fic: standing still, leslie/ben, pg
title: Standing Still
pairing: Leslie/Ben
rating: PG
words: 1500 on the dot, whoa
notes: Spoilers for the latest episode. I had to work through my feelings, which usually means fic :) Thanks to americnxidiot for the read over :)
It’s not as though this was the first time Ben’s seen Leslie cry.
She cries at lots of things. Obama winning the election, Catelyn dying on Game of Thrones, any time she hears the national anthem, videos of kittens on the internet, her endless scrapbooks chronicling her life and career. She cried when they broke up and cried when they got together again.
Just a few weeks ago, Leslie came home from work looking defeated, walking straight from the door to his arms. That, he was prepared for. Chris had already broken the news, and Leslie had already talked it out with Ann. All Ben had to be was a shoulder for her to cry on.
But this. Really, in his heart, Ben didn’t expect he’d need to help her though this.
After all, he never even wrote a concession speech, and now she has to give one.
He feels it in his gut at the announcement, cutting through his body like he’s being thrown out of mayoral office all over again. But this time it’s worse, it’s so much worse, because Leslie didn’t bankrupt the town. Leslie’s never had an Ice Town, because Leslie’s more qualified to help Pawnee than Ben ever was to help Partridge. Instead of trying to win votes with stupid sunglasses gifted to his campaign by his dad, Leslie worked hard to earn people’s respect, even when the right way wasn’t the easy way.
And look where that got her.
Leslie’s staggering, shoulders unsteady under his palms. Everyone’s shocked, everyone’s hurt. The useless “I’m sorry” sentiments echo across the parks department, and Leslie just curled into his chest, hiding her face.
“You want to go home?” he asks, quietly, holding her as tightly as he can. She just barely nods against him.
---
When Leslie was thirteen years old, she ran for 8th grade class president, on the platform of creating an after-school tutoring system that would help bring everyone’s grades up while also offering chocolate chip cookies for improving students.
She lost, by an absolute landslide, to jock Kyle Fitzgerald, who made the useless promise of making vending machines free for use.
That night, she went home and threw her political biographies at the wall so hard that her mother had to remove all books from her room for the next week.
Thinking back, Leslie wonders how she had the energy to even be angry. Because right now, she feels like her limbs are made of lead. How did she used to be able to throw her shoulders back and proudly walk into a room? How did she stand for hours to fight for Pawnee’s voting rights just the other day? How does Ben expect her to get from the car to the house? She can’t even sit upright in the passenger seat.
Ben’s been quiet, too quiet, because Leslie knows he never believed this either. For all the crap that happened in the last few months, Leslie only faltered in her faith of Pawnee a few times, but Ben’s never stopped believing in her.
Ben, her wonderful husband who broke up with her so she could follow this dream. Her wonderful, caring, supportive husband who fought just as hard as she did to get her into office. The best person in her life, and she almost gave him up when he handed her a button.
Knope 2012.
It’s almost laughable, now, if she could remember how to laugh. Instead, her vision blurs and her cheeks feel hot.
When Ben pulls up the driveway and into their garage, he shuts off the car and looks over to her. She can’t even muster the strength to sit up and meet his gaze, because she doesn’t want to see the disappointment. She already feels it enough. His hand reaches toward her but hovers, because what can he do?
“Let’s just go inside,” she mumbles. She should probably wipe her face off, but there’s something darkly satisfying about the tears rolling down her skin. Right now, the only thing she can think to do is wallow.
---
Ben is truly, honestly worried. And a little scared.
It’s 9pm and Leslie’s asleep in their bed.
When they got home, Leslie wouldn’t get out of the car until she’d fogged up the windows from crying. It was worse than he’d ever seen it. And he tried, tried his damned hardest to reach out, to offer her his hand, to lean over, but he knew nothing he did would make it any better. When she finally hiccuped a small “Take me inside” and he ushered her into the house, she drifted upstairs and he heard the shower going for ages, and now his wife was dead asleep, red-faced and still white-knuckling the sheets on top of her.
He started undressing, keeping a watchful eye on her. Her breathing was even and peaceful, but her brow was still furrowed, and every once in a while she’d mumble words like “failure” and “dreams crushed.” He feels each one in his chest, like a knife.
Being careful not to disturb her, he slides into his side of the bed. She might be asleep, but he’s wide awake, his brain cataloguing every sound she makes, worrying if she’s going to be okay.
He’s been her enemy, her co-worker, her partner, her campaign manager, her friend, her boyfriend and ex-boyfriend and boyfriend again. And now he’s her husband, he’s supposed to know what to do in these situations. But all he knows is he loves his wife, he’s incredibly disappointed for her, he wants nothing more th23an to hold her until it’s better, and eventually she’ll be back on her feet.
Well, he can act on one of those things. In her sleep, she relaxes in his arms, and he feels slight relief.
