot she's allowed to do directly and it turns out to be more smoke than fire. So by two-thirty everything's packaged back up neat and orderly and clicking along just fine without her.
For a moment she envies Madison her activity. Madison who has taken over the kitchen table with three cell phones, two laptops and enough color-coded dry erase markers to remind Leslie that she's met a kindred spirit.
Granted a kindred spirit with violently bottle-red hair, who wears cats-eye glasses and motorcycle jackets over floral-print dresses, and has a dead-pan stare that rival's April, but a kindred spirit all the same.
The problem with that is Madison has everything under control. Makes it clear early in the morning that this is her circus right now and Leslie shouldn't do much more than take a breath and start to get mentally prepared for the onslaught that will come if they win.
On the list of Leslie's many talents 'taking a breath' falls about three slots below 'chopping a shallot'.
Still she knows better than to interfere. It's a hard-won lesson of these past two years. Learning that sometimes she has to trust someone else to be as passionate and invested and competent as she is. The first few months of their partnership, Leslie had tried to oversee every detail, dictate every step. She would call Madison with checklists, triple check logistics, and generally try to do both their jobs, until the other woman had come in one morning and given her a terse ultimatum. ("Either trust me to do the job you hired me for or I quit").
Madison's still here.
So Leslie is currently sitting out of sight at the top of the staircase pretending like she's not listening to every single phone call coming in, waiting to find out if she'll have something to do tomorrow.
It feels like the hardest thing she's ever done.
Ben comes to sit down on the two steps below her. And even though he's been dressed the same way since he got in last night and Madison immediately put him to work stapling extra-signs, the sight of him in a red campaign-staff t-shirt over a cream-colored thermal still makes her do a double-take.
He's been orbiting her all day. Not oppressive or distracting or clingy, but simply there, within easy reach if she needs him at all times. And she doesn't know whether that was Madison's idea or his or whether the two have somehow formed an unholy alliance in the eighteen hours they've been acquainted. But she realizes now that this is his assignment. That as much as others have been put on poster-duty or last-minute phone-banking, Ben's official Madison-sanctioned task is Leslie-watch.
Sure enough after a few minutes of silence he takes a temperature check. "How you feeling?"
Leslie should probably be a lot angrier with her campaign-manager for giving her a babysitter. Except her babysitter has a really nice smile.
"At the moment? Useless."
He nods. "I was afraid of that. The Leslie Knope I remember was never all that good at delegating."
She ducks her head in rueful acknowledgement. "I've gotten a little better these past few years. I had to when I got elected to the City council. It turns out you can't vote on a measure and oversee all the details of its implementation by yourself."
That makes him smile. "How many times did you try it?"
"Ten or twelve the first six months."
"I bet Chris loved that."
"He went running a lot."
They both laugh a little at the visual. Then Ben leans back against the wall, and gives her a knowing look. "And how many times have you tried it in the last six months?"
"Once or twice. But I've been busy."
"Good to know some things haven't changed."
And she knows he means it as a compliment, knows he only ever saw the best in her, and ninety percent of her takes it the way he intended. But there's another part the ten-percent that came after, the quieter, more careful part of her. The part that takes one extra look before she leaps, that breaks down an idea before assuming its success. The part that's learned to occasionally trust someone else's diligence, and to value little things like coffee with Ann and babysitting her goddaughter and lazy Monday morning breakfasts. The part that grew like new skin over the wounds he left. And on that part the words scrape and abrade and sting just a little.
"Hey." Ben reaches out and touches her wrist, thumb and forefinger wrapping around the strip of skin between the band of his watch and the swell of her palm. "Hey, did I say something wrong?"
"No, I just- I havechanged you know. It's been five years, and a lot's happened and I've changed. I'd like to think it's for the better, but either way-"
And the part she thinks but doesn't add is she's not entirely oblivious to the fact that they've grown just a little less careful and a little more comfortable, that Ben hasn't mentioned having a date in over two months, and sometimes his voice on the phone is laced with something that's not quite love or even desire, but isn't just friendship either. And maybe neither one of them are ready to make a decision about what that means, maybe he's not even at the point of acknowledging there's a decision to be made, and it's still so insubstantial and ephemeral that maybe it will all evaporate tomorrow leaving them with nothing more than the friendship that's become so important to her.
But no matter what happens Leslie wants to know that when he's looking at her, he's really seeing her, allof her, not just the part he left in a parking lot five years ago.
Ben doesn't say anything for minute just sits there, his thumb stroking along edge of the watch-band at the inside of her wrist, and she can see him turning her words over in his head, considering them. Then, "When you told me you were running for city council five years ago, I worried. Even though I knew you were going to win, knew no one could possibly meet you and doubt your passion and commitment to making Pawnee amazing, there was a part- just a tiny part, the Ice Town part I guess you could call it, that worried what would happen if you didn't."
