FF: still so far out of reach (leslie/ben presidential au)
Title: still so far out of reach (part 2)
Pairing: Leslie/Ben (AU)
Word Count: ~7,000 (this part)
Rating: PG-13 this part (R over all)
Timeline/Summary: Alt!Universe with Leslie as President of the USA and Ben is one of her secret service agents. (p.s. Everything I know about the Whitehouse or the Secret Service I learned from watching the West Wing and some minimal internet research. And of course it's still Parks and Leslie. A certain suspension of disbelief is warranted.)
Part 1
iii. September 2012
She manages to reach a tentative truce with Agent Wyatt after that. And it’s a delicate, negotiated peace perhaps, but it is a kind of peace all the same.
Leslie still thinks he’s overly cautious and more than a little paranoid. He still manages to telegraph his displeasure whenever she insists on lingering at a rope line longer than is perhaps prudent. But every time she thinks she’s at the absolute breaking point, when she just wants to throw up her hands and start calling him names all over again, something will happen-a tilt of his head, a particularly dry ‘Ma’am,’ the tiniest flicker of amusement at the corner of his mouth-and suddenly she’ll remember that he has eyes (incongruously kind eyes), and a rare but beautiful smile, and despite all evidence to the contrary, there’s every possibility he isn’t actually a robot (though the jury’s still out on that). And all her irritation dissolves, slips through her fingers like grains of sand, too difficult and inconsequential to try to hold on to.
The shift on his side is subtler, a dozen little changes-a slightly smaller perimeter, a few more interactive, if carefully controlled, campaign events. He even manages to let her get her own coffee once (just once, and she’s horrified later when she learns exactly how much the simple event disrupted the shop’s day. But it’s still the best cup of coffee she’s had in months).
She appreciates the effort, so she tries her best to meet him halfway, to bear the restrictions with more grace. Forces herself to stop questioning the necessity of this or that precaution at every turn, to rely on his judgment a little more. And maybe she’s still not wild about the number of agents who accompany her everywhere, but when it’s offset against the resumption of her morning walks, she chooses to pick her battles.
The one thing she hasn’t mastered is the detachment. Despite Agent Wyatt’s insistence that she shouldn’t think about her protection detail much at all, Leslie knows she’s never going to be able to get the hang of treating people like inanimate objects.
So she doesn’t.
Instead she treats them like every other member of her staff, like family. Learns their names, their histories. Asks about their kids, their pets, their favorite movies. Insists on celebrating their birthdays and asking their opinions.
The fact this approach doesn’t sit well with her extremely by-the-book senior agent? Well, that’s just icing on the cake.
“You know they’re really not supposed to talk that much when on duty, ma’am.”
“Relax, Agent Wyatt, it’s not like I’m asking them to deliver a soliloquy or weigh in on foreign policy matters. I just believe in treating people like people. Especially people who are supposed to go around being prepared to take a bullet for me. It seems like the least I can do is learn their names. Speaking of which, I don’t think you’ve told me yours.”
“No ma’am, I don’t think I have.”
Dammit. She walked into that one.
And she’s about to follow up when the light pressure of Ann’s hand on her shoulder draws her attention, signaling her it’s time to head to the podium, and he’s melting into the background, determined to be forgotten amidst the whirlwind of camera flashes and spotlights and sound-bites.
--
Still, from that point on, he becomes a kind of hobby for her-a brain-teaser to pick up whenever she has a free moment.
The funny thing is she knows he must have figured it out. He’s trained to pick up on the tiniest nuances in human behavior. So she knows he can’t be oblivious to the fact she’s essentially treating him like a difficult puzzle or fascinating riddle. But he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything she gets the distinct impression he’s actually playing along-consistently finding new ways to sidestep this or that question, but never once outright refusing to answer; sometimes giving responses so frustratingly oblique as to be nearly useless when cornered, but rewarding the occasional deductive leap with tiny gems of information that only seem to make her want more.
Leslie can’t quite decide whether he’s actually enjoying himself or doing it simply to placate her, but either way it’s a definite inconsistency, a decided chink in the professionalism he seems to wear like armor. And there’s something about it, about the dichotomy of a man who continually protests her familiarity even as he can’t seem to help indulging it, that simultaneously intrigues and delights her. Makes her want to keep chipping away at his walls just to see what’s behind them that he’s so determined to protect.
She still hasn’t gotten his first name out him (And granted she could always just ask him point blank, but by now it’s a matter of pride.), but she’s learned a few other things, bits and pieces she’s using to construct a mental blueprint. Like the fact he has a younger brother and a newborn niece whose picture he carries slipped just behind his badge. That he grew up in an even smaller hometown than she did, and played shortstop on his high-school baseball team, but went to college on an academic scholarship.
“So what do aspiring Secret Service agents major in? I’m assuming there’s no such thing as a degree in body-guarding.”
From his position next to her in the town car she can see the way the corners of his eyes crinkle behind his glasses. “No ma’am, there’s not.”
But before he can continue or she can press the line of questioning (more likely), the car rolls to a stop, and he’s lifting a hand to his earpiece to check-in.
Leslie suppresses a sigh. This is how ninety-nine percent of their conversations end, cut short by some outside force. It might be more than a day before she can pick up the thread, and it’s never seamless the way it is with Ann or even Ron. There’s always a warm-up period with him, a good fifteen minutes or so of continuous chatter on her part before she’s worn down his resolve enough to turn him into a reluctant participant. And maybe the warm-up time seems to be getting incrementally shorter with each encounter, but it’s a long way from ever disappearing entirely.
Wyatt comes around to open the car door for her, and she gives him a winning smile as she steps out, threatening under her breath, “You do know I’ll get it out of you eventually,”
“I don’t doubt it, Governor.”
And even though his expression never flickers, somehow, for some reason, she thinks that, behind those aviators, Agent Wyatt is smiling back.
--
In the end, her declaration proves to be her downfall.
After her proclamation that she would get his major out of him, Wyatt becomes almost as obstinate about it as he is about his name. She tries all approaches, every possible avenue of attack, with absolutely no success.
Subtly mentions how she wrote her senior honors thesis tracing the economic impact of the woman’s movement on Pawnee’s corn-syrup industry over the Twentieth century, in hopes he’ll reciprocate with some tidbit about his own academic efforts.
“That sounds . . . very specific.”
“Well, what did you write on?”
“Not that.”
Ugh, this isn’t getting her anywhere.
-
She changes tactics and tries asking about his favorite professors one afternoon on the campaign bus.
“There was an instructor at Rowley--”
“No, I was asking about college. Who was your favorite college professor?”
He frowns. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”
After three minutes of sustained silence, Leslie heaves a melodramatic sigh and gets up. “Don’t take this as an admission of defeat.”
“About what, ma’am?”
If he’s putting even half the effort into her security detail as he is into being a deliberate cipher, she’s got to be the safest politician in the Western Hemisphere.
-
It goes on like this for weeks. Becomes part of their rhythm. Another beat in the constant push-pull of their interactions. And Leslie would be lying if she said that she doesn’t sometimes look forward to those moments in her day when she talks to him. He’s become her escape. Her murder-on-a-train. And when she’s trying to solve him, she’s not thinking about the next speech or the response she should have given to the question at the last event.
Considering the fact she even dreams about her campaign, this is no small thing.
But here’s the problem with a protection detail . . . they’re always there.
Even when you desperately want to be alone.
It’s been a long day. Actually, strike that, it’s been a long week. She’s been in Florida for most of it. And to hell with what they say about it being the Sunshine State, Leslie hasn’t liked Florida since her Father moved here when she was twelve. It lacks real seasons, and all the breakfast food seems to center around salsa rather than syrup, and frankly her Spanish is worse than her French, and you know what being within driving distance of Orlando without actually going to Disney World is just cruel.
But the worst part is the lying. At every event, with every speech, everyone keeps having her talk about Florida as her ‘second-home’, about happy childhood summers here, and her Dad’s family and his choice to buried in the state of his birth. And maybe none of its exactly false (her summers here weren’t sad, just weren’t in Pawnee), but it’s not precisely true either, and the careful shading of the truth, even for something like this, bothers her. Leaves her irritated and short-tempered at the end of the day. For the first time in her life, Leslie feels like she’s wearing a mask, and it’s uncomfortable and suffocating and all she wants is to be left alone for thirty seconds so she can peal it off.
Except she’s not alone. She’s almost never alone anymore.
“Ugh,” Leslie groans in frustration, “Just- just go the other way.”
“You know I can’t do that, ma’am.”
