Fic: Vertigo
Title: Vertigo
Fandom: Parks and Recreation
Characters: Chris, Ben, Leslie, Ron
Rating: PG
Word count: ~8180
Summary: This is a character study of Chris as Ben confesses to his relationship with Leslie and then resigns. Covers The Trial of Leslie Knope (briefly) and Citizen Knope (extensively).
Notes: For stillscape, who prompted a Citizen Knope Chris POV during the Other Characters Week of Government Shutdown over at leslie_ben. It just took me this long to finish. Massive thanks to jncar for the beta and Chris-Traeger-level encouragement. rikyl also suggested something to me once for another fic, about what happens to Ben after the resignation-meeting, and I used that idea here. The title is not meant as a Hitchcock reference, by the way. Comments are like pitchers of green smoothie. They cure everything.
Vertigo
I. The Trial
Chris hates being angry. In fact, that's an understatement. There is nothing he hates quite like being angry. Being sad, for example, is preferable. He doesn't like that either, but at least sadness, unlike anger, is an inward-leaning emotion. He can be sad alone. Being angry usually means being angry at somebody else, which means putting out all kinds of negative energy into the universe-metaphysical pollution-which is something he refuses to do.
Nevertheless … "We're very sorry for the position this puts you in," Ben says. We. Meaning he and Leslie. Who are sitting in Chris's office, holding hands, confessing to their relationship. Presenting a united front. Apparently. Against him, Chris. They've trekked all over Indiana together for over a decade and suddenly it's "we" and "position"-this bizarrely formal language, and, for god's sake Ben, you couldn't have thought of a better way to break the news to me, Chris, your partner on the road for twelve years, than holding hands with your girlfriend in my office and words that sound like we just met a month ago? We. Meaning you and I.
Chris can't sit still then, because there's a twinge of anger that must be shaken off immediately, lest it take hold. So it's no choice but up out of his chair. By the time he's rounded the desk, he has already successfully processed the unbearable rage into slightly more acceptable sadness.
"I love both of you," he says, but can't help looking at Ben as he says it. Ben, who looks gratifyingly chagrined but says nothing as Leslie prattles on about their exemplary records. But then, Ben knows it's no use. Rules have to be enforced, and one would hope Ben approves of that. Doesn't he? Yes, Ben would. But not anymore? Perhaps. Chris doesn't know what to think, because at this moment he doesn't feel like he knows anything about Ben or the positions he might hold. Tall brunettes, basic rules of government-it's all the same. Let's just throw it all out the window!
No, in fact, let's not. "I'm launching a full investigation into the extent of your wrongdoing. Please report Monday, first thing, to the Council Chambers for your ethics trial and subsequent punishment." And then he gets out of there, because even he, Chris, needs more than three seconds to process this new We.
≈
The following week the trial happens. Just happens, as Chris prefers to think of it, though he is the one conducting it. And conduct it he does. He's high as a kite on more than a dozen herbal remedies, but even so, Chris is a model of professionalism all day. It is a delicate situation, conducting an ethics trial against the most capable employee City Hall has ever seen and the Assistant City Manager he himself hired, and he knows he should be proud of it. His professionalism. But he's not proud of it. A large part of him wishes he had never called George Williams to the witness stand. A smaller but more persistent part knows he had to. When Ben resigns, inevitably, he dissolves into a weepy mess.
"All right, I'll call security," Ethel Beavers says. "They'll escort you to collect your personal effects, Mr Wyatt. Standard procedure."
Chris is a tightly wound ball of anguish, still hanging on to Ben, who is actually patting him on the back, seeming to tolerate the physical contact somewhat better than usual. But Beavers's words manage to cut through the fog of misery and make it through to the rationally functioning part of his brain.
"No," Chris says, and straightens. "That's not necessary. Ben, you can wait while we wrap up in the Chamber and come in tomorrow for your … your things." He lays a hand on his colleague's- his former colleague's shoulder. Ben looks relieved, though it is unclear whether that's because he won't be escorted from the building by security or because Chris has stopped crying into his suit.
"Thanks," Ben says at the same time as Whitfield says, "We really can't allow that."
"You've got the second most senior employee in the building resigning in disgrace, Mr Traeger," Gregory Whitfield continues, nodding towards Ben. The chairman of the committee narrows his eyes. "There's really no way he hangs around outside the Council Chamber waiting for his girlfriend, left to do god knows what in-"
"-I've known Mr Wyatt personally for twelve years, I'm not having him escorted from the building by security. It's not-"
"Mr Traeger-"
"Very well. There are still ten minutes left before we have to resume. I'll take him to get his things myself."
It isn't procedure, but cannot really be said to be unethical either. Chris is, after all, the prosecutor. Not a witness, not part of the jury, and certainly not an accessory. Whitfield throws up his arms, exasperated, but doesn't object.
≈
"And in …erm … Parks … you've, you've got the Winter Wonderland coming up, tree lighting ceremony simulcast on internet radio-"
"What?"
Because Ben was never so much an Assistant as a Co-City Manager, he is attempting to brief Chris on all his departments in ten minutes while simultaneously packing up his desk. Chris should probably inform him it's no use; he's only listening well enough to provide one-word replies.
"I don't know either. But don't worry about it, Leslie has had it all planned since June-"
"Undoubtedly."
"Yeah. So."
Ordinarily, his brain would be able to process this information no matter how fast Ben was speaking and he'd be able to give it back word for word even hours later-and Ben knows this-but not right now. Chris has a strange floaty feeling. Like this isn't really happening, like he's in a dream maybe, and all he can do is stand and stare and give inane one-word responses. Nah, he's not going to retain a shred of this.
"… focus on Public Works. And that's, uh, it. I think."
"Okay."
"You sure you got it though?"
"Sure. Yes, no." Chris shakes his head in an attempt to clear it. He's going to need to contribute a bit more here. "I absolutely got it, Ben. Thanks for that."
"Okay, uh, great." Ben still looks dubious. "I mean, call if you run into … anything else, I guess. Or email."
"Thanks. I will."
All the things Ben will take with him fit into the box that's sitting on his desk. Kind of a small box. But not really that small either. Bigger than photo-box-sized at least. A medium-sized box. Chris can't take his eyes off it.
"So. I mean. Chris."
Any second now Ben's going to pick up that box and turn to leave. Leave Chris behind with all this. With this empty office and two jobs to do and all of it with less than a week's notice. Ah, there it is again, the poison. The anger. That stupid box.
"You should have told me about it, Ben. When it first became an issue. I, we could have prevented … this, from happening."
Now Ben's really going to pick up that infernal box, isn't he? Even just to put distance between him and Chris that way. Because this is Ben after all. And if there's anything Ben hates more than overt displays of emotion-Chris's emotions, especially-it's open conflict.
"I know, I know," Ben says instead, studying the floor. "I mean, I know this wasn't- I'm- This isn't your fault. I know that." He's still not picking up that box. The hateful box. Chris wants to crush it into a million pieces. Run his bike over it a dozen times. Watch his 200-pound dumbbell come crashing down on it.
"But honestly, Chris," Ben says, finally meeting Chris's eyes. "Honestly, if I'd told you about it when it first became an issue, I would never have held this job in the first place." He heaves a sigh, gives a heavy-hearted expression, and shakes his head, a little lost.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. I'm sorry."
That's all it takes. This isn't Ben trying to avoid conflict with polite excuses. It's the truth, plain and simple. And should the truth, this particular truth, make him more angry, or less? Everything was doomed from the start. Chris swallows hard. It's sadness again. The lesser toxin.
"Well," he sighs. "I … I hope she's worth it."
"Oh, she is. Definitely."
"Yes, I suspect so, too, actually."
"Yeah, and uh … listen. Don't, I mean, don't take it out on Leslie, okay? Not that, not that you would. But two weeks suspension, you know she's not going to take that well…"
"You mean she's literally going to-"
"-go stir-crazy? Make life in the City Manager's office a living hell? I have no doubt whatsoever."
They can't help chuckling. No, it's not going to be an easy two weeks. Both of them know that, can envision it at least. Leslie is, after all, the one person who tried to schedule fourteen meetings with their office within two days of the government shutdown. But god knows, or at least Chris and Ben know, that if everyone under the City Manager's supervision were as much of a workaholic as she, this job wouldn't require two people in the first place. City Hall would as good as run itself.
"Very well. Consider me forewarned. And-I will do my utmost to be circumspect about it."
"Great," Ben nods. "So, hey, guess we should really get going. Those ten minutes are long gone."
"Ah. Yes."
Chris expects Ben to move to pick up the wretched box, but he doesn't. Instead, he steps right into what would be Chris's personal space if Chris believed in such a concept. He doesn't, because the space closest to him is the space he most likes to share with other people. Chris loves connecting with someone. It's so important, on a spiritual level. And of course on a physical level, it's also very important. But in any case, Ben has never voluntarily and deliberately stepped into it, this would-be personal space of Chris's. Not once in twelve years. Until now. And then-then something else happens. Something equally unprecedented but even more remarkable. For a split second Chris is convinced he really must be dreaming, but he doesn't remember going to sleep, and Chris has lucid dreams almost exclusively: if he were dreaming, he'd already know it. Plus, this doesn't actually feel like dreaming. No, it really doesn't feel like dreaming at all when Ben closes the gap between them, and puts his arms around him.
Those arms feel strange-but-familiar; and when Ben claps him on the back a couple times, he automatically draws Chris closer to him so that Chris can feel the leanness of Ben's chest; and they're about the same height, so Chris can't avoid getting a whiff of the other man's hair gel.
And then, of course, it's over.
"Ben Wyatt!" Chris can't help but snap his fingers at him.
"Yeah. So. Um, I guess I … I'll see you around then."
Chris nods, smiling. "Walk yourself out? There is literally no time for me to-" He winks at Ben and Ben picks up the box from the desk, smirking. He starts to carry it towards the door, but Chris is momentarily transfixed by the empty desk. Now that it's gone, he misses the box there. That miserable box that holds all the things that made the office Ben's.