She can feel him trying to say something, but she can't connect the dots, and her mind won't seem to get past the idea that even after everything he still thought about her like that. "You worried about me? Why?"
"Aside from the obvious?" he flicks her a wry smile and looks back down, "I was worried about how much you wanted it."
"There's something wrong with that?"
"No. No, there's nothing wrong with it. You wouldn't be you, wouldn't be Leslie Knope if you didn't go after things with everything you had. I always, um- I always loved that about you."
Leslie blushes a little, both at the compliment and the word choice, but it doesn't stop her from pressing. "I'm sorry. I don't understand."
"Yeah this isn't coming out right." Ben lets out a long breath, "What I'm trying to say and really, reallyscrewing up, is this: I know you've changed. I see that. The Leslie I knew would never have been able to let Madison run things like this. You still charge at everything full tilt, but when we argue I can tell you see more of the field now. Five years ago I worried that if you lost, if you failed at something you wanted that badly you wouldn't handle it well because you wouldn't be able to see everything else you had. But you called me two weeks ago to tell me Abigail was walking and you didn't mention the campaign once and I just- I'm not worried this time. This time you're going to be fine no matter what."
"Yeah?"
He brings his thumb around to circle her wrist again, and then shifts to squeeze her hand with a smile. "Yeah."
"Would you think less of me if I told you I really want to go down there and make sure she's sent someone out to give the volunteers water and food?"
Ben laughs. "I'd think you held out about half an hour longer than I expected."
00
Her inquiry about provisions for the volunteers (or possibly her ten follow-up questions about the type of provisions and planned distribution scheme and adequate offerings of vegetarian options and whether Madison remembered the triple-decker club for Ron wasn't allowed to have anything on it that grew in the ground) gets her exiled to the front porch, and Ben with her for failing to adequately perform his duties.
It's chilly out, a teasing first taste of what could be an early and brutal winter. Not bitter yet, but beyond the point where it's pleasant to simply sit outside. Still, neither one of them seems particularly anxious to go put themselves back into Madison's line of fire, so they wind up taking a walk instead.
They don't go very far. Keep to a five block radius, circumnavigating the house in a wide arcing circle that still keeps them close enough to get back quickly if her cell rings or their hands start to turn blue.
For a little while she tries to talk about other things, about all those other details in her life that normally would be interesting and important, tries to be that balanced person Ben was complimenting her on. But her balance comes in the form of a pendulum not a gyroscope, and right now she can only think about one thing.
He picks up on it, and tosses out in a too casual non-sequitor, "So how do you think things are going to shake out on Prop. 62?"
It's a soft-ball, a life-line, a tacit, gentle reassurance that says 'I know where your head is.' Says 'it's okay.'
And just like that they're off and running.
00
By the time they get back to the house it's just after five and the sun is beginning to set. Some of the volunteers are starting to return and friends and supporters have begun to show up, to settle-in for the waiting game of the next few hours.
Every tv in her house is on and tuned to the election coverage. Even the dining-room she usually uses as an office has a laptop set up to stream from one of the news sites so there's pretty much nowhere in the downstairs to get away from the coverage.
The moment they walk through the door there's a surge of noise that's almost a cheer, but not quite. People scrambling to say hello, ask how she's feeling, give her updates.
It's a presidential election year, so the tv coverage is big and continuous, and everyone's invested, and there's a buzz to the house, a coil-spring excitement that isn't entirely about her at all. She's simply the lodestone, the conduit, the opportunity to truly be a part of this great American tradition in a way that, for so many, actually voting never seems to accomplish.
Leslie gets separated from Ben almost immediately, swept up in the wave of people who have given her their support in one fashion or another, and she owes her attention at the very least. And he lets her go, lets her step into the spotlight and fades into the background. But somehow whenever she looks up, he's never very far away—sitting on the floor with Greg and Abigail in the corner of the dining room where Ann's set out toys and a blanket; helping Tom crack open beers in the kitchen for the volunteers as they return; doing his part to run the tally board that Madison's set up to cover all the called races as they come in.
He writes up the notice that Prop. 62 passed (she said it would, he was less sure), and looks around, eyes scanning the crowd, seeking her out. When he finally finds her and realizes she's been watching him, his mouth curves in a quiet smile that makes it feel like they're sharing a secret rather than something on every news website covering Indiana.
The night spirals on, people losing steam as some of the bigger races get called even as the underlying tension surrounding her own race becomes progressively tighter and more unbearable. She and Madison go back and forth reassuring each other, having the same conversation five times in less than an hour—the one where they knew this was how it would play out, knew if she won it wouldn't be by a landslide. The presidential election means there are a lot of voters who have no real opinion on the state races, who will wind up voting straight down the party lines and this year her district is so evenly split it's almost purple.