Yes, she knows. Knows she can’t be trusted to walk the twenty feet from the elevator to her hotel room like a normal adult. Can’t be trusted to even think about social security reform. Can’t answer an immigration question without tripping over her words. Can’t kiss a baby because it’s flu season. Can’t tell the truth about the disgustingness of salad because apparently it sets a bad example.
There are a lot of ‘can’ts’ in her life right now.
And suddenly, the fact she can’t get Wyatt to tell her his major is just one too many.
“You know I could just ask you,” she snaps unthinkingly, following the funny sidestep her thoughts have taken.
“Sorry?”
“Your major. I mean this is silly, if I just asked you straight out, ‘What was your major in college?’ what are you going to do refuse to tell me?”
Beside her, Wyatt’s step falters slightly, then, “No, ma’am. I wouldn’t.”
Stopping at the door Leslie gives him a smug smile, feeling slightly buoyed by this confirmation that she still has power over at least one thing today. “See, that’s what I thought.”
Wyatt doesn’t smile back though, just stands there looking at her, as if waiting for something. The hallways here are dimmed with someone’s idea of ‘mood-lighting’ so he’s taken his sunglasses off and there’s something in his eyes, a kind of expectant trepidation that stills the words on her tongue.
“Governor?” he prompts. “Did you have something you wanted to ask me?”
The question sounds the same as always. Maybe a little softer, maybe pitched a fraction lower, but still polite and reserved and completely unrevealing. But his eyes . . . oh, his eyes are a different story, and she thinks she finally understands why he wears those ridiculous sunglasses all the time. His eyes are too expressive, too verbose, write monologues with a look and soliloquies in silence, and right now they’re asking her not to ask.
And with a jolt Leslie realizes she really doesn’t want to. As much as she wants to know, she doesn’t want to learn it this way. Not like this. It’s too much like cheating. If he told her right now, it wouldn’t be because he wanted to, wouldn’t be because she’d earned it.
It would be because the Governor asked.
That’s not what she wants, and even though she couldn’t tell you what she wanted from him right now if her life depended on that. She knows it’s not that.
“Ma’am?”
Leslie opens her mouth and then closes it again. She feels in the wrong somehow, lording her position over him like that, turning what had been an easy pastime into a power-play. And she momentarily wishes she had something to offer him in apology, some piece of her life that hadn’t already been dissected in the news media a hundred times over. But there’s nothing . . .
And then it occurs to her. Yes, actually there is.
“I don’t like Florida,” she whispers, letting it hang in the air like a terrible secret, hoping he can see it for the peace offering it is.
Wyatt wrinkles his brow, nonplussed, “I’m sorry. I don’t-”
“Florida, I don’t like it as much as all the other states. It’s not my second home. It’s the place I had to go in the summers instead of being with my friends. It’s where my Dad moved when he didn’t want to live with us anymore. I have to say all these things, to all these people. Because it’s what you say when you want them to listen to the parts that really matter, but I don’t mean it. And I hate doing it.” She blows out a breath, and gives him a tremulous smile, “But every morning I get up and I do it anyway. Because I want to be President. Do you think that makes me a terrible person?”
“No,” Wyatt murmurs voice hoarse, “I think it makes you a remarkable one.”
Leslie scoffs, “For being a liar.”
“No, for-“ He breaks off, and takes an unconscious half-step forward, his posture suddenly urgent and intent. “Ma’am, if you do this job long enough, you learn not to idealize anyone you protect because you’ll just be disappointed. Nobody can be who you wish they were, twenty-four seven. I have never protected someone who was a saint, who didn’t have a secret they rationalized away in some way. You start weigh your protectee on the balance, and hope the balance comes out on the right side. But with you-- You’re - In all the ways that matter you are exactly who you appear to be. And trust me, ma’am, that is remarkable.”
“Even if I don’t love Florida?”
He smiles, “Even then.”
“Thank you.” Leslie murmurs.
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
For second the words just hang between them suspended, and in that moment it feels like something’s about to happen, something earthshaking and terrifying and wonderful. It right there just at the tips of her fingers and all she has to do is reach. Just reach out and-
She drops her gaze and the moment pops like a soap bubble.
As if suddenly aware of how close he’d moved to her while talking, Wyatt’s mouth turns down in chagrin and he takes a self-conscious step back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t-
Leslie shakes her head. “No, no, it’s fine. Why wouldn’t- It’s not like- You know what? I’ve had a long day. A really long day. So, I’m going to go take a bath.” Wyatt blinks, and Leslie feels herself flush. Oh why did she just tell him that? “Or maybe I’ll just go to bed.” Crap. “Or read. I’m going to go read. About ladders. So . . .” She fumbles behind her for the doorknob. “Good night Agent Wyatt.”
Spins on her heel and makes her escape into the hotel room before she can cause herself anymore embarrassment, cutting off his quiet “Good night, Gov-” as she practically slams the door in his face.
Dropping her forehead to the door, she closes her eyes and blows out a shaky breath, trying to figure
out why her heart is beating almost as fast as it did the night of the National Convention.
There’s a rustle of movement outside, and she can hear the quiet pitch of Wyatt’s voice. Unconsciously her hand drifts back to the door handle, only to freeze when she hears a flat female voice that has to be Agent Ludgate answer in response.
What the hell is she doing?
Leslie’s not entirely sure, but she thinks it probably, definitely, absolutely, cannot ever happen again.
When her hand finally moves, it’s to reach up and throw the deadbolt.
---
After that, she stops asking about his major.
And his name.
Really she pretty much just stops talking to him in general. It’s not that she’s avoiding him. It’s just . . . everything is only getting busier, the campaign more all-consuming, as they move into these final weeks and the debates begin. She practically feels like she’s back in school, participating in the longest all night cram session for the biggest test of her life. So is it that surprising that she doesn’t have fifteen minutes to spare to talk to her protection about something inconsequential?
Particularly, when her protection doesn’t seem to notice one way or the other.
---
iv. October 2012
Two weeks before the election disaster strikes.
Leslie falls ill the morning of the last debate.
Actually if you want to be technical about it (and Ann does), the fact she’s had a bad headache and difficulty keeping food down for two days probably means she fell ill sometime around then. But Leslie doesn’t understand why Ann keeps giving her the ‘bullshit’ face whenever she explains that she thought it was just allergies. It was a completely legitimate assumption. They’ve criss-crossed the country these past few weeks and Leslie doesn’t know what kind of crazy, mutant pollen they have in Nevada.
“They store a lot of nuclear waste there, Ann.”
The look her press-secretary gives her says she is less than impressed by this reasoning.
“Leslie, you’re burning up and you’re dehydrated. You have the flu.”
“Psssh, that’s ridiculous. If I had the flu would I be able to recite the Declaration of Independence from memory?”
“I’d believe you could recite the Declaration of Independence in a coma.”
“Well how am I supposed to prove to you I don’t flu then? Come on, Ann work with me here! Oh, I know how about this?”
“What is it exactly that you think you’re doing?”
“Defending against the Redcoats. Am I not doing it right?”
“Okay, yeah, let’s get you to bed.”
--
Oh god. Oh god this can’t be happening.
Leslie feels awful. She feels dizzy and weak and is breaking out in panic sweats. She feels like she’s about to throw up and not because she has the flu, because she doesn’t, Ann is wrong about that.
But Leslie can’t seem to convince her otherwise, and Ann used her ‘nurse voice’, which is so unfair because Ann shouldn’t even have a nurse voice anymore. She hasn’t been a nurse since Leslie met her when she came on as the PR director for Pawnee’s Health Department. So her nurse voice should definitely be expired. But apparently the ‘nurse voice’ is like Twinkies or NutriYums, it has no expiration date. It will be here after the apocalypse. So Leslie is in bed when she needs to be practicing. And despite Ann’s reassurances that she will figure something out, that she will get a doctor over here and speak with the other campaign and the moderator and do everything she can to minimize the damage, Leslie knows that it won’t be enough.
Not if they wind up having to postpone the debate. Not this close to the election. Not against this opponent. This young, vigorous Senator from Colorado who practically radiates health and vitality.
And it’s not just that. It’s that he’s the complete package. A magnetic speaker with a sharp mind and a strong grasp on issues. A Harvard law graduate with a stint in the military, a meteoric rise to the Senate, and a truly lovely family.
While here she is a small-town girl with a state-school education who spent her first two years out of college working for the Parks and Recreation department of her hometown. A Midwest Governor who’s lived her entire life in Indiana and whose most notable foreign policy asset is the military record of a late-husband she won’t talk about.