"You coming?"
"Yes."
Chris opens the door for Ben, and they start walking together to the end of the corridor, where Ben takes a right towards the nearest exit, and Chris a left towards the Council Chamber. And there's a shift. Chris takes a step in the direction of the Chamber, and the earth … it shifts on its axis. Things change. The changes are subtle, but run deep. The air tastes different. The colours have drifted slightly, either up or downspectrum, it's hard to tell. The temperature has either dropped or risen, it's difficult to pinpoint which. But one thing is certain: a new wind's blowing.
City Hall looks essentially the way it did when Chris arrived in Pawnee a year and a half ago. The beige-grey walls, the paintings that are gruesome yet full of local charm at the same time, the fluorescent lights, the taxidermic wildlife in display cases that he finds both frightful and-by virtue of its eternally preserved state-enviable, but mostly doesn't notice anymore at all. Chris does, after all, pass through these halls every working day, often many times a day, sometimes at a light run to burn off extra calories after splurging on one of Ron Swanson's hamburgers in the cafeteria. Yet there's something … off about them now. Something's not quite right. His body preserves the muscle memory of exactly where to go, but in his mind City Hall registers as an entirely new place. As strange and utterly unfamiliar. It's disorienting. Chris can't get the image of the emptied-out desk out of his head either, and of the box being carried away. They're the emblems of this strange new world-a large empty desk in an office full of unknowns, and box full of familiars disappearing. He feels so nauseated that he has to stop, brace himself against the wall, and practice yogic breathing for thirty seconds, to avoid throwing up.
II. The Abyss
He can't imagine himself any other way now, but Chris had never really been a night-time runner. Not before he came to Pawnee. However, at the Super Suites Motel the walls were almost tissue-paper thin and his finely-tuned-microchip body is-of course-highly susceptible to noise of any kind. And so, after someone- (He won't name names, but he already had definite suspicions when he left his room on those nights and saw the Benz in the parking spot next to his own, suspicions that were more or less confirmed when a certain Mercedes-driving someone admitted to ruining her fair share of hotel rooms-the trial had been illuminating in more ways than one ... ) In any case, when someone rented the adjoining room to engage in what had to be either particularly violent fist-fights or, Chris hoped, far more pleasurable consensual, but equally noisy, activities twice in the first two weeks, Chris took to the streets. And he discovered that night-time running was spectacular! In fact, he frequently found it to be better than sleep.
Then, one night, he couldn't stop a high-pitched shriek from escaping him when he killed a little brown bug on his pillow and it left behind a smear of blood. Bed bugs-Chris didn't want to imagine what these might do to the microchip, so he forwent sleep altogether. He donned his hydration backpack and ran until the sun peeked over the horizon. It turned out that he felt as rested after a low-intensity night-time marathon as he did after a full eight hours of sleep. It was magnificent! Even after becoming City Manager and renting a small house (the energy currents in that house are unlike the natural energetic free-flow he'd so loved about his Indianapolis apartment, but it took him three years to find that apartment and he only spent two weeks looking at houses, and at least the place doesn't have bed bugs) Chris still enjoys a good night of running, particularly when he's feeling too on edge to sleep.
And now, in these nights following the trial, after the earth has shifted on its axis and transported him into this whole new world in which all responsibility for decision-making, for delivering news good and bad, rests squarely on his shoulders, he is certainly feeling restless. The nausea has subsided to a dull throb, but it's still there, still reminds him that he is alone in this. Tonight even Millicent Gergich won't return his calls, possibly because Chris spent a large part of last night's phone conversation stating and reiterating how much he loved her. That was a little reckless and perhaps a little crazy, he knows, but he felt so sick, so heartsick and queasy, after the trial that he fairly overflowed with emotion. Now Millie doesn't want to speak to him-again. Dammit, he thinks to himself. Even Jerry Gergich knows you need to take the utmost care not to say 'I love you' too soon … But it could not be helped. Or perhaps it's not that at all. Perhaps it's just that she's busy tonight. It's not all about you, Chris. Ben didn't leave because of you, and Millie's not just thinking about you either. He locks his jaw and swallows hard. But who is? Who is thinking of me? Anyone? No one?
No one. The thought is like looking into an abyss. No. No. Mustn't look. Not too closely. It's an abyss of dizzying depth. Barren and desolate, where icy winds reach up from deep to encircle him. Chris takes a step back into a door jamb and pulls the Bumbleflex over his head. He shoulders the hydration pack, and then he runs. With his need for a physical outlet to bring down the nervous energy that's taken root in his belly just quadrupled, he lets his feet carry him where they will, all over town, on routes familiar and unknown. Maybe it's chance, or maybe it's a hunch his subconscious has based on what Ben said when he cleared out his desk, that brings him alongside City Hall later that night. He is just in time to see Leslie Knope exit her car and glance surreptitiously around the parking lot, before sneaking into the building through a side door. Chris follows, unseen. She is not that sneaky.
"Leslie Knope!"
Caught in the act, she flinches. "Hey Chris! Wow, is that a new jogging shirt?"
"It is. It's an experimental fabric called Bumbleflex. It's made out of synthetic bees' wings."
"It's cool!"
Chris would love to keep discussing the benefits of Bumbleflex. It truly is remarkable! Keeps you warm at night, yet is entirely breathable, too, which makes it ideal even for the sunniest days. He'll have to order at least a dozen more Bumbleflex designs. And he'd get to spend more time with Leslie Knope, who is a most excellent human being … But she is, of course, breaking the rules. Which means that somebody needs deal with this over-eager Parks and Rec employee- Ben? he thinks reflexively, Parks and Rec is your department- But no. No, it's the middle of the night and Ben's not here. Besides which, this is the strange new world, which means Ben is not going to be here in the morning either. Dammit. Time to bite the bullet, Chris…
"Anyway, you're not supposed to be here. You're suspended."
"I totally understand that …"
Leslie Knope is literally the best employee in City Hall, by virtue of her persistence. Probably the best public servant in the entire state of Indiana, too. And the most frustrating. But most people in government don't seem to care about anything, are content to pass the days until they reach retirement age by putting in minimal effort, and Chris feels that Leslie, who cares rather too much about everything, is something of a kindred spirit. She might even understand about his most recent faux pas with Millicent. But not right now. Right now she is on suspension and trespassing and he is her supervisor, and why, after all, did Ben resign if Chris is just going to start chucking the rules out the window now? He can't do that. Instead, he lets her engage him in the game of nasal spray and lets her run until she has almost reached the outer door she came through before he relieves her of that flash drive.
"Damn," she says. "I thought that would work. I blame the Bumbleflex."
"The Bumbleflex is amazing! But you should go home, Leslie. Just think of it as two weeks vacation."
She gives him a withering look.
"Besides, you've got the campaign to focus on, am I right?"
"Yeah," she sighs. "I've got a meeting with my advisers day after tomorrow, actually."
She looks worried.
"Excellent! Time to mount a counterattack in the press?"
The press against Pawnee's only declared City Council candidate has been predictably vicious. But as far as Chris knows Leslie's campaign hasn't released any kind of statement, nor has she answered any questions on the scandal so far. It's a curious strategy, particularly for someone whom he has known to "take care" of a controversy surrounding nudity in public art by campaigning for her position on local access TV. And all without giving so much as a heads up to City Hall. But if her advisers feel their meeting can wait another two days, they must be feeling confident indeed.
Leslie, however, bites her lip and nods. "I hope so."
"Well, that's great. I really hope the trial doesn't interfere with your campaign in any way. And-I cannot wait to see the counteroffensive you come up with."
"Thanks, Chris." She smiles.
"So, I will see you back here in two weeks-"
At that, she grimaces. "A week and six days." She pushes the door open with an offhand motion, like a sullen teenager. "Fine. Good night, Mr Traeger."
When Leslie is gone-he checks to see that she actually gets into her car and drives off-Chris returns to the Parks Department. He turns off her computer, pulls up the chair she's thrown over in her attempt to escape with the flash drive, and sits. He shakes his head and grins. Leslie Knope!
"My job is to protect the government from fraud and corruption," he said to her yesterday. "I was just doing my job. And I hope that you can understand that."
"I do," Leslie nodded. "Honestly, I do." And he knew she meant it.
Besides the fact that she is Pawnee's best public servant and Ben's girlfriend, Chris knows that, no matter how many times Leslie clashes with his authority, she's not going to hold it against him personally. It's a marvellous feat of compartmentalization on her part, in which she simultaneously respects the City Manager's authority generally, flaunts it in the heat of the moment, and still manages to remain on friendly terms with Chris personally. Chris got a taste of it back when they clashed over Jerry's painting, and felt it even more so last night, when he and Leslie cleared the air after a day of cross-courtroom shouting at each other in less than 30 seconds. He's glad for it. That capacity for compartmentalization makes her one of the most outstanding people he knows. And so worthy of being with Ben.
It's good, he thinks, to keep thinking about Leslie. Leslie and Ben and the way they love each other, and the fact that Chris knows, without a shadow of doubt, that there has never been anyone for whom Ben would have so readily thrown his career out the window. Until now. One would have to be heartless indeed not be happy for him, he thinks.
But at the same time, there's a wave of nausea and a sharp pain in his chest every time he visualizes their clasped hands as they sat in his office. He feels, again, the foreboding from right before Leslie broke the news to him and the queasiness he felt when he left her and Ben sitting in his office. Those emotions mix with the strange hollowness that seems to follow him everywhere he goes now. The result is not anger, but a kind of vertigo that has a toxic flavour all its own. Chris props his elbows on the table and his forehead in his hands, and tries to compartmentalize all his emotions the way Leslie can. He fails. The room spins around him.