But they're quickly passing the point where logic is holding much sway.
Ten o'clock comes around, and Abigail has started screaming her head off. Greg offers to take her home so his wife can stay, but Ann's combined super-powered nurse and mom instincts have kicked in, and she doesn't think her daughter's fussiness is entirely due to the fact it's past her bed-time. So she gathers up her crying baby and apologizes way more than necessary and makes Leslie promise three times to call the moment she hears anything.
Leslie's beginning to feel like that moment might never come.
And she doesn't care how much she's changed, how balanced she's become, she wants this. Wants it. Wants it. Wants it. It's small and quiet and unflashy, and certainly a loss wouldn't destroy her politically. But that doesn't matter. What matters is she wants to help Granville get development subsidies to renew their historic downtown square; wants to make sure Pawnee's school district gets their state-funding share reevaluated; even wants to help Eagleton block a highway that would go right through the estate of a founding family, because it's a beautiful piece of land with real historic value and one-hundred-year-old trees. She wants to represent these people, herpeople, with everything in her. And dammit it's going to hurt so much if she can't.
"Hey." As if some sixth-sense has told him that the anticipation has finally taken it's toll and she's about to spiral off the deep-end, Ben's suddenly there, hand resting just between her shoulder blades, anchoring her. "Hey, come upstairs with me for a minute."
He ushers her quietly through the crowd, and there's a momentary pause at the bottom of the steps, when they both silently check in with Madison so she knows where Leslie's gone. And then he's leading her up the stairs and over to stand in the doorway of the guest-room, which is right now serving the dual role of storage closet and temporary lodging for one wayward Commissioner of Local Government Finance.
"You want to talk about it?" he offers as soon as he's sure they're alone.
She doesn't, and she does. She wants to pretend everything's fine and this is all perfectly expected and normal and it doesn't matter that almost every other state race except for two districts up north and a truly ugly attorney-general election has been called. She wants to be confident, wants to be certain. Wants to pretend it doesn't matter as much as it does. But when she opens her mouth only one thing comes out.
"I don't want to lose."
Ben slips his hand into hers, intertwines their fingers, and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "I know."
They don't say anything else. Don't go back downstairs. Instead they just stand there in the muffled quiet, leaning against the guest-room door. Holding hands and waiting.
Finally after what feels like an eternity, but might only have been ten minutes, her cell-phone rings.
The number on her display reveals an Indianapolis area-code with a government prefix.
Ben lets her hand go as she fumbles for her phone, and she steps a little further into guest-room, instinctively seeking the privacy, answering with a steady, "This is Leslie Knope," that sounds so calm and professional it can't possibly be her voice right now.
It's a strange, almost out-of-body experience, getting the results. She can hear what they're saying, can hear herself make all the appropriate responses, "Thank you," and "I understand" and "I will" but none of it feels like it's really her, like it's actually happening.
And then she hangs up and turns and sees him standing there, his face a mess of concern and fear and so much barely checked hope. All for her. All for her dreams.
And she feels everything.
It washes over her in a rush and unchecked torrent of rapturous victory and joyous exultation. And she can tell the second Ben reads the answer to his unasked question on her face, because he's moving and she's launching herself at him, and they're both laughing.
He half hugs, half twirls her in a graceless, stumbling pirouette. A dizzy, giddy movement that leaves them both a little off-balance so she has to hold on as she comes down lest she fall. And they're still laughing, still speaking over each other in incoherent half-formed thoughts that they somehow perfectly understand—
"I never-"
"I couldn't-"
"You always-"
"Without you-"
"You would-" He says it like truth. Like fact. Nods and laughs and repeats it again. "You would-"
And then suddenly she's kissing him. Palms on either side of his face, closed mouth on closed mouth. Just an impulsive, momentary expression of joy too great to be contained in words. Nothing more.
Except his hands fly up to her waist and do a stuttering hop-step along her the line of hips in surprise, like they can't quite decide what to do, only to finally make themselves at home against the hard edges of her hip-bones just at the exact moment she goes to pull away.
It's as if the feel of her body fitted once again into his hands short-circuits every good intention, erases every fabricated platonic justification. Because her pulling away turns into nothing more than a pause, a reset.
And then she's kissinghim.
And more importantly, after a quick surprised inhalation, Ben is decidedly and without question kissing her back.
She has maybe, once or twice (or a hundred times), imagined what it might be like to kiss him again. Conjured scenarios ranging from wine-spurred makeout sessions on his couch that might prove to be a mistake, to steady certain kisses after a careful thorough dissection of where their relationship was headed.
Somehow elated and adrenaline fueled in the middle her guest bedroom with twenty volunteers down-stairs and a box of extra pamphlets biting into her calf, didn't make cut.