And apparently she has really bad allergies.
She’s swimming upstream against every expectation, every preconceived notion of what a President should look like. Went into these debates behind in the polls, and yes she’s been steadily picking up points with each passing debate, but not nearly enough. It’s the equivalent of making ripples when what she desperately needs is a splash.
This debate was supposed to be her chance to do that. A townhall on the economy, it’s a good format for her, a good topic. Closing out this way was s her opportunity to capitalize of the momentum she’s been building these past few weeks, to turn the up-swell into a tidal wave.
If she postpones it all falls apart. She loses the momentum, loses the opportunity. There’s no coming back from that. It’s a death knell.
It’s all she can think about as she lays in bed. She can’t sleep, can’t even rest. Just hurt and think about everything she’s done, all she’s worked for. Every missed birthday, every anniversary she and Dave spent campaigning. The children they decided not to have. The hometown she left. The staff she’s adopted like a surrogate family. Her whole political life comes down to this. This last gamble. This final roll of the dice . . .
Screw this.
She’s not going out like this.
She’ll go big, before she just curls up and goes home.
-
There’s every possibility this truly inspirational moment in her head does not precisely translate over the phone. She’s pretty sure Ann isn’t getting the full effect of the Chariots of Fire soundtrack Leslie is hearing, because Ann’s response isn’t a teary-eyed war-cry and a slow-clap. There’s not even the sound of her climbing up on her desk to say ‘Oh Captain, My Captain’.
Instead what Leslie gets is a long pause and then a somewhat patronizing, “Sweetie, I know you’re sick but we’re too far from Pawnee for you to go home right now.”
Ron is no better. “Leslie, you know my feelings on unnecessary conversation. Listening to you speak gibberish counts as unnecessary.”
Fine.
Obviously she’s going to have to do this herself.
Operation: Escape from the Hotel (whatever, she has allergies, she’ll think of a better name later) starts by getting dressed, which takes some time because nothing seems to be where she left it. (Her scarves are in the completely wrong drawer and she can’t seem to find her tiara anywhere). But she manages.
See nothing to it.
The next step is sneaking out of her room. This is a delicate process. Ann’s probably got Wyatt on her side already. Leslie will definitely have to slip past the guard. Pulling open the door, she looks first one way then the other.
Nothing out there except some people in suits.
Okay, all clear.
Thinking as quietly as possible she tiptoes down the hallway to the stairwell. Humming the Pink Panther theme song as she goes for added stealth, she makes her way downstairs. Secret Service Protection? What? She’s way too sneaky for them. (Move over ‘James Bond’, she’s totally got this)
Operation: Soaring Eagle (see much better) about to hit lift off in five, four, three, two . . .
“Well, well, well.”
There standing at the foot of the stairs by the ‘Fire Exit,’ with an entirely too smug look on his face is Agent Wyatt.
Crap.
Drawing herself up, she gives him her best imperious look, “What do you think you’re doing here?”
Wyatt looks like he’s barely holding back a laugh. “This is my job, ma’am.”
“Yes, but I snuck out.”
He shakes his head. “Governor, you’re not that sneaky.”
“I’m very sneaky.”
“You’re not-”
“Yes I am. I sneak. Hey I snuck all the way down here, so what do you have to say to that. Huh? Huh?”
Rather than responding, Wyatt just casts his gaze over her shoulder in a pointed fashion, until Leslie can’t help but turn to see what he’s looking at.
And nearly has a heart attack.
“Ah! Death!”
Standing just a step above her, stock still and so quiet he might as well be a ghost, is hands down the creepiest guy she’s ever seen. Maybe she’s dying. Is she dying? Dammit, she’s definitely not going to win this election if she dies right now.
“Not Death. Just Orin.”
“What’s an Orin?” Leslie whispers, unable to tear her eyes away, half-convinced that if she looks away that’s when he’ll pounce.
“That’s Agent Orin. Don’t worry he has that effect on people.” Wyatt comes up and touches her lightly on the crook of the elbow, drawing her attention away. “Here just look at me and walk away slowly.” Without taking his eyes from hers, he starts to walk backwards, drawing her away. “Good. That’s good. Keep looking at me. Good.”
“Is he legal?” she whispers, when they’re finally at the door, keeping her voice low, afraid of being overheard.
That makes his mouth twitch, “Probably not.” Then something catches his eye and he looks back up over her shoulder. “No. Orin stay.”
The way he says it, like he’s talking to a dog or a small child, makes Leslie laugh despite herself, only stopping when the movement causes her to become dizzy.
Automatically, Wyatt’s hand tightens on her elbow, steadying her. “Perhaps we should get you back upstairs.”
She shakes her head with a moan. “No. No I have to go. I’m fine. Really.”
“You’re wearing pants around your neck.”
Leslie’s fingers fly up to the scarf she’s wearing, only to discover it is perhaps longer and heavier than it should be. She drops her hand. “They’re spares.”
“If you say so ma’am.” But he doesn’t really sound like he believes her.
Still she ignores that. “Okay, well, I’m glad we’ve got that cleared up. Now if you’ll excuse me I have a cab waiting.”
“I sent it away.”
For a second she just stares at him, unable to catch her breath at the magnitude of this betrayal. Then she finds her voice, “Well, call it back.”
“Ma’am-”
“No you know what, fine I’ll call another one.” She bends her head to search through her bag.
“Governor.”
She ignores him. Let’s see. Rubberband ball. Picture of Joe Biden. Mini-snowglobe. Dayplanner. Spare Dayplanner . . .
“Governor-“
“Here. Hold this.” She holds out her bag of backup chocolate.
“Governor, stop!”
It comes out in a whipcrack of frustration that echoes in the stairwell. Stunned, Leslie looks up. Wyatt pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh and shakes his head.
“You don’t have to do this, ma’am.”
“No I do have to do this. This is my campaign, and if I postpone, I’m through. I absolutely have to do this.”
“No. Not that- This. Sneaking out and calling cabs and not- You shouldn’t feel like you need to avoid me. No matter- Look, I’m in charge of your protection ma’am. I’m not your jailer or your guard or even your adviser. I’m just your protection. If you need to go somewhere I will get you there. But I can’t do that if you avoid me, and I can’t do that if you don’t trust me. I need you to trust me. And if I’ve done anything, anything at all to undermine that trust then you should request that I be reassigned.”
His voice has gone low and insistent, his eyes imploring, and it feels like he trying to tell her something. Something important. But her brain cluttered and her head is pounding. She only has so much bandwidth right now, and she needs it all for something else.
“So you’ll get me to the debate site?”
Wyatt drops his head, closes his eyes, and slips on his sunglasses, and when he looks up again his face is once again a composed unreadable mask. “Yes, ma’am. I will.”
“Thank you, Agent Bakula.”
For some reason he sighs.
----
Even though Leslie was, in fact, very sneaky it takes Ann and Ron almost no time to figure out where she’s gone.
“What were you thinking?” Ann splutters the moment she arrives.
“She wasn’t.” Ron answers before Leslie can provide one.
“No I mean really, what the hell- Leslie, you’re sick. You can barely think clearly. How- How did you even get here?” Again, before Leslie can answer, Ann’s eyes fly over to where Agent Wyatt is coordinating with other security detail, and her expression becomes thunderous, “Kill him. I’m going to kill him.”
“He has a gun.” Leslie offers lamely.
“Good. That means I can shoot him.” Ann calls back over her shoulder.
She looks back over at Ron. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”
Ron shrugs. “Don’t know. Don’t care.” Pulling one of the extra front row chairs up on the stage, he straddles it and levels her with a frank look. “All right, what are we doing here, Knope?”
She groans and shakes her head. Her thoughts have cleared a little bit on the ride over. Not much, just enough to know how stupid and desperate this is. She knows this is crazy. Knows she’s not at her best, and every inch of her body just wants to concede defeat in exchange for rest and waffles. But she also knows that if she does, she will live with that regret until the day she dies. “I don’t know. I just- What else am I supposed to do?”
“That’s not an answer.” Ron clasps his hands and extends them out in front of him for a second, then slaps them down on his thighs. “Look the way I see it, you’re here for one of two reasons. Reason number one you’re just too stubborn to go down without a fight, in which case you’re wasting everyone’s time. Or reason number two you’re Leslie fucking Knope and, flu or no flu, you know you can win this. So I ask you again. What are we doing here, Knope?”
Leslie smiles even though it hurts her face. This is why Ron Swanson has been her campaign manager and Chief of Staff since she ran for Mayor sixteen years ago.
“Win. I’m here to win.”