III. Hell
By the end of the week, Chris is glad to have diverted Leslie's attention to her campaign for the time being. All hell breaks loose. He would have called Friday night an early night if he wasn't swamped with proposals and complaints from twice as many departments as usual. They never seemed to come to Ben with this much … this much junk. But Ben is good at saying no, isn't he? Better than good, amazing. Chris is only good at saying yes and really, really … well, mediocre, to say the least, at saying no, and that's the whole point. That is why they should be working together, why it's not right for them not to be working together-quite apart from the fact that Chris can see Ben's empty desk through his open office door and whenever he happens to glance that way, he has a sinking feeling in his stomach and a curious tingling sensation behind his eyes. Maybe he's getting near-sighted and needs glasses. Maybe he's growing a stomach ulcer. Maybe the entire microchip has been compromised and this is just the beginning. The beginning of the end. Whatever the case may be, Chris just wants to go home and curl up in bed next to Millicent, if he can persuade her to come over, and not think of anything while she rests her luscious locks on his naked chest and he draws circles on her perfect thighs with his fingertips.
But he can't do that. He hasn't even had time to call her once today. He's had meetings with everyone from Harris from Animal Control, who seems to be the only person in Pawnee that's blissfully unaware of the fact that the town's largest supermarket has fallen into raccoon-hands four days ago, to Marlene Griggs-Knope from the County School Board, who has requested half a dozen new school buses, despite the fact that Ben arranged for the purchase of two buses only half a year ago.
It's six o'clock on a Friday. His secretary went home over an hour ago and he's only just getting around to the essential emails of the day when his phone rings. At six o'clock. p.m. On a Friday. In a public building.
"City Manager's office, Chris Traeger speaking."
"Mr Traeger, my name is Jennifer Hecker and I'm calling on behalf of PCP with six urgent demands which include such crucial matters as the removal of insect pests from the teen centre please keep in mind that you will be hearing from us frequently until you agree to meet with us good day Sir," an unknown woman's voice says very quickly. She's hung up on him before he can respond or even so much as process what she said-the latter is a first for Chris.
He shakes his head and returns to an email from Tammy Swanson, who has proposed a number of new book purchases for the library, among them The Elusive Orgasm - A Woman's Guide, I Love Female Orgasm - An Extraordinary Guide, and Show Me Where it Squirts - The Hotter, Wetter, Dripping Guide to Female Ejaculation. Whatever her motives-Chris suspects they're less than pure, but can't put his finger on that suspicion-physical pleasure is very important. Why not? he thinks and okays the proposal.
Then his phone rings, again. It's 6:15.
"City Manager's office, Chris Traeger speaking."
"I'm Rosie Flanagan," a woman says. "I'm with the PCP and I'm calling to remind you of the de-plo-rable state of this city's tennis courts-
"Ma'am-"
"Don't you 'ma'am' me, Mr City Manager. We are PCP and we will not be muzzled like a rabid dog. We are your guilty conscience and we will not leave you alone."
"Ms Flanagan? Hello?" There is silence at the other end of the line. Tennis courts? Chris is well aware of the state of all of Pawnee's sports facilities, public and private, and it's true that some of the nets are sagging a little on the tennis courts. But that doesn't explain why these women have decided to go straight to the City Manager, much less why they're calling about tennis courts after six on a Friday night and don't even wait for Chris's response before hanging up on him.
Being yelled at by unknown women feels like a little more than Chris can stomach right at this moment. He resolves to finish this email to the Sewage Department, whose new director has filed an official complaint because, since Joe left, the college students applying for internships appear to have "dropped in overall hotness levels from Britney ca. 1997 to Britney now", and then go home.
Just as Chris grabs his jacket at 6:30, the phone rings again. Against his better judgment, he picks it up.
"City Manager's office, Chris Traeger speaking."
"Mr Traeger-," a third woman starts. She has the same self-important tone as the previous callers, but Chris is quicker this time.
"Yes, but please tell me who I am speaking to and why you choose to ignore normal business hours?"
"Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry. I told- I mean, I was in favour of a letter writing campaign from the start. I'm Diane Weller and I'm calling on behalf of PCP, but I'll … I'll call back during business hours. So, so sorry to have bothered you. Good night."
Click, says the line, and she's gone. Are the women of the world ganging up on him? Chris gives the phone a last wary look, avoids the somewhat masochistic urge to cross through Ben's empty office on his way out, and goes home-where his bedsheets are cold and the one woman who he was hoping would call him continues to ignore him all weekend.
≈
Millicent Gergich is alone in her attitude towards him, however. Over the weekend, Chris comes to wish the rest of Pawnee treated him with her level of indifference. But the housewives of Pawnee, at least, seem to have it in for him. These women pop up everywhere. They all look like the kind of innocuous, middle-class homemakers who might pursue the odd part-time job while their kids are in school-good citizens who go vote and even show up at a public forum every once in a while. They look sensible, settled, and non-threatening. And ordinarily they are. Suddenly, however, they turn to glare at him from across the street, they step right into his jogging path, they even yell at him across the aisle at not one but three different GNCs. They come bearing signs that seem to simultaneously advertise a less-than-common hallucinogen and decry the sorry state of the Rec Center's board game collection-a bizarre combination, even for Pawnee. After a weekend of being thus accosted by Pawnee's soccer moms, Chris is thoroughly shaken when he makes it back to the office on Monday morning, mercifully without incident on the way.
His first order of business is to make a whole pitcher full of green smoothie using every herb in his herb belt. His secretary wrinkles her nose at the smell. It doesn't help much, however. He has not sat at his desk for more than ten seconds when the phone rings. Eight a.m. on Monday. Pawnee number outside City Hall, according to the caller ID. Maybe it's an emergency, he thinks hopefully. Something could be burning down. Like a library building. All that paper. Or there could be flooding. Like the pond in Ramsett Park. They've been having a bit of a warm weather spell-the snow's thawing. No, he thinks. What a horrible thing to think. His chakras must be clogged, if he's starting to anticipate such calamities with hope.
He lets the phone ring a couple more times, eyeing it suspiciously. That's what Ben does, too. Lets the phone ring a couple times before picking it up in order not to seem over-eager or over-available. Used to, anyway. The more belligerent the town they encountered, the longer Ben would let the phone ring. Is he starting to think like Ben? Should he start to think like Ben? He can't think like Ben, can he? He doesn't want to think like Ben. Does he?
He picks up the phone.
"Good morning!" he says and pours every bit of enthusiasm he can scrape together into it. "Chris Traeger speaking. City Manager. Isn't this a wonderful day? What can I do to help you?"
There's a giggle on the other end of the line. Is that what this is? Is an enormous prank being played on him? Is the entire City of Pawnee in cahoots against him? No, that can't be it. Can it be? It can't be.
"Good … good morning, Mr Traeger," a female voice says, still suppressing giggles. He would peg her for early forties. "I'm with the PCP and this-this is your wake up call. You can give in to our demands either now-or later. Yahtzee… " she giggles, "Yahtzee for all!"
And so the attack of the soccer moms continues. If there's a joke here, the joke's on him. Chris is generally a good sport, but he doesn't feel like laughing. Between Ben and Millicent and the work, this mysterious harassment everywhere he goes is the last thing he needs. Emails continue to pile up and calls continue to come in on his direct line like clockwork, every fifteen minutes. By ten a.m. he is so unnerved that, in order to get any actual work done, he unplugs his own phone and instructs his secretary only to answer calls from inside City Hall.
By eleven, he's on his third green smoothie and the second pile of paperwork. The strange new world is just starting to feel … not normal-that would be saying too much-but bearable. Somewhat less disorienting and somewhat more manageable. If he can keep his eyes away from the door to Ben's office. If he can keep his mind on the job and not on Millicent Gergich. If he can keep his office phone unplugged and his secretary on high alert, then maybe there's a chance Pawnee's current City Manager will manage without a heart attack.
That's when Leslie Knope storms past his secretary and into his office.
"Concerned citizen and community leader, Leslie Knope," she introduces herself.
Oh what fresh hell is this, he thinks. She's not still busy with the campaign? Or still not busy? Whatever the case may be, his capacity for people's demands on his time is well and truly spent. How did she even manage to make that eleven o'clock appointment with his secretary deflecting all calls from outside?
"Hi Leslie. You're not supposed to be here."
"As a government employee that's true," she says, her stance belligerent. "But I'm just here as a concerned citizen and founder of PCP. The Parks Committee of Pawnee."
She's glaring at him, as if willing him to acknowledge the havoc she can still wreak on his life, even while barred from City Hall. There's no need. The penny has dropped already, and although there's a short stab of anger, because the Parks Committee of Pawnee really has made his life a living hell, that emotion is there for a second and gone the next. What Chris feels, most of all, is relief.
Relief that there aren't some mysterious powers in Pawnee that are ganging up on him. Relief that there's a rational explanation after all. Relief to know it's all Leslie's doing, all part of her effort to defy the sentence that suspends her. Relief, most of all, that now that he knows where it's coming from, it should be easy enough to get the harassment to stop. He'll get his life back-at least the part of it where he can channel all his troubles into an extended jog through the anonymous streets of Pawnee without being accosted by angry faces everywhere he goes. That's so important, too, because without Ben and with Millicent avoiding him, and with these new shoes to fill at work, his need for endorphin-producing runs is extra pressing.
In short, his relief is so strong that he somehow agrees to meet with Leslie's lunatic soccer moms. He's got to stop doing that. Agreeing to things. His schedule for the next three months is fit to burst already.
But then Leslie pulls out his Christmas present and they're friends again. Perhaps it's not so wrong to agree to things after all, Chris thinks. But then he remembers that Ben was already dating Leslie in secret when he shot down one budget request of hers after the other, and she never seemed to like him any less for it. This is Leslie, wizard of compartmentalization, after all. His agreeing to meet with PCP has got nothing to do with the fact that she already had his Christmas present with her.
"See you in hell!" is the last thing she says to him.
Leslie scowls and then she's gone. Chris is torn between the desire to take an early lunch break to try out his new stopwatch and his fear of those activist housewives of hers.