---
For the next day, Leslie feels like she’s in a haze. She’s just so, so tired, even though she slept almost three times her normal amount last night. She’s exhausted and crushed and can barely look at anyone, can barely stand the pity in their eyes. There’s some vague memories of eating a really good burger and taking a nap, but once Ann forces her into her Halloween costume, Leslie’s mind starts moving a bit.
Well, she can do anything she wants now. Just complete freedom. She did her best and she failed, and that’s the best she’ll ever do. She can do anything. And what she wants most is to get drunk with her Prince Westley.
It’s not until her best friend forces her to sit, as tattooless as she is listless, and read the words Leslie should have been telling herself all along, that Leslie gains clarity.
And yeah, she’s still a little drunk, but it’s like the fog clears.
She loves Ann so much, she doesn’t know what she’s going to do without her. And then her still-drunk husband pretends to drop the Jerry pumpkin as a joke before actually dropping it, the innards splattering across the floor in a resounding thump.
Leslie laughs harder than she has in weeks.
A few cups of coffee later, Leslie drives them home with a sound mind, clear and focused. She’s still sad, of course she is, but she has wonderful people around her. She has Ann, and she has her mess of a wonderful husband next to her.
“Did we really almost get tattoos?” he asks, wide-eyed, his fake pencil mustache smudged against his upper lip. She nods, grinning. “Good lord.”
Her head is already buzzing with a million ideas, lists of things she has to accomplish in the next month if she wants to be proud of the time she got on city council. And she itches to grab a binder, to get it all on paper, to remind herself that she’s Leslie Knope and she won’t give up.
But instead she looks at the adorable man still fumbling to unlock their door, and she forces herself to kiss him instead. Her Princess Buttercup wig might have ended up tossed over the staircase and she’s definitely ripped her dress, but the relief on his face when she guides him to bed is worth it.
“You really are the best husband,” she whispers against his lips as he blinks sleepily.
“And you’re the best Leslie,” he whispers back, giggling. He’s not yet as sober as she is, but it’s endearing, and she pushes the hair off his forehead and tells him to go to sleep. “As you wish,” he mutters with a smirk.
Once his breathing evens out and his arms around her loosen, Leslie slips away to grab a few binders. On a fresh new sheet of paper, she writes “Concession Speech” at the time. And for a few moments she sits, staring at the blank page, listening to her husband’s breaths.
Not yet. She’s not quite ready.
Instead, she opens to her “City Council Bucket List” page, already ripe with ideas, and starts jotting down a few more.
pairing: Leslie/Ben
rating: PG
words: 1500 on the dot, whoa
notes: Spoilers for the latest episode. I had to work through my feelings, which usually means fic :) Thanks to americnxidiot for the read over :)
It’s not as though this was the first time Ben’s seen Leslie cry.
She cries at lots of things. Obama winning the election, Catelyn dying on Game of Thrones, any time she hears the national anthem, videos of kittens on the internet, her endless scrapbooks chronicling her life and career. She cried when they broke up and cried when they got together again.
Just a few weeks ago, Leslie came home from work looking defeated, walking straight from the door to his arms. That, he was prepared for. Chris had already broken the news, and Leslie had already talked it out with Ann. All Ben had to be was a shoulder for her to cry on.
But this. Really, in his heart, Ben didn’t expect he’d need to help her though this.
After all, he never even wrote a concession speech, and now she has to give one.
He feels it in his gut at the announcement, cutting through his body like he’s being thrown out of mayoral office all over again. But this time it’s worse, it’s so much worse, because Leslie didn’t bankrupt the town. Leslie’s never had an Ice Town, because Leslie’s more qualified to help Pawnee than Ben ever was to help Partridge. Instead of trying to win votes with stupid sunglasses gifted to his campaign by his dad, Leslie worked hard to earn people’s respect, even when the right way wasn’t the easy way.
And look where that got her.
Leslie’s staggering, shoulders unsteady under his palms. Everyone’s shocked, everyone’s hurt. The useless “I’m sorry” sentiments echo across the parks department, and Leslie just curled into his chest, hiding her face.
“You want to go home?” he asks, quietly, holding her as tightly as he can. She just barely nods against him.
---
When Leslie was thirteen years old, she ran for 8th grade class president, on the platform of creating an after-school tutoring system that would help bring everyone’s grades up while also offering chocolate chip cookies for improving students.
She lost, by an absolute landslide, to jock Kyle Fitzgerald, who made the useless promise of making vending machines free for use.
That night, she went home and threw her political biographies at the wall so hard that her mother had to remove all books from her room for the next week.
Thinking back, Leslie wonders how she had the energy to even be angry. Because right now, she feels like her limbs are made of lead. How did she used to be able to throw her shoulders back and proudly walk into a room? How did she stand for hours to fight for Pawnee’s voting rights just the other day? How does Ben expect her to get from the car to the house? She can’t even sit upright in the passenger seat.