“Okay then. Now that we’ve got that settled.” Ron stands, and looks over with a grimace at where Ann and Wyatt have devolved into a whispered shouting match punctuated by emphatic gestures, “Apparently I have to go protect your protection.”
----
Later when the pundits dissect the debate they’ll talk about a lot of things. They’ll talk about contrasting styles and the substantive content. They’ll disagree with each other about who won on the issues and who has the better grasp of the challenges facing the country, who had the better overall strategy going in and who had the better execution. They will rehash, and recap it. Turn into soundbites and talking points and fodder for morning talk shows and fake news for days.
And none of it will make a bit of difference.
Because in the end, everyone knows the debate was about one moment, and one moment only.
It occurs fifteen minutes in, when Leslie stands up to answer an audience-member question about the future of American industry, and gets so dizzy she almost loses her balance, barely catching herself against the stool behind her. And she can hear the murmur that goes through the crowd, and for a second she can’t help but think that this is it. This is the end of her.
And then something happens.
If you asked her later, she’ll tell you it was the flu-medicine, that she hallucinated it, but there’s a moment when she looks over to try to find Ann and instead for a second, she swears she can see Dave standing just off stage, smiling at her like she hung the moon.
And for some reason at that same moment she can hear Wyatt’s voice in her head, telling her that “In all the ways that matter you are exactly who you appear to be . . . and that is remarkable”
And she just stops trying so hard, stops worrying about how she appears or what she sounds like, and just lets herself be Leslie fucking Knope.
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to forgive me. I have the flu. Which I know isn’t very presidential, but you haven’t elected me yet, so I guess those superpowers haven’t kicked in.” That gets her a small laugh and she smiles and then coughs, “Excuse me. Earlier today it was so bad that my campaign-staff wanted me to postpone this debate, and it should be said that my opponent graciously agreed. But then I thought about the fact that your problems don’t take sick days. And I imagine there are plenty of you out there who don’t either. You don’t because you can’t afford to, because taking a sick-day means you don’t get paid, means less money to feed your family. So you tough it out, no matter how bad it is. And granted it’s pretty bad out there right now, but I think we can tough it out. So with your permission, I’m going to take my cue from FDR and do this sitting down for the rest of the evening.”
There’s a rumble of applause as she sits back down on the stool, and takes a sip of water, then lifts the microphone back up. “But don’t go easy on me just because I’m sick. Like all of you, I came to work today. And as my bosses you have the right to expect my best. So let’s get started with your question sir--”
On tv they’ll talk about what a brilliant move it was. How it forced her opponent to sit down as well or look like he was taking advantage. How in one move she completely changed the tone, turning what he’d wanted to be fiery oratory into a thoughtful chat.
They’ll debate back and forth how planned it was, how real her illness was. Whether she’d been going for the ‘mom effect,’ connecting with every mother in America who feels like she never gets a sick day, who wants a President who will fight for the country the way she would her own child. (Everyone seems to forget Leslie’s never been a mother) They’ll talk about it and scrutinize and disagree how much of an impact it should have.
But nobody debates the fact that it has an impact.
----
“So what did you think, Agent Wyatt?” Leslie asks as she gets into the car that evening. “How did I do?”
“Are you familiar with Kirk Gibson, ma’am?”
“No.”
“Then I really don’t have an adequate point of reference.”
----
v. November 2012
Leslie wins.
Just barely. Without any clear mandate. But it’s still a win.
She gives her acceptance speech from the ballroom of the Pawnee Grand, even though it’s way too small, because she wants to be home for this moment. Because she can’t resist the opportunity to put her town in the spotlight for one glorious night.
The revelry extends into the early morning, her campaign staff peeling off one by one as sleep over-takes them, until the next thing she knows, she’s standing alone on the ballroom’s balcony watching the sunrise.
Leslie doesn’t turn when she hears the small shift of movement behind her, doesn’t need to. Wyatt’s presence has become like a second skin for her, noticeable for how unnoticeable it is, for how he no longer feels like an intruder, but an extension.
“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” she finally whispers without looking over her shoulder.
“It is.”
“It’s the pollution from the Sweetum’s factory. I know, I know, it’s probably not worth the asthma-”
“Probably?”
“But,” she inhales, “I don’t know. I still love it. I love everything about this town actually. Don’t tell anyone I said it, but Pawnee is without a doubt the best city in America. I always hate to leave it. Even now. Hey, fair warning, I plan to come back here for holidays and vacations. So you might as well start figuring out how to secure JJ’s now, because I can’t be here without waffles.”
Wyatt doesn’t say anything.
At the silence, Leslie glances back over her shoulder. “Oh come on, one little diner. You can’t even give me one little diner? This is just because you’ve never had JJ’s waffles. We’ll go tomorrow and then you’ll understand. They’re life changing.”
“It’s not that ma’am,” he coughs, “I’m sure whoever is in charge of your detail here will be more than able to make the necessary arrangements.”
“Whoever-? But that will be you. You’ll be in charge.”
He shakes his head. “No ma’am. I handle campaigns because my specialty is mobile logistics. But POTUS’s detail is handled out of D.C. There will be a new team here to handle the transition in about a week, and then I’ll be headed back to Chicago. Don’t worry though, ma’am. They’re the best.”
As if the quality of her security is what’s bothering her . . .
Leslie feels like she’s had the wind knocked out of her. Wyatt’s become such a steady, constant presence in her life these past six months. Irritating and infuriating and confusing and there. Always there. Until it feels like she can’t remember a time when he wasn’t, can’t picture a world where he won’t be. And she never thought- Just assumed- “So you won’t- I mean don’t you want to come to D.C.?”
He comes up to stand next to her by the railing. “There’s not really a place for me there. Agent Traeger, he’s the senior agent for POTUS’s detail, he’s very competent. You’ll be in good hands.”
“Oh. Of course. And you have a career to think about- And I’m sure leading a team of your own is better than just being another agent.”
“It is, but-“ he turns to face her dead on, his hand going to the railing, stopping just a fraction short of hers. “Ma’am, I serve at the pleasure of the President. I would gladly- If the President wished-”
Avoiding his gaze, Leslie looks down at their hands instead, barely half an inch apart, and yet impossibly far away, and what she thinks but doesn’t say is ‘Yes,’ is ‘Please’. It’s uncharacteristically selfish, and frighteningly needy. And the power of it scares her into silence.
She shakes her head. and turns back to the dawn. But it just looks like smog now. “No. No, it’s fine. I’m just- Well, I never even found out your major. And I had all these great plans to get you tell me which I won’t get to use, now. And--”
“Accounting.”
He says it on a whisper so soft Leslie doesn’t trust she heard it correctly. Blinks and looks back over at him.
“I’m sorry, I don’t-“
“That was my major in college-accounting.”
For a moment all she can do is stare at him in disbelief. Never in a million years . . . “Wait, are you- Are you telling me that all this time I’ve been putting my life in the hands of an accountant?”
Wyatt smiles. “If it makes you feel better I do have a Masters in Criminal Justice as well as Forensic Accounting.”
“No. Not really.” She leans against the rail, trying to absorb this slightly disconcerting turn of events. “Accounting? Really?”
“Well, we are part of the Treasury Department, ma’am.”
“And I’m sure you track a lot of rogue spreadsheets for them.”
“Actually the Service was originally established to combat counterfeiting. It still has jurisdiction over major financial crimes.”
And for second he sounds so impossibly nerdy, reciting the Service’s history like that, that Leslie knows he was telling the truth about the accounting, and can’t help but smile. And then a sharp pang goes through her at the thought of how little she knows about him. How there’s still so much more she wants to discover, and she’s never going to get the chance.
She blows out a shaky breath and tries to play off with a laugh that falls flat. “See, I just got you broken in. And now here I’m going to have to start all over again with someone new.”
“Don’t worry. Agent Traeger is very adaptable. And he smiles more. You’ll like him.”
She won’t.
Leslie closes her eyes and nods. “Yes, I’m sure I will.”
She can feel Wyatt looking at her for a long moment, and she doesn’t know what he’s searching for, but she’s scared of what might happen if he finds it. Abruptly, she sticks out her hand, “Well, Agent Wyatt, thank you. For everything.”
There’s a fraction of an instant when her hand just hangs there suspended, and Wyatt seems like he’s about to say something else, but then it passes and he’s taking her hand . . .
“It’s been an honor, ma’am.”
The handshake is brief and professional and no different than any of the thousands of handshakes she’s exchanged on the Campaign.
So Leslie doesn't know why when he pulls away, it feels like something’s slipped through her fingers.