He really needs to develop a thicker skin, he thinks. But how, exactly, is one supposed to develop a skin to rival Ben's elephantine one at age 45, after a whole lifetime of agreeing to things one shouldn't agree to and a whole career built on the same? It really is a mystery, but it's a mystery for another day. For now, Chris decides against braving the streets. He tackles his third pile of paperwork instead. That, at least, is something he can do. Even Ben, the master of efficiency, was always more than a little jealous of his speed reading.
IV. No Place At All
One bewildering incident at a time, the strange new world comes into focus. In the afternoon, in a move that is entirely without precedent, Ron Swanson steps into his office.
"Christopher, got a minute?" Ron Swanson asks, hovering in the doorway and looking reluctant to be there.
"Ron Swanson, yes, get in here! Have a seat!"
Without a word, Ron sits and crosses his arms in front of his chest. Ron Swanson-here is a man that's not too good about communicating. Chris makes a mental note to schedule the Parks staff for a teamwork workshop at his earliest convenience.
"So, what can I do for you?" he smiles extra brightly and opens his arms extra wide. The best way of responding to a closed-off employee is by demonstrating openness. Chris is the master of putting people at ease, has been for more than a decade. It really is the place he's most comfortable working from. To say that he's made an entire career of it would be an exaggeration, but not by much.
In response to the flash of Chris's perfect teeth, Ron raises an eyebrow and crosses his feet under the chair. Not the most encouraging reaction. But Chris isn't an expert at this game for nothing.
"Would you like an herbal smoothie? It really supercharges the energy flow through all seven chakras."
Ron makes a sound in the back of his throat and says, "No, thank you. Let's cut to the chase. Leslie's campaign people dropped her. Bad polls. So, as a-"
"Oh no! That's too bad. I'm so sorry to hear that, Ron. When did this happen? How is she taking it?"
"No idea." Ron shakes his head. "Not well. According to the nurse. However, the department and I want to help her out. Given recent events, I thought it would be best to inform you beforehand."
Chris bites the inside of his cheek. "And by 'help her out' you mean-?"
"Relaunch her campaign. Tonight, at the Christmas party."
"Ron. As I'm sure you know-"
"This is a government building, and although as such it's a colossal waste of taxpayer money to begin with and all our jobs continue to waste people's money, we're not supposed to waste the taxpayers' money on things that might actually benefit the taxpayer in the long term-"
"Well-"
"I understand. Leslie's campaign work will be strictly on a volunteer basis."
"And-"
"None of it will be happening inside this towering monument of government waste."
"Or-"
"During work hours."
"So, let me get this straight. You and all of your co-workers are prepared to devote your all of your free time to working on Leslie's campaign?"
Ron gives a single, determined nod. "And the nurse," he says.
"Ann Perkins?" Chris smiles and points. Ron's expression does not change. "So all you need from me is my permission to announce this new campaign at the departmental Christmas party tonight?"
"Mh. It's a Christmas present. To offset years of gift-giving imbalance."
"Well. In that case, you-of course-have my permission. Because-that-literally sounds like the most amazing plan anyone's had in three hundred years. And the most beautiful proof of friend- friendship." He swallows hard as his voice gives out. It's getting hard to see, too. This time, Chris is sure it's definitely not that there's anything wrong with the microchip. Despite Ron's less-than-impassioned pitch, it's the layer of tears coating his eyes, and the emotion lodging in his throat. "So yes. You-of course-have my blessing," he says as he wipes the tears from his eyes with two fingers.
"Excellent," Ron claps his hands together once and rises to go.
"By the way, Christopher, the party's at 6:30. You should stop by." He nods towards Chris before the door swings shut behind him.
Once Chris has got his breathing under control and his eyes aren't leaking anymore, he smiles. Despite Ron's attitude, the man's offer is proof that Chris's powers of communication aren't failing him after all.
≈
Two hours later, Chris receives such a shock that he thinks the microchip has finally and incontrovertibly been compromised. Or is he overdoing it on the herbs again? In a split second, he takes mental inventory of all the herbs in his belt. But no, none of them have psychedelic properties; he distinctly remembers throwing out the Angel's Trumpet months ago.
But why, then, is he hallucinating?
Of course, maybe he's not hallucinating at all. Maybe the world has re-adjusted itself on its axis, back to the way things should be. Maybe the universe has played a terribly unfunny joke on him and that's done now and they can all get back to their normal lives …
He could almost make himself believe it. If it wasn't for the endless ringing. He's calling Millicent on his cell phone, and it's past five now, which means she is definitely home and is still refusing to pick up. That's not at all how things should be, which means this is still the strange new world he's stuck in. But then again, he isn't on any herbs that could account for visual hallucinations either. He stares. Without looking, he presses the hang-up button on his cell phone.
Then the hallucination speaks, and maybe it's that Chris can't think of a compelling reason to have lost his mind enough to develop both visual and auditory hallucinations in a single day, or maybe it's that he's confident enough in his herb cocktail to know that this isn't one of the possible side-effects, or maybe it's just that he looks and sounds so real. It doesn't matter which is the real reason, what matters is that Chris somehow knows, just knows, that this is not a hallucination at all, but Ben himself, flesh and blood Ben, who has just stridden through his old office and into Chris's as if he still belonged here.
"Hey man," the not-hallucinated-at-all Ben says.
"Ben Wyatt! How are you? How's life? What brings you by City Hall?" Chris says and envelops Ben in a hug, which the other man returns, if somewhat awkwardly.
"Um. Just thought I'd say hi. Just stopping by to tell Leslie something." His eyes go wide. "Oh, and she- she's just- she's going to the Christmas party. In the Parks Department," he mutters and studies his shoes, like he just spilled the beans on something. Like Chris doesn't know.
"Ah. Yes. Ron's filled me in already. And you absolutely have my blessing."
"Your … blessing?"
"For the campaign relaunch at the Christmas party, of course. Was that your idea? I bet it was your idea, because you, Ben Wyatt, have literally the most ama-"
"Campaign … what?"
"You don't know?"
"Don't know what?"
"Ben. When was the last time you spoke to Leslie?"
"Um. This morning. I've been interviewing around all day …" Ben's looking like he might be ill.
"Ah. In that case you may want to take a seat."
He sits, slowly, never taking his eyes off Chris, who returns to his own chair behind the desk.
"O-kay. What's going on?"
"Ben-you know I really hoped the ethics investigation wouldn't interfere with Leslie's campaign. However, there does appear to have been some … fallout."
"Fallout?" Ben's voice is quiet, like he's afraid to hear this next bit. He touches two fingers to the bridge of his nose, steeling himself.
"Yes. In that the campaign was over. As far as her advisers were concerned."
"Oh my god. Oh my god, Chris! Can I … can I use your phone? I need to call her right-" He's up out of the chair and eyeing the unplugged phone cable. "You unplugged your phone."
"PCP."
Ben stares, uncomprehendingly. It's not like some of the things Chris consumes don't qualify as drugs, in a broad definition of the word at least, but it would be hard to believe he'd ever take the synthesized stuff, let alone have his drug dealer call him up on the office phone.
"Leslie's Parks Committee. You were right, by the way, about the suspension. I literally had to take extreme measures to get any work done at all-"
"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry," Ben says distractedly. "But Chris! Oh. Oh, wait, I have … I have a cell phone." He fumbles with his jacket pocket.
"I honestly think she'll be all right."
"No, why would … there's no reason to-" He reaches into his other pockets, in a panic to find his phone.
"Ben, Ron Swanson came to see me this afternoon. A first, by the way. Or did he ever come to your office? In any case, he and the rest of the department are taking over the campaign. They really are the best municipal department in Pawnee. And the remarkable Ann Perkins, of course."
Ben sits back down, hard. "What?" he says, aghast.
"Apparently, it's a Christmas present. They're re-launching the campaign. Tonight. Fantastic, isn't it?"
"That's … that's … wow. Wait, what? Tonight? Here? And nobody- And … and you're okay with this?"
"Under the circumstances, yes. With the understanding that none of the campaign work will be happening under the roof of City Hall, of course."
"Wow. I mean … wow. I mean, um … thanks. Chris. Really."
There's a pause while Ben struggles to process this information. It's so obvious, how deeply he cares about Leslie, that Chris can't help but smile.
"Wow. Okay. That's … that's great," Ben says finally and grins. "Never liked Barnes anyway. But hey, how've things been around here, man?"
It takes Chris only a split second to figure out what to tell Ben. His former partner looks at him, both guilty and hopeful. Guilty about his resignation, his girlfriend's campaign, and perhaps even about Chris having to unplug his phone. Hopeful that everything's on track, that the one place where the trial hasn't effected cataclysmic change is Chris's office. That's a pipe-dream of course. But, looking at him, Chris has to conclude that it's at least possible that Ben is not aware of what he means to Chris. Not really.
"Excellent! Everything's been just fine," he says and flashes a too-wide smile.
After Ben leaves, Chris shakes his head, sadly. Ben bought the lie, hook, line, and sinker. Easily. Almost too easily. Because he wanted to believe it, yes. But perhaps also because he really doesn't know, and can't fully appreciate, just how stranded Chris suddenly feels in Pawnee.
He sighs and picks up the phone cable, plugs it back in. He takes Leslie's badge out of the locked top drawer of his desk and wraps it in the wrapping paper he keeps in the bottom drawer. Then he calls Leslie and asks her to stop by his office before the Christmas party. It may be the Christmas spirit or the unintentionally inspirational visit from Ron Swanson or even just the not entirely unselfish wish to rid himself of PCP's harassment. It doesn't matter. Chris is sure this is the perfect gift for her.
He finishes up for the day, and when Millicent still hasn't called back by a quarter to seven, Chris decides to pay a visit to the Parks Department's Christmas party. April Ludgate, whom he has always been a fan of, engages him in conversation, and Leslie Knope, who was moved to tears by his Christmas present, forces him to try the gingerbread. It is delicious, though fattening. But Chris really expected to find Ben here and now that he isn't, he feels rather out of place himself.