It soshould have.
Vaguely she's aware of a sound in the background, but Ben's just shifted to take control of the kiss, one hand coming up to cup the back of her head, teeth nipping at her bottom-lip in a way he shouldn't remember she likes so much after only two kisses and one night five years ago. And the quiet undefined noise really doesn't seem that important.
"So, I'm guessing we won."
The sound of Madison's desert-dry voice cuts through the haze engulfing them like a hacksaw, and they break apart like teenagers caught by their parents, a bumbling adolescent jumble of embarrassment and excuses.
"Oh, I was just- I mean yes we won and I was so happy-"
Ben latches on to Leslie's feeble first attempt like a life-line, "Right. Exactly. Because she won. We were both- You know- Happy."
But there's a flicker of something in his face, that makes her take a half-step forward, rush to clarify, "Not that it didn't, you know- I mean it wasn't just-"
"Oh," he blinks, "Yeah, of course. I didn't- I mean, I don't-"
Madison rolls her eyes. "As much as I'd love to watch the two of you stand here and rediscover speech, I kind of need her downstairs. There are people to tell and volunteers to thank."
Dammit.
Leslie looks over at him. "She's right. I have to go down."
She says it softly trying to put an apology in her words, because no matter how perfect it felt in the moment, her timing really could not have been worse. Because she can tell neither one of them have the first clue what that kiss meant or even what they want it to mean. And here she is abandoning him to limbo, to suspended animation because she was stupid enough to kiss him in a house full of people who all want a piece of her tonight, and she owes it to them to deliver.
Ben nods, shoving his hands in his pockets, "Yeah sure."
"Are you going to stay up here, or-"
"No, no, I'll be down in a second."
"I'll try to get everyone not to stay too long."
He shakes his head, takes a step towards her and reaches out, hand closing around her wrist, thumb automatically skirting her watchband in gentle reassurance, "Don't. Don't do that. This is your night. Enjoy it."
"But-"
He tilts his head to the doorway with a smile, "Go get 'em, Madam Representative."
00
It turns out to be a good thing she doesn't try to get rid of people.
The effort would have been embarrassingly futile.
Big important Representative-elect, trumped by seventeen adrenaline-high college students; a married couple with a peter-pan complex; one small ascot-wearing former co-worker; and Jean Ralphio.
Oh yeah she's gonna strike fear in the halls of the State-house.
After half-an-hour of subtly trying to steer people to the door and failing miserably, she gives in and lets herself get swept up in the jubilant revelry that's taken over her home. It's not a party so much as it is a collective exhale, a group cheer. People are high-fiving and having everyone autograph lawn-signs like memorabilia and telling campaign war-stories that weren't funny thirty minutes ago but they all find hilarious now.
But even in the midst of all of it, of sitting back on the couch with Madison and indulging in a ridiculous wish list of first-bills, of signing lawn-signs and standing in front of the crowd of core volunteers to give out made-up campaign-mvp awards using beer bottles as trophies (Best "Vote Knope" rap – Jean Ralphio. Longest endurance of an angry rant for something beyond his control – Jerry. Most-likely to come back with a full petition due to intimidation – April. Most likely to come back with a petition full of girls' phone numbers – Really, Tom, really? Most likely to get arrested while putting up signs - Poor Andy, that's a long story). Throughout all of it there's never a moment when she isn't aware of him. Aware of Ben standing in the background, sitting on the sidelines, watching her.
It feels like a study, like an examination or an analysis. Like he's positing hypotheticals and drawing conclusions.
Feels like she's a test he's trying to pass with flying colors, only she doesn't even know the questions, and she wishes he'd slip her a few of the answers.
She tries to calm down, take a breath, a beat. To give this even one-tenth of the careful consideration she knows is warrants. But her mind keeps stopping on the kiss itself hitting pause and rewind and repeat and the only thing she knows is how incredibly righteverything in her life felt at that moment.
And the only answer she's coming up with is 'Yes.'
00
Things finally break-up around one in the morning. Tom, bless his heart, announces that he's moving things out to the Snakehole and there will be half-priced drinks for everyone with a campaign t-shirt, and the volunteers follow the promise of cheap of booze like he's the Pied Piper, until it's just her and Ben.
And Madison apparently.
"Hey," Leslie comes to sit down beside her at the kitchen table. "Hey, you've worked really hard. You should go out with everyone. Have some fun."
Madison doesn't glance up from her computer. "Yeah, I will. I just want to get our blog updated with things before I go. There's a lot we should say now, while we've got people's attention-"
Because sometime subtlety isn't the best tactic when Madison gets ultra-focused like this, Leslie casually reaches over and yanks out the power cord on the laptop.