----
(tbc)
Pairing: Leslie/Ben (AU)
Word Count: ~7,000 (this part)
Rating: PG-13 this part (R over all)
Timeline/Summary: Alt!Universe with Leslie as President of the USA and Ben is one of her secret service agents. (p.s. Everything I know about the Whitehouse or the Secret Service I learned from watching the West Wing and some minimal internet research. And of course it's still Parks and Leslie. A certain suspension of disbelief is warranted.)
Part 1
iii. September 2012
She manages to reach a tentative truce with Agent Wyatt after that. And it’s a delicate, negotiated peace perhaps, but it is a kind of peace all the same.
Leslie still thinks he’s overly cautious and more than a little paranoid. He still manages to telegraph his displeasure whenever she insists on lingering at a rope line longer than is perhaps prudent. But every time she thinks she’s at the absolute breaking point, when she just wants to throw up her hands and start calling him names all over again, something will happen-a tilt of his head, a particularly dry ‘Ma’am,’ the tiniest flicker of amusement at the corner of his mouth-and suddenly she’ll remember that he has eyes (incongruously kind eyes), and a rare but beautiful smile, and despite all evidence to the contrary, there’s every possibility he isn’t actually a robot (though the jury’s still out on that). And all her irritation dissolves, slips through her fingers like grains of sand, too difficult and inconsequential to try to hold on to.
The shift on his side is subtler, a dozen little changes-a slightly smaller perimeter, a few more interactive, if carefully controlled, campaign events. He even manages to let her get her own coffee once (just once, and she’s horrified later when she learns exactly how much the simple event disrupted the shop’s day. But it’s still the best cup of coffee she’s had in months).
She appreciates the effort, so she tries her best to meet him halfway, to bear the restrictions with more grace. Forces herself to stop questioning the necessity of this or that precaution at every turn, to rely on his judgment a little more. And maybe she’s still not wild about the number of agents who accompany her everywhere, but when it’s offset against the resumption of her morning walks, she chooses to pick her battles.
The one thing she hasn’t mastered is the detachment. Despite Agent Wyatt’s insistence that she shouldn’t think about her protection detail much at all, Leslie knows she’s never going to be able to get the hang of treating people like inanimate objects.
So she doesn’t.
Instead she treats them like every other member of her staff, like family. Learns their names, their histories. Asks about their kids, their pets, their favorite movies. Insists on celebrating their birthdays and asking their opinions.
The fact this approach doesn’t sit well with her extremely by-the-book senior agent? Well, that’s just icing on the cake.
“You know they’re really not supposed to talk that much when on duty, ma’am.”
“Relax, Agent Wyatt, it’s not like I’m asking them to deliver a soliloquy or weigh in on foreign policy matters. I just believe in treating people like people. Especially people who are supposed to go around being prepared to take a bullet for me. It seems like the least I can do is learn their names. Speaking of which, I don’t think you’ve told me yours.”
“No ma’am, I don’t think I have.”
Dammit. She walked into that one.
And she’s about to follow up when the light pressure of Ann’s hand on her shoulder draws her attention, signaling her it’s time to head to the podium, and he’s melting into the background, determined to be forgotten amidst the whirlwind of camera flashes and spotlights and sound-bites.
--
Still, from that point on, he becomes a kind of hobby for her-a brain-teaser to pick up whenever she has a free moment.
The funny thing is she knows he must have figured it out. He’s trained to pick up on the tiniest nuances in human behavior. So she knows he can’t be oblivious to the fact she’s essentially treating him like a difficult puzzle or fascinating riddle. But he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything she gets the distinct impression he’s actually playing along-consistently finding new ways to sidestep this or that question, but never once outright refusing to answer; sometimes giving responses so frustratingly oblique as to be nearly useless when cornered, but rewarding the occasional deductive leap with tiny gems of information that only seem to make her want more.
Leslie can’t quite decide whether he’s actually enjoying himself or doing it simply to placate her, but either way it’s a definite inconsistency, a decided chink in the professionalism he seems to wear like armor. And there’s something about it, about the dichotomy of a man who continually protests her familiarity even as he can’t seem to help indulging it, that simultaneously intrigues and delights her. Makes her want to keep chipping away at his walls just to see what’s behind them that he’s so determined to protect.
She still hasn’t gotten his first name out him (And granted she could always just ask him point blank, but by now it’s a matter of pride.), but she’s learned a few other things, bits and pieces she’s using to construct a mental blueprint. Like the fact he has a younger brother and a newborn niece whose picture he carries slipped just behind his badge. That he grew up in an even smaller hometown than she did, and played shortstop on his high-school baseball team, but went to college on an academic scholarship.
“So what do aspiring Secret Service agents major in? I’m assuming there’s no such thing as a degree in body-guarding.”
From his position next to her in the town car she can see the way the corners of his eyes crinkle behind his glasses. “No ma’am, there’s not.”
But before he can continue or she can press the line of questioning (more likely), the car rolls to a stop, and he’s lifting a hand to his earpiece to check-in.
Leslie suppresses a sigh. This is how ninety-nine percent of their conversations end, cut short by some outside force. It might be more than a day before she can pick up the thread, and it’s never seamless the way it is with Ann or even Ron. There’s always a warm-up period with him, a good fifteen minutes or so of continuous chatter on her part before she’s worn down his resolve enough to turn him into a reluctant participant. And maybe the warm-up time seems to be getting incrementally shorter with each encounter, but it’s a long way from ever disappearing entirely.
Wyatt comes around to open the car door for her, and she gives him a winning smile as she steps out, threatening under her breath, “You do know I’ll get it out of you eventually,”
“I don’t doubt it, Governor.”
And even though his expression never flickers, somehow, for some reason, she thinks that, behind those aviators, Agent Wyatt is smiling back.
--
In the end, her declaration proves to be her downfall.
After her proclamation that she would get his major out of him, Wyatt becomes almost as obstinate about it as he is about his name. She tries all approaches, every possible avenue of attack, with absolutely no success.
Subtly mentions how she wrote her senior honors thesis tracing the economic impact of the woman’s movement on Pawnee’s corn-syrup industry over the Twentieth century, in hopes he’ll reciprocate with some tidbit about his own academic efforts.
“That sounds . . . very specific.”
“Well, what did you write on?”
“Not that.”
Ugh, this isn’t getting her anywhere.
-
She changes tactics and tries asking about his favorite professors one afternoon on the campaign bus.
“There was an instructor at Rowley--”
“No, I was asking about college. Who was your favorite college professor?”
He frowns. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”
After three minutes of sustained silence, Leslie heaves a melodramatic sigh and gets up. “Don’t take this as an admission of defeat.”
“About what, ma’am?”
If he’s putting even half the effort into her security detail as he is into being a deliberate cipher, she’s got to be the safest politician in the Western Hemisphere.
-
It goes on like this for weeks. Becomes part of their rhythm. Another beat in the constant push-pull of their interactions. And Leslie would be lying if she said that she doesn’t sometimes look forward to those moments in her day when she talks to him. He’s become her escape. Her murder-on-a-train. And when she’s trying to solve him, she’s not thinking about the next speech or the response she should have given to the question at the last event.
Considering the fact she even dreams about her campaign, this is no small thing.
But here’s the problem with a protection detail . . . they’re always there.
Even when you desperately want to be alone.
It’s been a long day. Actually, strike that, it’s been a long week. She’s been in Florida for most of it. And to hell with what they say about it being the Sunshine State, Leslie hasn’t liked Florida since her Father moved here when she was twelve. It lacks real seasons, and all the breakfast food seems to center around salsa rather than syrup, and frankly her Spanish is worse than her French, and you know what being within driving distance of Orlando without actually going to Disney World is just cruel.
But the worst part is the lying. At every event, with every speech, everyone keeps having her talk about Florida as her ‘second-home’, about happy childhood summers here, and her Dad’s family and his choice to buried in the state of his birth. And maybe none of its exactly false (her summers here weren’t sad, just weren’t in Pawnee), but it’s not precisely true either, and the careful shading of the truth, even for something like this, bothers her. Leaves her irritated and short-tempered at the end of the day. For the first time in her life, Leslie feels like she’s wearing a mask, and it’s uncomfortable and suffocating and all she wants is to be left alone for thirty seconds so she can peal it off.
Except she’s not alone. She’s almost never alone anymore.
“Ugh,” Leslie groans in frustration, “Just- just go the other way.”
“You know I can’t do that, ma’am.”