Fandom: Parks and Recreation
Characters: Chris, Ben, Leslie, Ron
Rating: PG
Word count: ~8180
Summary: This is a character study of Chris as Ben confesses to his relationship with Leslie and then resigns. Covers The Trial of Leslie Knope (briefly) and Citizen Knope (extensively).
Notes: For stillscape, who prompted a Citizen Knope Chris POV during the Other Characters Week of Government Shutdown over at leslie_ben. It just took me this long to finish. Massive thanks to jncar for the beta and Chris-Traeger-level encouragement. rikyl also suggested something to me once for another fic, about what happens to Ben after the resignation-meeting, and I used that idea here. The title is not meant as a Hitchcock reference, by the way. Comments are like pitchers of green smoothie. They cure everything.
Vertigo
I. The Trial
Chris hates being angry. In fact, that's an understatement. There is nothing he hates quite like being angry. Being sad, for example, is preferable. He doesn't like that either, but at least sadness, unlike anger, is an inward-leaning emotion. He can be sad alone. Being angry usually means being angry at somebody else, which means putting out all kinds of negative energy into the universe-metaphysical pollution-which is something he refuses to do.
Nevertheless … "We're very sorry for the position this puts you in," Ben says. We. Meaning he and Leslie. Who are sitting in Chris's office, holding hands, confessing to their relationship. Presenting a united front. Apparently. Against him, Chris. They've trekked all over Indiana together for over a decade and suddenly it's "we" and "position"-this bizarrely formal language, and, for god's sake Ben, you couldn't have thought of a better way to break the news to me, Chris, your partner on the road for twelve years, than holding hands with your girlfriend in my office and words that sound like we just met a month ago? We. Meaning you and I.
Chris can't sit still then, because there's a twinge of anger that must be shaken off immediately, lest it take hold. So it's no choice but up out of his chair. By the time he's rounded the desk, he has already successfully processed the unbearable rage into slightly more acceptable sadness.
"I love both of you," he says, but can't help looking at Ben as he says it. Ben, who looks gratifyingly chagrined but says nothing as Leslie prattles on about their exemplary records. But then, Ben knows it's no use. Rules have to be enforced, and one would hope Ben approves of that. Doesn't he? Yes, Ben would. But not anymore? Perhaps. Chris doesn't know what to think, because at this moment he doesn't feel like he knows anything about Ben or the positions he might hold. Tall brunettes, basic rules of government-it's all the same. Let's just throw it all out the window!
No, in fact, let's not. "I'm launching a full investigation into the extent of your wrongdoing. Please report Monday, first thing, to the Council Chambers for your ethics trial and subsequent punishment." And then he gets out of there, because even he, Chris, needs more than three seconds to process this new We.
≈
The following week the trial happens. Just happens, as Chris prefers to think of it, though he is the one conducting it. And conduct it he does. He's high as a kite on more than a dozen herbal remedies, but even so, Chris is a model of professionalism all day. It is a delicate situation, conducting an ethics trial against the most capable employee City Hall has ever seen and the Assistant City Manager he himself hired, and he knows he should be proud of it. His professionalism. But he's not proud of it. A large part of him wishes he had never called George Williams to the witness stand. A smaller but more persistent part knows he had to. When Ben resigns, inevitably, he dissolves into a weepy mess.
"All right, I'll call security," Ethel Beavers says. "They'll escort you to collect your personal effects, Mr Wyatt. Standard procedure."
Chris is a tightly wound ball of anguish, still hanging on to Ben, who is actually patting him on the back, seeming to tolerate the physical contact somewhat better than usual. But Beavers's words manage to cut through the fog of misery and make it through to the rationally functioning part of his brain.
"No," Chris says, and straightens. "That's not necessary. Ben, you can wait while we wrap up in the Chamber and come in tomorrow for your … your things." He lays a hand on his colleague's- his former colleague's shoulder. Ben looks relieved, though it is unclear whether that's because he won't be escorted from the building by security or because Chris has stopped crying into his suit.
"Thanks," Ben says at the same time as Whitfield says, "We really can't allow that."
"You've got the second most senior employee in the building resigning in disgrace, Mr Traeger," Gregory Whitfield continues, nodding towards Ben. The chairman of the committee narrows his eyes. "There's really no way he hangs around outside the Council Chamber waiting for his girlfriend, left to do god knows what in-"
"-I've known Mr Wyatt personally for twelve years, I'm not having him escorted from the building by security. It's not-"
"Mr Traeger-"
"Very well. There are still ten minutes left before we have to resume. I'll take him to get his things myself."
It isn't procedure, but cannot really be said to be unethical either. Chris is, after all, the prosecutor. Not a witness, not part of the jury, and certainly not an accessory. Whitfield throws up his arms, exasperated, but doesn't object.
≈
"And in …erm … Parks … you've, you've got the Winter Wonderland coming up, tree lighting ceremony simulcast on internet radio-"
"What?"
Because Ben was never so much an Assistant as a Co-City Manager, he is attempting to brief Chris on all his departments in ten minutes while simultaneously packing up his desk. Chris should probably inform him it's no use; he's only listening well enough to provide one-word replies.
"I don't know either. But don't worry about it, Leslie has had it all planned since June-"
"Undoubtedly."
"Yeah. So."
Ordinarily, his brain would be able to process this information no matter how fast Ben was speaking and he'd be able to give it back word for word even hours later-and Ben knows this-but not right now. Chris has a strange floaty feeling. Like this isn't really happening, like he's in a dream maybe, and all he can do is stand and stare and give inane one-word responses. Nah, he's not going to retain a shred of this.
"… focus on Public Works. And that's, uh, it. I think."
"Okay."
"You sure you got it though?"
"Sure. Yes, no." Chris shakes his head in an attempt to clear it. He's going to need to contribute a bit more here. "I absolutely got it, Ben. Thanks for that."
"Okay, uh, great." Ben still looks dubious. "I mean, call if you run into … anything else, I guess. Or email."
"Thanks. I will."
All the things Ben will take with him fit into the box that's sitting on his desk. Kind of a small box. But not really that small either. Bigger than photo-box-sized at least. A medium-sized box. Chris can't take his eyes off it.
"So. I mean. Chris."
Any second now Ben's going to pick up that box and turn to leave. Leave Chris behind with all this. With this empty office and two jobs to do and all of it with less than a week's notice. Ah, there it is again, the poison. The anger. That stupid box.
"You should have told me about it, Ben. When it first became an issue. I, we could have prevented … this, from happening."
Now Ben's really going to pick up that infernal box, isn't he? Even just to put distance between him and Chris that way. Because this is Ben after all. And if there's anything Ben hates more than overt displays of emotion-Chris's emotions, especially-it's open conflict.
"I know, I know," Ben says instead, studying the floor. "I mean, I know this wasn't- I'm- This isn't your fault. I know that." He's still not picking up that box. The hateful box. Chris wants to crush it into a million pieces. Run his bike over it a dozen times. Watch his 200-pound dumbbell come crashing down on it.
"But honestly, Chris," Ben says, finally meeting Chris's eyes. "Honestly, if I'd told you about it when it first became an issue, I would never have held this job in the first place." He heaves a sigh, gives a heavy-hearted expression, and shakes his head, a little lost.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. I'm sorry."
That's all it takes. This isn't Ben trying to avoid conflict with polite excuses. It's the truth, plain and simple. And should the truth, this particular truth, make him more angry, or less? Everything was doomed from the start. Chris swallows hard. It's sadness again. The lesser toxin.
"Well," he sighs. "I … I hope she's worth it."
"Oh, she is. Definitely."
"Yes, I suspect so, too, actually."
"Yeah, and uh … listen. Don't, I mean, don't take it out on Leslie, okay? Not that, not that you would. But two weeks suspension, you know she's not going to take that well…"
"You mean she's literally going to-"
"-go stir-crazy? Make life in the City Manager's office a living hell? I have no doubt whatsoever."
They can't help chuckling. No, it's not going to be an easy two weeks. Both of them know that, can envision it at least. Leslie is, after all, the one person who tried to schedule fourteen meetings with their office within two days of the government shutdown. But god knows, or at least Chris and Ben know, that if everyone under the City Manager's supervision were as much of a workaholic as she, this job wouldn't require two people in the first place. City Hall would as good as run itself.
"Very well. Consider me forewarned. And-I will do my utmost to be circumspect about it."
"Great," Ben nods. "So, hey, guess we should really get going. Those ten minutes are long gone."
"Ah. Yes."
Chris expects Ben to move to pick up the wretched box, but he doesn't. Instead, he steps right into what would be Chris's personal space if Chris believed in such a concept. He doesn't, because the space closest to him is the space he most likes to share with other people. Chris loves connecting with someone. It's so important, on a spiritual level. And of course on a physical level, it's also very important. But in any case, Ben has never voluntarily and deliberately stepped into it, this would-be personal space of Chris's. Not once in twelve years. Until now. And then-then something else happens. Something equally unprecedented but even more remarkable. For a split second Chris is convinced he really must be dreaming, but he doesn't remember going to sleep, and Chris has lucid dreams almost exclusively: if he were dreaming, he'd already know it. Plus, this doesn't actually feel like dreaming. No, it really doesn't feel like dreaming at all when Ben closes the gap between them, and puts his arms around him.
Those arms feel strange-but-familiar; and when Ben claps him on the back a couple times, he automatically draws Chris closer to him so that Chris can feel the leanness of Ben's chest; and they're about the same height, so Chris can't avoid getting a whiff of the other man's hair gel.
And then, of course, it's over.
"Ben Wyatt!" Chris can't help but snap his fingers at him.
"Yeah. So. Um, I guess I … I'll see you around then."
Chris nods, smiling. "Walk yourself out? There is literally no time for me to-" He winks at Ben and Ben picks up the box from the desk, smirking. He starts to carry it towards the door, but Chris is momentarily transfixed by the empty desk. Now that it's gone, he misses the box there. That miserable box that holds all the things that made the office Ben's.