The other woman looks up, blinks, and then seems to focus on Leslie's face, reading the unspoken command there. Shuts her laptop. "All of which I am going to go do later. At home. Because apparently I really want to go out."
Leslie smiles. "Good, you deserve some fun."
Madison's eyes flick over her shoulder to the kitchen where Ben has retreated, and then back to Leslie. And the look she gives her is all too knowing, instantly conjures a dozen dangerous and tempting scenarios in her mind.
"So do you."
Sometimes she wishes Madison knew the meaning of the word deferential.
00
Leslie makes her way back to the kitchen after Madison leaves, to find Ben emptying beer bottles into the sink. He finishes with one, tossing it over into the recycle bin, and the clank of glass against glass sounds unnaturally loud in the newly quiet house, makes her suddenly shy, hyper-conscious of the fact that they're alone.
"Hey."
She says it softly, a tentative testing of the waters, but Ben obviously didn't hear her come in and the sound makes him jump a little.
God, they're both so keyed up right now it will be a miracle if one of them doesn't snap.
He turns to look at her, leaning back against the sink in a way might be an attempt at appearing casual if he didn't half-look like he needed it for support. "Hey."
This for the moment seems to be the full extent of their conversational abilities.
Finally Leslie tries again. "So, um, everybody's taken off. Even Madison."
"How'd you pull that off?"
"Every once in awhile we both remember I'm her boss."
"Always valuable to keep in mind."
"Yeah."
And that brings that particular gambit to a crashing halt.
She doesn't know why this is so hard. It's not that either one of them are actively trying to avoid the topic of what happened earlier. If anything it's almost palpable how much they're not avoiding it. How much they both want to talk about it. But somehow neither of them seems to know how to start and they're both so afraid of doing it wrong that they can't do anything at all.
It's Ben who seems to find his footing first. "So, um, I might be mistaken, it's been a crazy night, but I'm pretty sure you kissed me earlier."
Leslie swallows and nods. "I did."
The confirmation seems to snap one of the too-taut wires of uncertainty running between them, and for a second they wind up smiling at each other, like school-children with a wonderful secret.
Ben recalls himself first. "You know someone once told me that you can't just randomly kiss someone with no explanation. Apparently, it's rude."
The sound of her own words from so long ago coming back to taunt her, makes Leslie laugh a little under her breath, but there's a brittleness to it, a tiny thread of tension. Because honestly, she's not sure she has a good explanation. Or rather she has a very good explanation, but it would just open a Pandora's box of issues and emotions between them she's not sure they'd ever manage to close.
When she doesn't immediately offer a response, Ben tries again. "Okay, so let me tell you the explanations I've come up with and you tell me if I'm right or wrong. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Okay," He pushes away from the sink and takes a half step towards her. "So explanation one: You thought I was someone else."
That makes her laugh despite herself, and she shakes her head.
"Good, because that would have been embarrassing." He takes another step towards her. "Explanation two: You got caught up in the moment and it was an accident."
This time he's not joking. His voice is deadly serious and she can tell he's offering her the out, the chance to backpedal, to reset. What she can't tell is whether he wantsher to take it.
It doesn't matter. This thing she has for him, this constant, steadily growing thing has already been unleashed, and it isn't going to die from simple indifference or neglect. It's ravenous and persistent and it will scavenge on every scrap it can find to survive. So if this can't happen, if he doesn't want it or won't chance it, she needs to hear him say the words, needs him to strike the death-blow and kill it for her.
So Leslie shores up her courage, and leaps.
"It was, at first."
Ben takes a deep breath and picks up the gauntlet. "And then?"
She meets his eyes dead on. "And then it wasn't."
If she'd expected a big response, an emotional outpouring, she would have been sorely disappointed. Ben barely reacts at all, just a flicker of acknowledgment that makes her feel like she's not revealed a shocking twist but rather confirmed a long-held suspicion. And for a moment he simply stands there, absorbing the words, weighing his options, not coming to a decision, so much as taking a moment to reexamine one already made. And she wishes she knew what that decision was, but Ben has never been more of a closed book to her than at this moment.
And she feels like she's about to die, like the silence is going to kill her, and even though she knows she should just shut up and let him get where he needs to go in his own time, she starts talking anyway, a nervous ramble she can't control. "I know we agreed to just be friends. I know that. And I don't want to lose that. I would give anything to take it back if this means I'm going to lose that. But I can't and I at least owe you the truth about why it happened."
She finishes and the silence returns and Ben's still looking at her. And then finally, finally, he speaks.
"Yeah, okay, I just, um, I need to-" he trails off.
Leslie blinks. "What?"
But Ben doesn't respond, simply takes a deliberate step towards her, crossing the boundary into her personal space. Reaching out he brushes a renegade curl out of her eyes, tucks it behind her ear, and drops his hand to cup her face, his thumb swiping along the line of her cheekbone.