Yes, she knows. Knows she can’t be trusted to walk the twenty feet from the elevator to her hotel room like a normal adult. Can’t be trusted to even think about social security reform. Can’t answer an immigration question without tripping over her words. Can’t kiss a baby because it’s flu season. Can’t tell the truth about the disgustingness of salad because apparently it sets a bad example.
There are a lot of ‘can’ts’ in her life right now.
And suddenly, the fact she can’t get Wyatt to tell her his major is just one too many.
“You know I could just ask you,” she snaps unthinkingly, following the funny sidestep her thoughts have taken.
“Sorry?”
“Your major. I mean this is silly, if I just asked you straight out, ‘What was your major in college?’ what are you going to do refuse to tell me?”
Beside her, Wyatt’s step falters slightly, then, “No, ma’am. I wouldn’t.”
Stopping at the door Leslie gives him a smug smile, feeling slightly buoyed by this confirmation that she still has power over at least one thing today. “See, that’s what I thought.”
Wyatt doesn’t smile back though, just stands there looking at her, as if waiting for something. The hallways here are dimmed with someone’s idea of ‘mood-lighting’ so he’s taken his sunglasses off and there’s something in his eyes, a kind of expectant trepidation that stills the words on her tongue.
“Governor?” he prompts. “Did you have something you wanted to ask me?”
The question sounds the same as always. Maybe a little softer, maybe pitched a fraction lower, but still polite and reserved and completely unrevealing. But his eyes . . . oh, his eyes are a different story, and she thinks she finally understands why he wears those ridiculous sunglasses all the time. His eyes are too expressive, too verbose, write monologues with a look and soliloquies in silence, and right now they’re asking her not to ask.
And with a jolt Leslie realizes she really doesn’t want to. As much as she wants to know, she doesn’t want to learn it this way. Not like this. It’s too much like cheating. If he told her right now, it wouldn’t be because he wanted to, wouldn’t be because she’d earned it.
It would be because the Governor asked.
That’s not what she wants, and even though she couldn’t tell you what she wanted from him right now if her life depended on that. She knows it’s not that.
“Ma’am?”
Leslie opens her mouth and then closes it again. She feels in the wrong somehow, lording her position over him like that, turning what had been an easy pastime into a power-play. And she momentarily wishes she had something to offer him in apology, some piece of her life that hadn’t already been dissected in the news media a hundred times over. But there’s nothing . . .
And then it occurs to her. Yes, actually there is.
“I don’t like Florida,” she whispers, letting it hang in the air like a terrible secret, hoping he can see it for the peace offering it is.
Wyatt wrinkles his brow, nonplussed, “I’m sorry. I don’t-”
“Florida, I don’t like it as much as all the other states. It’s not my second home. It’s the place I had to go in the summers instead of being with my friends. It’s where my Dad moved when he didn’t want to live with us anymore. I have to say all these things, to all these people. Because it’s what you say when you want them to listen to the parts that really matter, but I don’t mean it. And I hate doing it.” She blows out a breath, and gives him a tremulous smile, “But every morning I get up and I do it anyway. Because I want to be President. Do you think that makes me a terrible person?”
“No,” Wyatt murmurs voice hoarse, “I think it makes you a remarkable one.”
Leslie scoffs, “For being a liar.”
“No, for-“ He breaks off, and takes an unconscious half-step forward, his posture suddenly urgent and intent. “Ma’am, if you do this job long enough, you learn not to idealize anyone you protect because you’ll just be disappointed. Nobody can be who you wish they were, twenty-four seven. I have never protected someone who was a saint, who didn’t have a secret they rationalized away in some way. You start weigh your protectee on the balance, and hope the balance comes out on the right side. But with you-- You’re - In all the ways that matter you are exactly who you appear to be. And trust me, ma’am, that is remarkable.”
“Even if I don’t love Florida?”
He smiles, “Even then.”
“Thank you.” Leslie murmurs.
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
For second the words just hang between them suspended, and in that moment it feels like something’s about to happen, something earthshaking and terrifying and wonderful. It right there just at the tips of her fingers and all she has to do is reach. Just reach out and-
She drops her gaze and the moment pops like a soap bubble.
As if suddenly aware of how close he’d moved to her while talking, Wyatt’s mouth turns down in chagrin and he takes a self-conscious step back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t-
Leslie shakes her head. “No, no, it’s fine. Why wouldn’t- It’s not like- You know what? I’ve had a long day. A really long day. So, I’m going to go take a bath.” Wyatt blinks, and Leslie feels herself flush. Oh why did she just tell him that? “Or maybe I’ll just go to bed.” Crap. “Or read. I’m going to go read. About ladders. So . . .” She fumbles behind her for the doorknob. “Good night Agent Wyatt.”
Spins on her heel and makes her escape into the hotel room before she can cause herself anymore embarrassment, cutting off his quiet “Good night, Gov-” as she practically slams the door in his face.
Dropping her forehead to the door, she closes her eyes and blows out a shaky breath, trying to figure
out why her heart is beating almost as fast as it did the night of the National Convention.
There’s a rustle of movement outside, and she can hear the quiet pitch of Wyatt’s voice. Unconsciously her hand drifts back to the door handle, only to freeze when she hears a flat female voice that has to be Agent Ludgate answer in response.
What the hell is she doing?
Leslie’s not entirely sure, but she thinks it probably, definitely, absolutely, cannot ever happen again.
When her hand finally moves, it’s to reach up and throw the deadbolt.
---
After that, she stops asking about his major.
And his name.
Really she pretty much just stops talking to him in general. It’s not that she’s avoiding him. It’s just . . . everything is only getting busier, the campaign more all-consuming, as they move into these final weeks and the debates begin. She practically feels like she’s back in school, participating in the longest all night cram session for the biggest test of her life. So is it that surprising that she doesn’t have fifteen minutes to spare to talk to her protection about something inconsequential?
Particularly, when her protection doesn’t seem to notice one way or the other.
---
iv. October 2012
Two weeks before the election disaster strikes.
Leslie falls ill the morning of the last debate.
Actually if you want to be technical about it (and Ann does), the fact she’s had a bad headache and difficulty keeping food down for two days probably means she fell ill sometime around then. But Leslie doesn’t understand why Ann keeps giving her the ‘bullshit’ face whenever she explains that she thought it was just allergies. It was a completely legitimate assumption. They’ve criss-crossed the country these past few weeks and Leslie doesn’t know what kind of crazy, mutant pollen they have in Nevada.
“They store a lot of nuclear waste there, Ann.”
The look her press-secretary gives her says she is less than impressed by this reasoning.
“Leslie, you’re burning up and you’re dehydrated. You have the flu.”
“Psssh, that’s ridiculous. If I had the flu would I be able to recite the Declaration of Independence from memory?”
“I’d believe you could recite the Declaration of Independence in a coma.”
“Well how am I supposed to prove to you I don’t flu then? Come on, Ann work with me here! Oh, I know how about this?”
“What is it exactly that you think you’re doing?”
“Defending against the Redcoats. Am I not doing it right?”
“Okay, yeah, let’s get you to bed.”
--
Oh god. Oh god this can’t be happening.
Leslie feels awful. She feels dizzy and weak and is breaking out in panic sweats. She feels like she’s about to throw up and not because she has the flu, because she doesn’t, Ann is wrong about that.
But Leslie can’t seem to convince her otherwise, and Ann used her ‘nurse voice’, which is so unfair because Ann shouldn’t even have a nurse voice anymore. She hasn’t been a nurse since Leslie met her when she came on as the PR director for Pawnee’s Health Department. So her nurse voice should definitely be expired. But apparently the ‘nurse voice’ is like Twinkies or NutriYums, it has no expiration date. It will be here after the apocalypse. So Leslie is in bed when she needs to be practicing. And despite Ann’s reassurances that she will figure something out, that she will get a doctor over here and speak with the other campaign and the moderator and do everything she can to minimize the damage, Leslie knows that it won’t be enough.
Not if they wind up having to postpone the debate. Not this close to the election. Not against this opponent. This young, vigorous Senator from Colorado who practically radiates health and vitality.
And it’s not just that. It’s that he’s the complete package. A magnetic speaker with a sharp mind and a strong grasp on issues. A Harvard law graduate with a stint in the military, a meteoric rise to the Senate, and a truly lovely family.
While here she is a small-town girl with a state-school education who spent her first two years out of college working for the Parks and Recreation department of her hometown. A Midwest Governor who’s lived her entire life in Indiana and whose most notable foreign policy asset is the military record of a late-husband she won’t talk about.
And apparently she has really bad allergies.