"You coming?"
"Yes."
Chris opens the door for Ben, and they start walking together to the end of the corridor, where Ben takes a right towards the nearest exit, and Chris a left towards the Council Chamber. And there's a shift. Chris takes a step in the direction of the Chamber, and the earth … it shifts on its axis. Things change. The changes are subtle, but run deep. The air tastes different. The colours have drifted slightly, either up or downspectrum, it's hard to tell. The temperature has either dropped or risen, it's difficult to pinpoint which. But one thing is certain: a new wind's blowing.
City Hall looks essentially the way it did when Chris arrived in Pawnee a year and a half ago. The beige-grey walls, the paintings that are gruesome yet full of local charm at the same time, the fluorescent lights, the taxidermic wildlife in display cases that he finds both frightful and-by virtue of its eternally preserved state-enviable, but mostly doesn't notice anymore at all. Chris does, after all, pass through these halls every working day, often many times a day, sometimes at a light run to burn off extra calories after splurging on one of Ron Swanson's hamburgers in the cafeteria. Yet there's something … off about them now. Something's not quite right. His body preserves the muscle memory of exactly where to go, but in his mind City Hall registers as an entirely new place. As strange and utterly unfamiliar. It's disorienting. Chris can't get the image of the emptied-out desk out of his head either, and of the box being carried away. They're the emblems of this strange new world-a large empty desk in an office full of unknowns, and box full of familiars disappearing. He feels so nauseated that he has to stop, brace himself against the wall, and practice yogic breathing for thirty seconds, to avoid throwing up.
II. The Abyss
He can't imagine himself any other way now, but Chris had never really been a night-time runner. Not before he came to Pawnee. However, at the Super Suites Motel the walls were almost tissue-paper thin and his finely-tuned-microchip body is-of course-highly susceptible to noise of any kind. And so, after someone- (He won't name names, but he already had definite suspicions when he left his room on those nights and saw the Benz in the parking spot next to his own, suspicions that were more or less confirmed when a certain Mercedes-driving someone admitted to ruining her fair share of hotel rooms-the trial had been illuminating in more ways than one ... ) In any case, when someone rented the adjoining room to engage in what had to be either particularly violent fist-fights or, Chris hoped, far more pleasurable consensual, but equally noisy, activities twice in the first two weeks, Chris took to the streets. And he discovered that night-time running was spectacular! In fact, he frequently found it to be better than sleep.
Then, one night, he couldn't stop a high-pitched shriek from escaping him when he killed a little brown bug on his pillow and it left behind a smear of blood. Bed bugs-Chris didn't want to imagine what these might do to the microchip, so he forwent sleep altogether. He donned his hydration backpack and ran until the sun peeked over the horizon. It turned out that he felt as rested after a low-intensity night-time marathon as he did after a full eight hours of sleep. It was magnificent! Even after becoming City Manager and renting a small house (the energy currents in that house are unlike the natural energetic free-flow he'd so loved about his Indianapolis apartment, but it took him three years to find that apartment and he only spent two weeks looking at houses, and at least the place doesn't have bed bugs) Chris still enjoys a good night of running, particularly when he's feeling too on edge to sleep.
And now, in these nights following the trial, after the earth has shifted on its axis and transported him into this whole new world in which all responsibility for decision-making, for delivering news good and bad, rests squarely on his shoulders, he is certainly feeling restless. The nausea has subsided to a dull throb, but it's still there, still reminds him that he is alone in this. Tonight even Millicent Gergich won't return his calls, possibly because Chris spent a large part of last night's phone conversation stating and reiterating how much he loved her. That was a little reckless and perhaps a little crazy, he knows, but he felt so sick, so heartsick and queasy, after the trial that he fairly overflowed with emotion. Now Millie doesn't want to speak to him-again. Dammit, he thinks to himself. Even Jerry Gergich knows you need to take the utmost care not to say 'I love you' too soon … But it could not be helped. Or perhaps it's not that at all. Perhaps it's just that she's busy tonight. It's not all about you, Chris. Ben didn't leave because of you, and Millie's not just thinking about you either. He locks his jaw and swallows hard. But who is? Who is thinking of me? Anyone? No one?
No one. The thought is like looking into an abyss. No. No. Mustn't look. Not too closely. It's an abyss of dizzying depth. Barren and desolate, where icy winds reach up from deep to encircle him. Chris takes a step back into a door jamb and pulls the Bumbleflex over his head. He shoulders the hydration pack, and then he runs. With his need for a physical outlet to bring down the nervous energy that's taken root in his belly just quadrupled, he lets his feet carry him where they will, all over town, on routes familiar and unknown. Maybe it's chance, or maybe it's a hunch his subconscious has based on what Ben said when he cleared out his desk, that brings him alongside City Hall later that night. He is just in time to see Leslie Knope exit her car and glance surreptitiously around the parking lot, before sneaking into the building through a side door. Chris follows, unseen. She is not that sneaky.
"Leslie Knope!"
Caught in the act, she flinches. "Hey Chris! Wow, is that a new jogging shirt?"
"It is. It's an experimental fabric called Bumbleflex. It's made out of synthetic bees' wings."
"It's cool!"
Chris would love to keep discussing the benefits of Bumbleflex. It truly is remarkable! Keeps you warm at night, yet is entirely breathable, too, which makes it ideal even for the sunniest days. He'll have to order at least a dozen more Bumbleflex designs. And he'd get to spend more time with Leslie Knope, who is a most excellent human being … But she is, of course, breaking the rules. Which means that somebody needs deal with this over-eager Parks and Rec employee- Ben? he thinks reflexively, Parks and Rec is your department- But no. No, it's the middle of the night and Ben's not here. Besides which, this is the strange new world, which means Ben is not going to be here in the morning either. Dammit. Time to bite the bullet, Chris…
"Anyway, you're not supposed to be here. You're suspended."
"I totally understand that …"
Leslie Knope is literally the best employee in City Hall, by virtue of her persistence. Probably the best public servant in the entire state of Indiana, too. And the most frustrating. But most people in government don't seem to care about anything, are content to pass the days until they reach retirement age by putting in minimal effort, and Chris feels that Leslie, who cares rather too much about everything, is something of a kindred spirit. She might even understand about his most recent faux pas with Millicent. But not right now. Right now she is on suspension and trespassing and he is her supervisor, and why, after all, did Ben resign if Chris is just going to start chucking the rules out the window now? He can't do that. Instead, he lets her engage him in the game of nasal spray and lets her run until she has almost reached the outer door she came through before he relieves her of that flash drive.
"Damn," she says. "I thought that would work. I blame the Bumbleflex."
"The Bumbleflex is amazing! But you should go home, Leslie. Just think of it as two weeks vacation."
She gives him a withering look.
"Besides, you've got the campaign to focus on, am I right?"
"Yeah," she sighs. "I've got a meeting with my advisers day after tomorrow, actually."
She looks worried.
"Excellent! Time to mount a counterattack in the press?"
The press against Pawnee's only declared City Council candidate has been predictably vicious. But as far as Chris knows Leslie's campaign hasn't released any kind of statement, nor has she answered any questions on the scandal so far. It's a curious strategy, particularly for someone whom he has known to "take care" of a controversy surrounding nudity in public art by campaigning for her position on local access TV. And all without giving so much as a heads up to City Hall. But if her advisers feel their meeting can wait another two days, they must be feeling confident indeed.
Leslie, however, bites her lip and nods. "I hope so."
"Well, that's great. I really hope the trial doesn't interfere with your campaign in any way. And-I cannot wait to see the counteroffensive you come up with."
"Thanks, Chris." She smiles.
"So, I will see you back here in two weeks-"
At that, she grimaces. "A week and six days." She pushes the door open with an offhand motion, like a sullen teenager. "Fine. Good night, Mr Traeger."
When Leslie is gone-he checks to see that she actually gets into her car and drives off-Chris returns to the Parks Department. He turns off her computer, pulls up the chair she's thrown over in her attempt to escape with the flash drive, and sits. He shakes his head and grins. Leslie Knope!
"My job is to protect the government from fraud and corruption," he said to her yesterday. "I was just doing my job. And I hope that you can understand that."
"I do," Leslie nodded. "Honestly, I do." And he knew she meant it.
Besides the fact that she is Pawnee's best public servant and Ben's girlfriend, Chris knows that, no matter how many times Leslie clashes with his authority, she's not going to hold it against him personally. It's a marvellous feat of compartmentalization on her part, in which she simultaneously respects the City Manager's authority generally, flaunts it in the heat of the moment, and still manages to remain on friendly terms with Chris personally. Chris got a taste of it back when they clashed over Jerry's painting, and felt it even more so last night, when he and Leslie cleared the air after a day of cross-courtroom shouting at each other in less than 30 seconds. He's glad for it. That capacity for compartmentalization makes her one of the most outstanding people he knows. And so worthy of being with Ben.
It's good, he thinks, to keep thinking about Leslie. Leslie and Ben and the way they love each other, and the fact that Chris knows, without a shadow of doubt, that there has never been anyone for whom Ben would have so readily thrown his career out the window. Until now. One would have to be heartless indeed not be happy for him, he thinks.
But at the same time, there's a wave of nausea and a sharp pain in his chest every time he visualizes their clasped hands as they sat in his office. He feels, again, the foreboding from right before Leslie broke the news to him and the queasiness he felt when he left her and Ben sitting in his office. Those emotions mix with the strange hollowness that seems to follow him everywhere he goes now. The result is not anger, but a kind of vertigo that has a toxic flavour all its own. Chris props his elbows on the table and his forehead in his hands, and tries to compartmentalize all his emotions the way Leslie can. He fails. The room spins around him.