Ben’s been quiet, too quiet, because Leslie knows he never believed this either. For all the crap that happened in the last few months, Leslie only faltered in her faith of Pawnee a few times, but Ben’s never stopped believing in her.
Ben, her wonderful husband who broke up with her so she could follow this dream. Her wonderful, caring, supportive husband who fought just as hard as she did to get her into office. The best person in her life, and she almost gave him up when he handed her a button.
Knope 2012.
It’s almost laughable, now, if she could remember how to laugh. Instead, her vision blurs and her cheeks feel hot.
When Ben pulls up the driveway and into their garage, he shuts off the car and looks over to her. She can’t even muster the strength to sit up and meet his gaze, because she doesn’t want to see the disappointment. She already feels it enough. His hand reaches toward her but hovers, because what can he do?
“Let’s just go inside,” she mumbles. She should probably wipe her face off, but there’s something darkly satisfying about the tears rolling down her skin. Right now, the only thing she can think to do is wallow.
---
Ben is truly, honestly worried. And a little scared.
It’s 9pm and Leslie’s asleep in their bed.
When they got home, Leslie wouldn’t get out of the car until she’d fogged up the windows from crying. It was worse than he’d ever seen it. And he tried, tried his damned hardest to reach out, to offer her his hand, to lean over, but he knew nothing he did would make it any better. When she finally hiccuped a small “Take me inside” and he ushered her into the house, she drifted upstairs and he heard the shower going for ages, and now his wife was dead asleep, red-faced and still white-knuckling the sheets on top of her.
He started undressing, keeping a watchful eye on her. Her breathing was even and peaceful, but her brow was still furrowed, and every once in a while she’d mumble words like “failure” and “dreams crushed.” He feels each one in his chest, like a knife.
Being careful not to disturb her, he slides into his side of the bed. She might be asleep, but he’s wide awake, his brain cataloguing every sound she makes, worrying if she’s going to be okay.
He’s been her enemy, her co-worker, her partner, her campaign manager, her friend, her boyfriend and ex-boyfriend and boyfriend again. And now he’s her husband, he’s supposed to know what to do in these situations. But all he knows is he loves his wife, he’s incredibly disappointed for her, he wants nothing more th23an to hold her until it’s better, and eventually she’ll be back on her feet.
Well, he can act on one of those things. In her sleep, she relaxes in his arms, and he feels slight relief.
---
For the next day, Leslie feels like she’s in a haze. She’s just so, so tired, even though she slept almost three times her normal amount last night. She’s exhausted and crushed and can barely look at anyone, can barely stand the pity in their eyes. There’s some vague memories of eating a really good burger and taking a nap, but once Ann forces her into her Halloween costume, Leslie’s mind starts moving a bit.
Well, she can do anything she wants now. Just complete freedom. She did her best and she failed, and that’s the best she’ll ever do. She can do anything. And what she wants most is to get drunk with her Prince Westley.
It’s not until her best friend forces her to sit, as tattooless as she is listless, and read the words Leslie should have been telling herself all along, that Leslie gains clarity.
And yeah, she’s still a little drunk, but it’s like the fog clears.
She loves Ann so much, she doesn’t know what she’s going to do without her. And then her still-drunk husband pretends to drop the Jerry pumpkin as a joke before actually dropping it, the innards splattering across the floor in a resounding thump.
Leslie laughs harder than she has in weeks.
A few cups of coffee later, Leslie drives them home with a sound mind, clear and focused. She’s still sad, of course she is, but she has wonderful people around her. She has Ann, and she has her mess of a wonderful husband next to her.
“Did we really almost get tattoos?” he asks, wide-eyed, his fake pencil mustache smudged against his upper lip. She nods, grinning. “Good lord.”
Her head is already buzzing with a million ideas, lists of things she has to accomplish in the next month if she wants to be proud of the time she got on city council. And she itches to grab a binder, to get it all on paper, to remind herself that she’s Leslie Knope and she won’t give up.
But instead she looks at the adorable man still fumbling to unlock their door, and she forces herself to kiss him instead. Her Princess Buttercup wig might have ended up tossed over the staircase and she’s definitely ripped her dress, but the relief on his face when she guides him to bed is worth it.
“You really are the best husband,” she whispers against his lips as he blinks sleepily.
“And you’re the best Leslie,” he whispers back, giggling. He’s not yet as sober as she is, but it’s endearing, and she pushes the hair off his forehead and tells him to go to sleep. “As you wish,” he mutters with a smirk.
Once his breathing evens out and his arms around her loosen, Leslie slips away to grab a few binders. On a fresh new sheet of paper, she writes “Concession Speech” at the time. And for a few moments she sits, staring at the blank page, listening to her husband’s breaths.
Not yet. She’s not quite ready.
Instead, she opens to her “City Council Bucket List” page, already ripe with ideas, and starts jotting down a few more.