She’s swimming upstream against every expectation, every preconceived notion of what a President should look like. Went into these debates behind in the polls, and yes she’s been steadily picking up points with each passing debate, but not nearly enough. It’s the equivalent of making ripples when what she desperately needs is a splash.
This debate was supposed to be her chance to do that. A townhall on the economy, it’s a good format for her, a good topic. Closing out this way was s her opportunity to capitalize of the momentum she’s been building these past few weeks, to turn the up-swell into a tidal wave.
If she postpones it all falls apart. She loses the momentum, loses the opportunity. There’s no coming back from that. It’s a death knell.
It’s all she can think about as she lays in bed. She can’t sleep, can’t even rest. Just hurt and think about everything she’s done, all she’s worked for. Every missed birthday, every anniversary she and Dave spent campaigning. The children they decided not to have. The hometown she left. The staff she’s adopted like a surrogate family. Her whole political life comes down to this. This last gamble. This final roll of the dice . . .
Screw this.
She’s not going out like this.
She’ll go big, before she just curls up and goes home.
-
There’s every possibility this truly inspirational moment in her head does not precisely translate over the phone. She’s pretty sure Ann isn’t getting the full effect of the Chariots of Fire soundtrack Leslie is hearing, because Ann’s response isn’t a teary-eyed war-cry and a slow-clap. There’s not even the sound of her climbing up on her desk to say ‘Oh Captain, My Captain’.
Instead what Leslie gets is a long pause and then a somewhat patronizing, “Sweetie, I know you’re sick but we’re too far from Pawnee for you to go home right now.”
Ron is no better. “Leslie, you know my feelings on unnecessary conversation. Listening to you speak gibberish counts as unnecessary.”
Fine.
Obviously she’s going to have to do this herself.
Operation: Escape from the Hotel (whatever, she has allergies, she’ll think of a better name later) starts by getting dressed, which takes some time because nothing seems to be where she left it. (Her scarves are in the completely wrong drawer and she can’t seem to find her tiara anywhere). But she manages.
See nothing to it.
The next step is sneaking out of her room. This is a delicate process. Ann’s probably got Wyatt on her side already. Leslie will definitely have to slip past the guard. Pulling open the door, she looks first one way then the other.
Nothing out there except some people in suits.
Okay, all clear.
Thinking as quietly as possible she tiptoes down the hallway to the stairwell. Humming the Pink Panther theme song as she goes for added stealth, she makes her way downstairs. Secret Service Protection? What? She’s way too sneaky for them. (Move over ‘James Bond’, she’s totally got this)
Operation: Soaring Eagle (see much better) about to hit lift off in five, four, three, two . . .
“Well, well, well.”
There standing at the foot of the stairs by the ‘Fire Exit,’ with an entirely too smug look on his face is Agent Wyatt.
Crap.
Drawing herself up, she gives him her best imperious look, “What do you think you’re doing here?”
Wyatt looks like he’s barely holding back a laugh. “This is my job, ma’am.”
“Yes, but I snuck out.”
He shakes his head. “Governor, you’re not that sneaky.”
“I’m very sneaky.”
“You’re not-”
“Yes I am. I sneak. Hey I snuck all the way down here, so what do you have to say to that. Huh? Huh?”
Rather than responding, Wyatt just casts his gaze over her shoulder in a pointed fashion, until Leslie can’t help but turn to see what he’s looking at.
And nearly has a heart attack.
“Ah! Death!”
Standing just a step above her, stock still and so quiet he might as well be a ghost, is hands down the creepiest guy she’s ever seen. Maybe she’s dying. Is she dying? Dammit, she’s definitely not going to win this election if she dies right now.
“Not Death. Just Orin.”
“What’s an Orin?” Leslie whispers, unable to tear her eyes away, half-convinced that if she looks away that’s when he’ll pounce.
“That’s Agent Orin. Don’t worry he has that effect on people.” Wyatt comes up and touches her lightly on the crook of the elbow, drawing her attention away. “Here just look at me and walk away slowly.” Without taking his eyes from hers, he starts to walk backwards, drawing her away. “Good. That’s good. Keep looking at me. Good.”
“Is he legal?” she whispers, when they’re finally at the door, keeping her voice low, afraid of being overheard.
That makes his mouth twitch, “Probably not.” Then something catches his eye and he looks back up over her shoulder. “No. Orin stay.”
The way he says it, like he’s talking to a dog or a small child, makes Leslie laugh despite herself, only stopping when the movement causes her to become dizzy.
Automatically, Wyatt’s hand tightens on her elbow, steadying her. “Perhaps we should get you back upstairs.”
She shakes her head with a moan. “No. No I have to go. I’m fine. Really.”
“You’re wearing pants around your neck.”
Leslie’s fingers fly up to the scarf she’s wearing, only to discover it is perhaps longer and heavier than it should be. She drops her hand. “They’re spares.”
“If you say so ma’am.” But he doesn’t really sound like he believes her.
Still she ignores that. “Okay, well, I’m glad we’ve got that cleared up. Now if you’ll excuse me I have a cab waiting.”
“I sent it away.”
For a second she just stares at him, unable to catch her breath at the magnitude of this betrayal. Then she finds her voice, “Well, call it back.”
“Ma’am-”
“No you know what, fine I’ll call another one.” She bends her head to search through her bag.
“Governor.”
She ignores him. Let’s see. Rubberband ball. Picture of Joe Biden. Mini-snowglobe. Dayplanner. Spare Dayplanner . . .
“Governor-“
“Here. Hold this.” She holds out her bag of backup chocolate.
“Governor, stop!”
It comes out in a whipcrack of frustration that echoes in the stairwell. Stunned, Leslie looks up. Wyatt pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh and shakes his head.
“You don’t have to do this, ma’am.”
“No I do have to do this. This is my campaign, and if I postpone, I’m through. I absolutely have to do this.”
“No. Not that- This. Sneaking out and calling cabs and not- You shouldn’t feel like you need to avoid me. No matter- Look, I’m in charge of your protection ma’am. I’m not your jailer or your guard or even your adviser. I’m just your protection. If you need to go somewhere I will get you there. But I can’t do that if you avoid me, and I can’t do that if you don’t trust me. I need you to trust me. And if I’ve done anything, anything at all to undermine that trust then you should request that I be reassigned.”
His voice has gone low and insistent, his eyes imploring, and it feels like he trying to tell her something. Something important. But her brain cluttered and her head is pounding. She only has so much bandwidth right now, and she needs it all for something else.
“So you’ll get me to the debate site?”
Wyatt drops his head, closes his eyes, and slips on his sunglasses, and when he looks up again his face is once again a composed unreadable mask. “Yes, ma’am. I will.”
“Thank you, Agent Bakula.”
For some reason he sighs.
----
Even though Leslie was, in fact, very sneaky it takes Ann and Ron almost no time to figure out where she’s gone.
“What were you thinking?” Ann splutters the moment she arrives.
“She wasn’t.” Ron answers before Leslie can provide one.
“No I mean really, what the hell- Leslie, you’re sick. You can barely think clearly. How- How did you even get here?” Again, before Leslie can answer, Ann’s eyes fly over to where Agent Wyatt is coordinating with other security detail, and her expression becomes thunderous, “Kill him. I’m going to kill him.”
“He has a gun.” Leslie offers lamely.
“Good. That means I can shoot him.” Ann calls back over her shoulder.
She looks back over at Ron. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”
Ron shrugs. “Don’t know. Don’t care.” Pulling one of the extra front row chairs up on the stage, he straddles it and levels her with a frank look. “All right, what are we doing here, Knope?”
She groans and shakes her head. Her thoughts have cleared a little bit on the ride over. Not much, just enough to know how stupid and desperate this is. She knows this is crazy. Knows she’s not at her best, and every inch of her body just wants to concede defeat in exchange for rest and waffles. But she also knows that if she does, she will live with that regret until the day she dies. “I don’t know. I just- What else am I supposed to do?”
“That’s not an answer.” Ron clasps his hands and extends them out in front of him for a second, then slaps them down on his thighs. “Look the way I see it, you’re here for one of two reasons. Reason number one you’re just too stubborn to go down without a fight, in which case you’re wasting everyone’s time. Or reason number two you’re Leslie fucking Knope and, flu or no flu, you know you can win this. So I ask you again. What are we doing here, Knope?”
Leslie smiles even though it hurts her face. This is why Ron Swanson has been her campaign manager and Chief of Staff since she ran for Mayor sixteen years ago.
“Win. I’m here to win.”