It's measured and careful, and when he finally lowers his mouth to hers it's done with a thoughtful, considered, intention that makes it all feel a bit like an investigation. Like he's cataloguing evidence, looking for corroboration.
None of that stops it from being absolutely amazing. If anything, slow, purposeful pace just heightens the experience, lets her savor every sensation, every feeling unfolding inside her.
Leslie sighs a little in the back of her throat, and the sound seems to spur Ben on. His other hand moves to the small of her back and he pulls her closer, deepening the kiss, pursuing the lead. And she doesn't know exactly what he's looking for, but she knows the moment he finds it, because there's a shift in tempo, a quickening of pace, and she can feel something in him break free, slip it's leash.
And suddenly he's kissing her in a way that has nothing to with clarifications or confirmations. Kissing her with a visceral certainty that says whatever else, whatever reservations or hesitations he might still have, right here right now, one thing is crystal clear—he wantsher.
The feel of it, the unchecked desire in his touch, makes her body go liquid and her mind go blank. And the next thing she knows she's backing him against the counter, and he's spinning them around to lift her up on to it and she's wrapping her legs around him and her hands are scrambling to untuck his shirt. And godshe just needs him closer.
Finally her palm settles against his skin, and she barely has time to revel in the sensation, savor the victory, because the touch seems to snap him back to reality, and Ben tears his mouth away, dropping his forehead to hers with a groan.
Instinctively, her hands move to either side of his face, even as her legs tighten around his hips, trying to hold him there, keep him with her.
The effort proves unnecessary. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry to go anywhere, just stands there, eyes closed, hand at the nape of her neck, breathing her in.
"Ben?"
His hand tightens a little in her hair, and he sighs. "Okay." Presses his forehead against hers and squeezes his eyes shut hard, repeating the word. "Okay."
And then he's stepping back, pushing away.
She lets him go for the most part, only reaching out to grab hold of his wrist at the last minute before he can leave her completely. "Don't-"
"I'm not. I mean I am, but not-" He shakes his head, rubs his free hand across his face and resets, "Leslie, we can't just- There's a reason, a whole lot of reasons, we are what we are, and as much as I wish right now I could wave my hands and make them all go away I can't. We need to talk about this."
She nods. "I know." Gets down from the counter and starts to head out of the kitchen. "Why don't we go sit at the table?"
Ben doesn't move with her. "No, not tonight."
"But-"
"Leslie you've just won an election and I know you barely got any sleep last night. You're running on nothing more than sugar and too much caffeine and so much adrenaline you're practically high. And I think, um," he coughs, and gives her wry, embarrassed smile "I think we've both just demonstrated that our judgment isn't all there."
Then suddenly serious once again, he steps back towards her, "I don't want you making a decision about this right now. Hell, I don't want to be making a decision about this right now. There's too much at stake here." Bringing his free hand up to cup her face, he continues, "This isn't about a first-date or even a sixth. Not for me. If there's one thing I know, it's that I don't know how to be casual about you. There's no kind of or maybe or halfway for me. It's all in, it's everything. So if I do this, if we do this, you need to know that. You need to think about what that means and if you're willing to accept that. And I need to think about whether I'm willing to take the risk."
She doesn't say anything immediately. Bites down hard on the instant protest that she knows what she wants. Because maybe she doesn't. Because Ben would never believe it anyway. Because even though she knows, has known for awhile now, that she's more than a little bit in love with him, it's one thing to do it in that private, passive way you do when you're carrying a torch for someone. It's quite another to engage, to take on the active, messy reality of being loved back and all the responsibility that entails. Particularly with a man whose life is two hours away and has just given you fair warning that his intentions would be everything short of getting down on bended knee.
If she's willing to accept that.
If he's willing to risk it.
And that's really the bigger question, isn't it? If he's willing to risk it, to bet on her, willing to put his battered, crazy-glued heart back in the hands of the woman who broke it in the first place, and trust she won't do it again?
The truly horrible thing? There's a part of her that thinks he shouldn't. The part that just wants to protect him, wants to wrap him in cotton and kill anything that ever tries to hurt him again, thinks this is madness, thinks she's too risky, and he should run the other way hard and fast and far.
But she knows it would kill her if he did, and sometimes the survival instinct is just too strong, too selfish, so she looks up and asks, "And if you aren't willing to risk it? What happens then?"
"Honestly?" he shakes his head, "I don't know."
"I can't lose you again."
"I know. I don't want to lose you either."
She covers the hand on her cheek with her own and looks up at him. "Promise me that whatever happens, we'll at least try to stay friends."
Ben sighs, "Leslie, I don't know if-"
"I'm not asking for a guarantee that it will work. That it won't turn out to be something we can't get past. I just- I can't have you disappear from my life like that again. Not without fighting it. So please just promise me we'll try."