III. Hell
By the end of the week, Chris is glad to have diverted Leslie's attention to her campaign for the time being. All hell breaks loose. He would have called Friday night an early night if he wasn't swamped with proposals and complaints from twice as many departments as usual. They never seemed to come to Ben with this much … this much junk. But Ben is good at saying no, isn't he? Better than good, amazing. Chris is only good at saying yes and really, really … well, mediocre, to say the least, at saying no, and that's the whole point. That is why they should be working together, why it's not right for them not to be working together-quite apart from the fact that Chris can see Ben's empty desk through his open office door and whenever he happens to glance that way, he has a sinking feeling in his stomach and a curious tingling sensation behind his eyes. Maybe he's getting near-sighted and needs glasses. Maybe he's growing a stomach ulcer. Maybe the entire microchip has been compromised and this is just the beginning. The beginning of the end. Whatever the case may be, Chris just wants to go home and curl up in bed next to Millicent, if he can persuade her to come over, and not think of anything while she rests her luscious locks on his naked chest and he draws circles on her perfect thighs with his fingertips.
But he can't do that. He hasn't even had time to call her once today. He's had meetings with everyone from Harris from Animal Control, who seems to be the only person in Pawnee that's blissfully unaware of the fact that the town's largest supermarket has fallen into raccoon-hands four days ago, to Marlene Griggs-Knope from the County School Board, who has requested half a dozen new school buses, despite the fact that Ben arranged for the purchase of two buses only half a year ago.
It's six o'clock on a Friday. His secretary went home over an hour ago and he's only just getting around to the essential emails of the day when his phone rings. At six o'clock. p.m. On a Friday. In a public building.
"City Manager's office, Chris Traeger speaking."
"Mr Traeger, my name is Jennifer Hecker and I'm calling on behalf of PCP with six urgent demands which include such crucial matters as the removal of insect pests from the teen centre please keep in mind that you will be hearing from us frequently until you agree to meet with us good day Sir," an unknown woman's voice says very quickly. She's hung up on him before he can respond or even so much as process what she said-the latter is a first for Chris.
He shakes his head and returns to an email from Tammy Swanson, who has proposed a number of new book purchases for the library, among them The Elusive Orgasm - A Woman's Guide, I Love Female Orgasm - An Extraordinary Guide, and Show Me Where it Squirts - The Hotter, Wetter, Dripping Guide to Female Ejaculation. Whatever her motives-Chris suspects they're less than pure, but can't put his finger on that suspicion-physical pleasure is very important. Why not? he thinks and okays the proposal.
Then his phone rings, again. It's 6:15.
"City Manager's office, Chris Traeger speaking."
"I'm Rosie Flanagan," a woman says. "I'm with the PCP and I'm calling to remind you of the de-plo-rable state of this city's tennis courts-
"Ma'am-"
"Don't you 'ma'am' me, Mr City Manager. We are PCP and we will not be muzzled like a rabid dog. We are your guilty conscience and we will not leave you alone."
"Ms Flanagan? Hello?" There is silence at the other end of the line. Tennis courts? Chris is well aware of the state of all of Pawnee's sports facilities, public and private, and it's true that some of the nets are sagging a little on the tennis courts. But that doesn't explain why these women have decided to go straight to the City Manager, much less why they're calling about tennis courts after six on a Friday night and don't even wait for Chris's response before hanging up on him.
Being yelled at by unknown women feels like a little more than Chris can stomach right at this moment. He resolves to finish this email to the Sewage Department, whose new director has filed an official complaint because, since Joe left, the college students applying for internships appear to have "dropped in overall hotness levels from Britney ca. 1997 to Britney now", and then go home.
Just as Chris grabs his jacket at 6:30, the phone rings again. Against his better judgment, he picks it up.
"City Manager's office, Chris Traeger speaking."
"Mr Traeger-," a third woman starts. She has the same self-important tone as the previous callers, but Chris is quicker this time.
"Yes, but please tell me who I am speaking to and why you choose to ignore normal business hours?"
"Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry. I told- I mean, I was in favour of a letter writing campaign from the start. I'm Diane Weller and I'm calling on behalf of PCP, but I'll … I'll call back during business hours. So, so sorry to have bothered you. Good night."
Click, says the line, and she's gone. Are the women of the world ganging up on him? Chris gives the phone a last wary look, avoids the somewhat masochistic urge to cross through Ben's empty office on his way out, and goes home-where his bedsheets are cold and the one woman who he was hoping would call him continues to ignore him all weekend.
≈
Millicent Gergich is alone in her attitude towards him, however. Over the weekend, Chris comes to wish the rest of Pawnee treated him with her level of indifference. But the housewives of Pawnee, at least, seem to have it in for him. These women pop up everywhere. They all look like the kind of innocuous, middle-class homemakers who might pursue the odd part-time job while their kids are in school-good citizens who go vote and even show up at a public forum every once in a while. They look sensible, settled, and non-threatening. And ordinarily they are. Suddenly, however, they turn to glare at him from across the street, they step right into his jogging path, they even yell at him across the aisle at not one but three different GNCs. They come bearing signs that seem to simultaneously advertise a less-than-common hallucinogen and decry the sorry state of the Rec Center's board game collection-a bizarre combination, even for Pawnee. After a weekend of being thus accosted by Pawnee's soccer moms, Chris is thoroughly shaken when he makes it back to the office on Monday morning, mercifully without incident on the way.
His first order of business is to make a whole pitcher full of green smoothie using every herb in his herb belt. His secretary wrinkles her nose at the smell. It doesn't help much, however. He has not sat at his desk for more than ten seconds when the phone rings. Eight a.m. on Monday. Pawnee number outside City Hall, according to the caller ID. Maybe it's an emergency, he thinks hopefully. Something could be burning down. Like a library building. All that paper. Or there could be flooding. Like the pond in Ramsett Park. They've been having a bit of a warm weather spell-the snow's thawing. No, he thinks. What a horrible thing to think. His chakras must be clogged, if he's starting to anticipate such calamities with hope.
He lets the phone ring a couple more times, eyeing it suspiciously. That's what Ben does, too. Lets the phone ring a couple times before picking it up in order not to seem over-eager or over-available. Used to, anyway. The more belligerent the town they encountered, the longer Ben would let the phone ring. Is he starting to think like Ben? Should he start to think like Ben? He can't think like Ben, can he? He doesn't want to think like Ben. Does he?
He picks up the phone.
"Good morning!" he says and pours every bit of enthusiasm he can scrape together into it. "Chris Traeger speaking. City Manager. Isn't this a wonderful day? What can I do to help you?"
There's a giggle on the other end of the line. Is that what this is? Is an enormous prank being played on him? Is the entire City of Pawnee in cahoots against him? No, that can't be it. Can it be? It can't be.
"Good … good morning, Mr Traeger," a female voice says, still suppressing giggles. He would peg her for early forties. "I'm with the PCP and this-this is your wake up call. You can give in to our demands either now-or later. Yahtzee… " she giggles, "Yahtzee for all!"
And so the attack of the soccer moms continues. If there's a joke here, the joke's on him. Chris is generally a good sport, but he doesn't feel like laughing. Between Ben and Millicent and the work, this mysterious harassment everywhere he goes is the last thing he needs. Emails continue to pile up and calls continue to come in on his direct line like clockwork, every fifteen minutes. By ten a.m. he is so unnerved that, in order to get any actual work done, he unplugs his own phone and instructs his secretary only to answer calls from inside City Hall.
By eleven, he's on his third green smoothie and the second pile of paperwork. The strange new world is just starting to feel … not normal-that would be saying too much-but bearable. Somewhat less disorienting and somewhat more manageable. If he can keep his eyes away from the door to Ben's office. If he can keep his mind on the job and not on Millicent Gergich. If he can keep his office phone unplugged and his secretary on high alert, then maybe there's a chance Pawnee's current City Manager will manage without a heart attack.
That's when Leslie Knope storms past his secretary and into his office.
"Concerned citizen and community leader, Leslie Knope," she introduces herself.
Oh what fresh hell is this, he thinks. She's not still busy with the campaign? Or still not busy? Whatever the case may be, his capacity for people's demands on his time is well and truly spent. How did she even manage to make that eleven o'clock appointment with his secretary deflecting all calls from outside?
"Hi Leslie. You're not supposed to be here."
"As a government employee that's true," she says, her stance belligerent. "But I'm just here as a concerned citizen and founder of PCP. The Parks Committee of Pawnee."
She's glaring at him, as if willing him to acknowledge the havoc she can still wreak on his life, even while barred from City Hall. There's no need. The penny has dropped already, and although there's a short stab of anger, because the Parks Committee of Pawnee really has made his life a living hell, that emotion is there for a second and gone the next. What Chris feels, most of all, is relief.
Relief that there aren't some mysterious powers in Pawnee that are ganging up on him. Relief that there's a rational explanation after all. Relief to know it's all Leslie's doing, all part of her effort to defy the sentence that suspends her. Relief, most of all, that now that he knows where it's coming from, it should be easy enough to get the harassment to stop. He'll get his life back-at least the part of it where he can channel all his troubles into an extended jog through the anonymous streets of Pawnee without being accosted by angry faces everywhere he goes. That's so important, too, because without Ben and with Millicent avoiding him, and with these new shoes to fill at work, his need for endorphin-producing runs is extra pressing.
In short, his relief is so strong that he somehow agrees to meet with Leslie's lunatic soccer moms. He's got to stop doing that. Agreeing to things. His schedule for the next three months is fit to burst already.
But then Leslie pulls out his Christmas present and they're friends again. Perhaps it's not so wrong to agree to things after all, Chris thinks. But then he remembers that Ben was already dating Leslie in secret when he shot down one budget request of hers after the other, and she never seemed to like him any less for it. This is Leslie, wizard of compartmentalization, after all. His agreeing to meet with PCP has got nothing to do with the fact that she already had his Christmas present with her.
"See you in hell!" is the last thing she says to him.
Leslie scowls and then she's gone. Chris is torn between the desire to take an early lunch break to try out his new stopwatch and his fear of those activist housewives of hers.