“Okay then. Now that we’ve got that settled.” Ron stands, and looks over with a grimace at where Ann and Wyatt have devolved into a whispered shouting match punctuated by emphatic gestures, “Apparently I have to go protect your protection.”
----
Later when the pundits dissect the debate they’ll talk about a lot of things. They’ll talk about contrasting styles and the substantive content. They’ll disagree with each other about who won on the issues and who has the better grasp of the challenges facing the country, who had the better overall strategy going in and who had the better execution. They will rehash, and recap it. Turn into soundbites and talking points and fodder for morning talk shows and fake news for days.
And none of it will make a bit of difference.
Because in the end, everyone knows the debate was about one moment, and one moment only.
It occurs fifteen minutes in, when Leslie stands up to answer an audience-member question about the future of American industry, and gets so dizzy she almost loses her balance, barely catching herself against the stool behind her. And she can hear the murmur that goes through the crowd, and for a second she can’t help but think that this is it. This is the end of her.
And then something happens.
If you asked her later, she’ll tell you it was the flu-medicine, that she hallucinated it, but there’s a moment when she looks over to try to find Ann and instead for a second, she swears she can see Dave standing just off stage, smiling at her like she hung the moon.
And for some reason at that same moment she can hear Wyatt’s voice in her head, telling her that “In all the ways that matter you are exactly who you appear to be . . . and that is remarkable”
And she just stops trying so hard, stops worrying about how she appears or what she sounds like, and just lets herself be Leslie fucking Knope.
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to forgive me. I have the flu. Which I know isn’t very presidential, but you haven’t elected me yet, so I guess those superpowers haven’t kicked in.” That gets her a small laugh and she smiles and then coughs, “Excuse me. Earlier today it was so bad that my campaign-staff wanted me to postpone this debate, and it should be said that my opponent graciously agreed. But then I thought about the fact that your problems don’t take sick days. And I imagine there are plenty of you out there who don’t either. You don’t because you can’t afford to, because taking a sick-day means you don’t get paid, means less money to feed your family. So you tough it out, no matter how bad it is. And granted it’s pretty bad out there right now, but I think we can tough it out. So with your permission, I’m going to take my cue from FDR and do this sitting down for the rest of the evening.”
There’s a rumble of applause as she sits back down on the stool, and takes a sip of water, then lifts the microphone back up. “But don’t go easy on me just because I’m sick. Like all of you, I came to work today. And as my bosses you have the right to expect my best. So let’s get started with your question sir--”
On tv they’ll talk about what a brilliant move it was. How it forced her opponent to sit down as well or look like he was taking advantage. How in one move she completely changed the tone, turning what he’d wanted to be fiery oratory into a thoughtful chat.
They’ll debate back and forth how planned it was, how real her illness was. Whether she’d been going for the ‘mom effect,’ connecting with every mother in America who feels like she never gets a sick day, who wants a President who will fight for the country the way she would her own child. (Everyone seems to forget Leslie’s never been a mother) They’ll talk about it and scrutinize and disagree how much of an impact it should have.
But nobody debates the fact that it has an impact.
----
“So what did you think, Agent Wyatt?” Leslie asks as she gets into the car that evening. “How did I do?”
“Are you familiar with Kirk Gibson, ma’am?”
“No.”
“Then I really don’t have an adequate point of reference.”
----
v. November 2012
Leslie wins.
Just barely. Without any clear mandate. But it’s still a win.
She gives her acceptance speech from the ballroom of the Pawnee Grand, even though it’s way too small, because she wants to be home for this moment. Because she can’t resist the opportunity to put her town in the spotlight for one glorious night.
The revelry extends into the early morning, her campaign staff peeling off one by one as sleep over-takes them, until the next thing she knows, she’s standing alone on the ballroom’s balcony watching the sunrise.
Leslie doesn’t turn when she hears the small shift of movement behind her, doesn’t need to. Wyatt’s presence has become like a second skin for her, noticeable for how unnoticeable it is, for how he no longer feels like an intruder, but an extension.
“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” she finally whispers without looking over her shoulder.
“It is.”
“It’s the pollution from the Sweetum’s factory. I know, I know, it’s probably not worth the asthma-”
“Probably?”
“But,” she inhales, “I don’t know. I still love it. I love everything about this town actually. Don’t tell anyone I said it, but Pawnee is without a doubt the best city in America. I always hate to leave it. Even now. Hey, fair warning, I plan to come back here for holidays and vacations. So you might as well start figuring out how to secure JJ’s now, because I can’t be here without waffles.”
Wyatt doesn’t say anything.
At the silence, Leslie glances back over her shoulder. “Oh come on, one little diner. You can’t even give me one little diner? This is just because you’ve never had JJ’s waffles. We’ll go tomorrow and then you’ll understand. They’re life changing.”
“It’s not that ma’am,” he coughs, “I’m sure whoever is in charge of your detail here will be more than able to make the necessary arrangements.”
“Whoever-? But that will be you. You’ll be in charge.”
He shakes his head. “No ma’am. I handle campaigns because my specialty is mobile logistics. But POTUS’s detail is handled out of D.C. There will be a new team here to handle the transition in about a week, and then I’ll be headed back to Chicago. Don’t worry though, ma’am. They’re the best.”
As if the quality of her security is what’s bothering her . . .
Leslie feels like she’s had the wind knocked out of her. Wyatt’s become such a steady, constant presence in her life these past six months. Irritating and infuriating and confusing and there. Always there. Until it feels like she can’t remember a time when he wasn’t, can’t picture a world where he won’t be. And she never thought- Just assumed- “So you won’t- I mean don’t you want to come to D.C.?”
He comes up to stand next to her by the railing. “There’s not really a place for me there. Agent Traeger, he’s the senior agent for POTUS’s detail, he’s very competent. You’ll be in good hands.”
“Oh. Of course. And you have a career to think about- And I’m sure leading a team of your own is better than just being another agent.”
“It is, but-“ he turns to face her dead on, his hand going to the railing, stopping just a fraction short of hers. “Ma’am, I serve at the pleasure of the President. I would gladly- If the President wished-”
Avoiding his gaze, Leslie looks down at their hands instead, barely half an inch apart, and yet impossibly far away, and what she thinks but doesn’t say is ‘Yes,’ is ‘Please’. It’s uncharacteristically selfish, and frighteningly needy. And the power of it scares her into silence.
She shakes her head. and turns back to the dawn. But it just looks like smog now. “No. No, it’s fine. I’m just- Well, I never even found out your major. And I had all these great plans to get you tell me which I won’t get to use, now. And--”
“Accounting.”
He says it on a whisper so soft Leslie doesn’t trust she heard it correctly. Blinks and looks back over at him.
“I’m sorry, I don’t-“
“That was my major in college-accounting.”
For a moment all she can do is stare at him in disbelief. Never in a million years . . . “Wait, are you- Are you telling me that all this time I’ve been putting my life in the hands of an accountant?”
Wyatt smiles. “If it makes you feel better I do have a Masters in Criminal Justice as well as Forensic Accounting.”
“No. Not really.” She leans against the rail, trying to absorb this slightly disconcerting turn of events. “Accounting? Really?”
“Well, we are part of the Treasury Department, ma’am.”
“And I’m sure you track a lot of rogue spreadsheets for them.”
“Actually the Service was originally established to combat counterfeiting. It still has jurisdiction over major financial crimes.”
And for second he sounds so impossibly nerdy, reciting the Service’s history like that, that Leslie knows he was telling the truth about the accounting, and can’t help but smile. And then a sharp pang goes through her at the thought of how little she knows about him. How there’s still so much more she wants to discover, and she’s never going to get the chance.
She blows out a shaky breath and tries to play off with a laugh that falls flat. “See, I just got you broken in. And now here I’m going to have to start all over again with someone new.”
“Don’t worry. Agent Traeger is very adaptable. And he smiles more. You’ll like him.”
She won’t.
Leslie closes her eyes and nods. “Yes, I’m sure I will.”
She can feel Wyatt looking at her for a long moment, and she doesn’t know what he’s searching for, but she’s scared of what might happen if he finds it. Abruptly, she sticks out her hand, “Well, Agent Wyatt, thank you. For everything.”
There’s a fraction of an instant when her hand just hangs there suspended, and Wyatt seems like he’s about to say something else, but then it passes and he’s taking her hand . . .
“It’s been an honor, ma’am.”
The handshake is brief and professional and no different than any of the thousands of handshakes she’s exchanged on the Campaign.
So Leslie doesn't know why when he pulls away, it feels like something’s slipped through her fingers.
----
(tbc)