He doesn't say anything for moment, just looks at her. Then his face softens into something that's almost a smile and he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, of course we'll try."
Leslie closes her eyes as he presses a kiss to her forehead and sighs in relief, "Thank you."
00
There's not much to say to each other after that, and there's still something in the air, a dangerous electricity that feels like it could spark at any moment, so when Ben moves to leave her in the kitchen and head upstairs, she lets him go, tries to busy herself with cleanup. Tries to give him space.
Still when she starts to come down from her adrenaline high, and the need for sleep begins to press against her, weighing down her muscles, she can't manage to curtail the impulse to knock on his door to say good night.
Only his door isn't closed. It's standing wide open and the overhead light is on.
And Ben's packing.
She feels like he's punched her, like he's abandoning her all over again.
"You're leaving?" The words scrape in her throat, come out harsh and sharp and accusatory.
Ben drops a folded t-shirt into the bag and zips it up without looking at her. "Yeah, I think I need to."
"I thought we were going to talk."
That makes him snap his head up. "We are. Leslie, of course we are."
"But you're leaving. How can we talk if you're just running out?"
The light goes on in Ben's head. "No. When I said I didn't want to talk about this tonight, I didn't just mean I wanted to sleep on it. You've got a million changes happening in your life that you need to sort out right now. You need days, maybe weeks to process that. And even if you don't. I do." He grabs the bag off the bed and walks over to the door, "So I'm going to go back up to Indy and we'll take a little time. And then we'll talk. Okay?"
She nods, "Okay."
"Good," Ben exhales and takes a step forward, but Leslie remains rooted in the doorway blocking his path and he doesn't seem willing to squeeze past her or move her aside.
"You still can't leave."
"Leslie-"
"No," she puts a hand on his chest, giving him a little shove back into the room. "No. It's two in the morning. You're distracted and tired and you can't do the two hour drive back like this. It's too dangerous. I won't let you. Give me your keys."
Ben takes another step back. "I'm not giving you my keys."
"Don't think I won't take them." She makes a move towards his pockets, and he drops the bag, his hands flying to her wrists to ward her off.
"Don't-"
"I'm not letting you drive back."
She struggles a little against his grip in silent punctuation, underlining her resolve. To her surprise, Ben's hands bite down hard in response. "I'll get a hotel room."
"That's stupid. I have a perfectly good bed and there is absolutely no reason-"
"Leslie-"
Her name comes out in hoarse whisper, a raw plea that makes her eyes fly to his, and the way he's looking at her, like she's both a dream and a nightmare, like he's terrified of her and desperate for her simultaneously, like he's three seconds away from doing something truly, monumentally stupid, makes all remaining protests die in her throat.
Ben lets go of her wrists and takes a step back, releasing the shaky exhale of someone who just dodged a bullet.
"I'll call around and see if I can find a room in town. I won't try to drive back tonight, okay?"
She nods. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. That's- that's probably for the best."
"Leslie we willtalk about this, I promise."
"I know. I just- it feels like you're leaving all over again."
"Hey," he touches her shoulder, and then after a beat of decision, steps forward to wrap his arms around her. "Hey, that's not what's happening here. Okay?"
Leslie sighs against his chest, "I know."
It doesn't sound very certain to either of them.
Ben breaks the embrace and holds her at arm's length so he can look her in the eye. "Look, let's do this. Let's make an appointment. Say, a week and a half from now. We both take a week and a half to think everything through, and then I'll come back down next Saturday and we'll talk. How does that sound?"
It sounds like she's about to endure the longest week and a half of her life, but she knows it's the right thing to do and she nods in agreement. "Yeah, that um, that sounds good."
He releases her and picks the bag back up. This time when he moves to go she doesn't stop him, just stays standing in the middle of the room.
But when she hears his tread on the stairwell, something occurs to her and she moves to the threshold to call after him. "Ben-"
He stops on the stairs and turns to look up at her, and somehow without her continuing he knows what she wants. Gives her a small reassuring smile, "I'll text you when I get in."
And then he's gone.
00
She does not in fact sleep on it.
She does not in fact sleep at all.
At least not the first night. She's wired and strung out, and so physically tired it's almost painful but her mind is racing in a thousand different directions and all she can do is lie in bed thinking about everything without actually being able to maintain her focus on one-thing long enough for it to do any good.
Finally when she starts to see the sun peaking through her curtains and she knows this means it's past seven (stupid Eastern time-zone, stupid winter), she gives in and does the only thing she can think of.
She calls Ann.
Greg picks up, and she can hear Abigail screaming in the background. Knows instantly from his voice that he's gotten no more sleep than she has, and all other thoughts fly out of her head.
"Is Abigail okay?"