He really needs to develop a thicker skin, he thinks. But how, exactly, is one supposed to develop a skin to rival Ben's elephantine one at age 45, after a whole lifetime of agreeing to things one shouldn't agree to and a whole career built on the same? It really is a mystery, but it's a mystery for another day. For now, Chris decides against braving the streets. He tackles his third pile of paperwork instead. That, at least, is something he can do. Even Ben, the master of efficiency, was always more than a little jealous of his speed reading.
IV. No Place At All
One bewildering incident at a time, the strange new world comes into focus. In the afternoon, in a move that is entirely without precedent, Ron Swanson steps into his office.
"Christopher, got a minute?" Ron Swanson asks, hovering in the doorway and looking reluctant to be there.
"Ron Swanson, yes, get in here! Have a seat!"
Without a word, Ron sits and crosses his arms in front of his chest. Ron Swanson-here is a man that's not too good about communicating. Chris makes a mental note to schedule the Parks staff for a teamwork workshop at his earliest convenience.
"So, what can I do for you?" he smiles extra brightly and opens his arms extra wide. The best way of responding to a closed-off employee is by demonstrating openness. Chris is the master of putting people at ease, has been for more than a decade. It really is the place he's most comfortable working from. To say that he's made an entire career of it would be an exaggeration, but not by much.
In response to the flash of Chris's perfect teeth, Ron raises an eyebrow and crosses his feet under the chair. Not the most encouraging reaction. But Chris isn't an expert at this game for nothing.
"Would you like an herbal smoothie? It really supercharges the energy flow through all seven chakras."
Ron makes a sound in the back of his throat and says, "No, thank you. Let's cut to the chase. Leslie's campaign people dropped her. Bad polls. So, as a-"
"Oh no! That's too bad. I'm so sorry to hear that, Ron. When did this happen? How is she taking it?"
"No idea." Ron shakes his head. "Not well. According to the nurse. However, the department and I want to help her out. Given recent events, I thought it would be best to inform you beforehand."
Chris bites the inside of his cheek. "And by 'help her out' you mean-?"
"Relaunch her campaign. Tonight, at the Christmas party."
"Ron. As I'm sure you know-"
"This is a government building, and although as such it's a colossal waste of taxpayer money to begin with and all our jobs continue to waste people's money, we're not supposed to waste the taxpayers' money on things that might actually benefit the taxpayer in the long term-"
"Well-"
"I understand. Leslie's campaign work will be strictly on a volunteer basis."
"And-"
"None of it will be happening inside this towering monument of government waste."
"Or-"
"During work hours."
"So, let me get this straight. You and all of your co-workers are prepared to devote your all of your free time to working on Leslie's campaign?"
Ron gives a single, determined nod. "And the nurse," he says.
"Ann Perkins?" Chris smiles and points. Ron's expression does not change. "So all you need from me is my permission to announce this new campaign at the departmental Christmas party tonight?"
"Mh. It's a Christmas present. To offset years of gift-giving imbalance."
"Well. In that case, you-of course-have my permission. Because-that-literally sounds like the most amazing plan anyone's had in three hundred years. And the most beautiful proof of friend- friendship." He swallows hard as his voice gives out. It's getting hard to see, too. This time, Chris is sure it's definitely not that there's anything wrong with the microchip. Despite Ron's less-than-impassioned pitch, it's the layer of tears coating his eyes, and the emotion lodging in his throat. "So yes. You-of course-have my blessing," he says as he wipes the tears from his eyes with two fingers.
"Excellent," Ron claps his hands together once and rises to go.
"By the way, Christopher, the party's at 6:30. You should stop by." He nods towards Chris before the door swings shut behind him.
Once Chris has got his breathing under control and his eyes aren't leaking anymore, he smiles. Despite Ron's attitude, the man's offer is proof that Chris's powers of communication aren't failing him after all.
≈
Two hours later, Chris receives such a shock that he thinks the microchip has finally and incontrovertibly been compromised. Or is he overdoing it on the herbs again? In a split second, he takes mental inventory of all the herbs in his belt. But no, none of them have psychedelic properties; he distinctly remembers throwing out the Angel's Trumpet months ago.
But why, then, is he hallucinating?
Of course, maybe he's not hallucinating at all. Maybe the world has re-adjusted itself on its axis, back to the way things should be. Maybe the universe has played a terribly unfunny joke on him and that's done now and they can all get back to their normal lives …
He could almost make himself believe it. If it wasn't for the endless ringing. He's calling Millicent on his cell phone, and it's past five now, which means she is definitely home and is still refusing to pick up. That's not at all how things should be, which means this is still the strange new world he's stuck in. But then again, he isn't on any herbs that could account for visual hallucinations either. He stares. Without looking, he presses the hang-up button on his cell phone.
Then the hallucination speaks, and maybe it's that Chris can't think of a compelling reason to have lost his mind enough to develop both visual and auditory hallucinations in a single day, or maybe it's that he's confident enough in his herb cocktail to know that this isn't one of the possible side-effects, or maybe it's just that he looks and sounds so real. It doesn't matter which is the real reason, what matters is that Chris somehow knows, just knows, that this is not a hallucination at all, but Ben himself, flesh and blood Ben, who has just stridden through his old office and into Chris's as if he still belonged here.
"Hey man," the not-hallucinated-at-all Ben says.
"Ben Wyatt! How are you? How's life? What brings you by City Hall?" Chris says and envelops Ben in a hug, which the other man returns, if somewhat awkwardly.
"Um. Just thought I'd say hi. Just stopping by to tell Leslie something." His eyes go wide. "Oh, and she- she's just- she's going to the Christmas party. In the Parks Department," he mutters and studies his shoes, like he just spilled the beans on something. Like Chris doesn't know.
"Ah. Yes. Ron's filled me in already. And you absolutely have my blessing."
"Your … blessing?"
"For the campaign relaunch at the Christmas party, of course. Was that your idea? I bet it was your idea, because you, Ben Wyatt, have literally the most ama-"
"Campaign … what?"
"You don't know?"
"Don't know what?"
"Ben. When was the last time you spoke to Leslie?"
"Um. This morning. I've been interviewing around all day …" Ben's looking like he might be ill.
"Ah. In that case you may want to take a seat."
He sits, slowly, never taking his eyes off Chris, who returns to his own chair behind the desk.
"O-kay. What's going on?"
"Ben-you know I really hoped the ethics investigation wouldn't interfere with Leslie's campaign. However, there does appear to have been some … fallout."
"Fallout?" Ben's voice is quiet, like he's afraid to hear this next bit. He touches two fingers to the bridge of his nose, steeling himself.
"Yes. In that the campaign was over. As far as her advisers were concerned."
"Oh my god. Oh my god, Chris! Can I … can I use your phone? I need to call her right-" He's up out of the chair and eyeing the unplugged phone cable. "You unplugged your phone."
"PCP."
Ben stares, uncomprehendingly. It's not like some of the things Chris consumes don't qualify as drugs, in a broad definition of the word at least, but it would be hard to believe he'd ever take the synthesized stuff, let alone have his drug dealer call him up on the office phone.
"Leslie's Parks Committee. You were right, by the way, about the suspension. I literally had to take extreme measures to get any work done at all-"
"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry," Ben says distractedly. "But Chris! Oh. Oh, wait, I have … I have a cell phone." He fumbles with his jacket pocket.
"I honestly think she'll be all right."
"No, why would … there's no reason to-" He reaches into his other pockets, in a panic to find his phone.
"Ben, Ron Swanson came to see me this afternoon. A first, by the way. Or did he ever come to your office? In any case, he and the rest of the department are taking over the campaign. They really are the best municipal department in Pawnee. And the remarkable Ann Perkins, of course."
Ben sits back down, hard. "What?" he says, aghast.
"Apparently, it's a Christmas present. They're re-launching the campaign. Tonight. Fantastic, isn't it?"
"That's … that's … wow. Wait, what? Tonight? Here? And nobody- And … and you're okay with this?"
"Under the circumstances, yes. With the understanding that none of the campaign work will be happening under the roof of City Hall, of course."
"Wow. I mean … wow. I mean, um … thanks. Chris. Really."
There's a pause while Ben struggles to process this information. It's so obvious, how deeply he cares about Leslie, that Chris can't help but smile.
"Wow. Okay. That's … that's great," Ben says finally and grins. "Never liked Barnes anyway. But hey, how've things been around here, man?"
It takes Chris only a split second to figure out what to tell Ben. His former partner looks at him, both guilty and hopeful. Guilty about his resignation, his girlfriend's campaign, and perhaps even about Chris having to unplug his phone. Hopeful that everything's on track, that the one place where the trial hasn't effected cataclysmic change is Chris's office. That's a pipe-dream of course. But, looking at him, Chris has to conclude that it's at least possible that Ben is not aware of what he means to Chris. Not really.
"Excellent! Everything's been just fine," he says and flashes a too-wide smile.
After Ben leaves, Chris shakes his head, sadly. Ben bought the lie, hook, line, and sinker. Easily. Almost too easily. Because he wanted to believe it, yes. But perhaps also because he really doesn't know, and can't fully appreciate, just how stranded Chris suddenly feels in Pawnee.
He sighs and picks up the phone cable, plugs it back in. He takes Leslie's badge out of the locked top drawer of his desk and wraps it in the wrapping paper he keeps in the bottom drawer. Then he calls Leslie and asks her to stop by his office before the Christmas party. It may be the Christmas spirit or the unintentionally inspirational visit from Ron Swanson or even just the not entirely unselfish wish to rid himself of PCP's harassment. It doesn't matter. Chris is sure this is the perfect gift for her.
He finishes up for the day, and when Millicent still hasn't called back by a quarter to seven, Chris decides to pay a visit to the Parks Department's Christmas party. April Ludgate, whom he has always been a fan of, engages him in conversation, and Leslie Knope, who was moved to tears by his Christmas present, forces him to try the gingerbread. It is delicious, though fattening. But Chris really expected to find Ben here and now that he isn't, he feels rather out of place himself.