"Um, she's got a slight fever. Ann's been monitoring her all night and doesn't think we need to take her to the emergency room yet, but you know," his voice sounds thin with worry.
She presses a hand to her head. "Yeah, yeah of course. Tell Ann not to worry about calling me back, just you know keep me updated and let me know if there's anything I can do, anything you need at all."
"Thanks Leslie."
And then he's gone and she has something else to occupy her thoughts.
00
Ben texts that he's back in Indy around noon, prompting an almost hour long debate about whether or not to call him.
Finally she texts him back a simple 'thank you.' Then follows it up with a 'See you Saturday'.
Then the date in case he was confused.
Then a time.
Then inexplicably the address to her house.
She winds up putting her phone in the freezer just to stop herself.
00
Madison doesn't show up until almost five in the afternoon, obviously thinking she'd given Leslie time to revel in and then recover from the night of debauchery she'd been imagining, and proud of herself for her restraint. It only takes her fifteen minutes to assess her boss's coherence and find it sadly lacking.
"Have you slept at all?"
"No."
"Do you need me to kill him?"
"Please don't."
"Okay then." She reaches over and takes away the cup of coffee Leslie's been nursing. "Well sleep-stupid doesn't work for me, so here." She pulls a bottle of Tylenol pm out of her purse. "Take two of those and half a glass of wine and go upstairs."
"I don't think this is the intended usage."
"Yeah, but it works and I don't care."
00
It does turn out to work. Either that or she's just finally reached the point where her need for sleep has bludgeoned her mind into submission. Whatever the cause, it's Thursday morning by the time she wakes.
The last time she did that she was nineteen and coming off a three-day long all-nighter.
She gets up and goes for a walk, winds up at Ramsett Park without realizing that's where she was going. And for moment she hesitates, because she's forty-three and an elected official and this is stupid and she could very possibly break her neck, but some part of her, some seven-year old part that once believed everything was possible and she wants to find again, propels her forward.
She climbs the jungle gym to watch the sun rise.
Winds up facing the bench where her father used to sit instead.
There was a time when he had been her constant, when she always knew where to find him. Turn her head, peek around the tree and there he would be, grading a math quiz, writing up a lesson plan, ready to set it aside the moment she demanded his attention. Until one day, one horrible day seemingly out of blue, and yet not really, her parents sat her down and gave her a careful pre-prepared speech about how daddy wasn't going to be living with them anymore, but she would see him on holidays and long weekends and summers and he would always love her.
And she'd nodded and she'd cried and she'd hugged them both and pretended everything was all right, but it wasn't. Because she was eleven and she knew what divorce meant. Knew dads moved away and got new wives and new families and her dad might have been her constant but her mom was her hero, and Leslie's never really forgiven her father for not worshipping her too.
Even after all these years, after they've put most of that behind them, there's still something off about it. Something that makes her always delay a phone call an extra day and never spend the night when she visits. And she tells her Dad it's because she's busy, because it's not that long a drive back from Terra-Haute where he lives. And he tells her he understands. But they both know what's going on.
Only now she suddenly has a million questions she wants to ask him. All the explanations she never wanted to hear, forced him to whitewash over with a sunny smile and a 'Dad, it's okay'. She wants to know if he ever really loved her mother, if there was something she could have done to keep him. Wants to know why he resented Marlene's successes so much when he'd seemed so willing to give up everything for her to accomplish them.
Wants to call him up and simply say "Daddy I'm in love with a boy and I want to spend the rest of my life with him. And I'm scared and I don't know what to do. Daddy, tell me what to do."
But the bench is empty and her phone's still in the freezer and she knows when she gets back to her house the impulse will be gone.
00
Sure enough she goes back home and unfreezes her phone and goes on with her life. Sits down with Madison to start the logistical nightmare of transferring her council files and packing up her office for the Statehouse.
Goes to watch-over Abigail so Ann can get at least a few hours sleep.
Sits on the counter in the kitchen, the top of her stairs, the bed in her guest-room and thinks about Ben.
Never calls her father.
And then on Saturday morning at nine a.m. just as she's sitting down for waffles at JJ's, her father calls her.
Only it's not her father, it's a man's voice she doesn't recognize, asking for Leslie Knope, for 'Robert Knope's daughter' and saying words like 'I'm very sorry' and 'emergency contact' and 'heart-attack'.
And the bottom drops out of her world.
"Daddy I'm scared and I don't know what to do. Daddy, tell me what to do."
A/N: Trust me. There's a reason I'm doing this I swear.
A/N - 2: Yes I am aware that there's a line in the first season that establishes Leslie's dad is buried in a cemetery in Florida, but despite my best attempts at research the detail somehow escaped me until after this and the next part were already plotted fairly firmly. So lets call it artistic license. Okay? Okay then.