fic: pancakes in the age of enlightenment (parks and recreation, leslie/ron, pg-13)

[tearupthesky]

Title: Pancakes in the Age of Enlightenment
Author: tearupthesky
Fandom: Parks and Recreation
Pairing: Leslie Knope/Ron Swanson
Rating: PG-13
Length: 10,800 words
Author's Notes: The beginning of the story is set between Telethon and The Master Plan, and from there it completely diverges from canon. Chris and Ben aren't a thing. The title is from Swingers. Hold back your tears. This was written for annakovsky for Yuletide 2011. Kovsky and I thought up Ellie Knope-Swanson together about a year ago, so this reveal wouldn't be shocking even if I had been the best secret-keeper in the world throughout the writing process (fact: I was not). I just hope I did her justice. Kovsky, I have enjoyed sharing a brain with you for the last two years, and there's no one to whom I would rather have been assigned for two Yuletides in a row. Let's go three-for-three in 2012!
Summary: In which Ron and Leslie fall in love, move in together, and conceive a child (but not in that order).


In retrospect, Ron should have realized that Leslie's invitation to a Meats Of America party was too good to be true.

"How did she rope the rest of you into this?" he asks, taking a seat on the couch next to Andy, nary a deli platter in sight.

"Flip cup championship!" says Andy, his face still alight with hope.

"Jessica Alba movie marathon," says Tom, holding up a DVD. "I brought Into The Blue!"

April sighs and slumps in her chair, kicking the corner of the rug back and forth. "Leslie told me it was an exorcism. I wanted to see someone's head spin around."

Jerry and Donna are also presented and accounted for, as well as Leslie's nosy compatriot Ann. The only familiar face missing is Mark's, and Ron might have supposed he was still sore over his recent break-up with said compatriot, if Ron cared to speculate on such personal matters, which he certainly does not.

"How about you, beautiful?" Tom asks Ann, perching himself on the arm of her chair. From the corner of his eye, Ron catches her delivering a quick elbow to the small of Tom's back. Good girl. "Ow, I'm just asking how Leslie got your fine self to sacrifice a perfectly good Friday night?!"

"She asked me to," Ann says pointedly, then she looks around the room in a stark appeal. "It was really important to her that everybody show up tonight, so just be cool for, like, five seconds!"

"And what better way to be cool," Leslie booms from the dining room, "than with -- da-dada-DA -- homemade smoothies!" She steps into the living room brandishing a large tray filled with drinks, no food, and not even a whiff of apology. "Guys, I made smoothies! Everybody, take a smoothie, get 'em while they're smooth!"

Ron remains motionless. "Leslie, what is the meaning of this?"

Leslie performs an exaggerated shrug. "Um, I don't know, deliciousness, maybe?"

"Mmm, you're not kidding," says Donna after a sip. "Is that pomegranate?"

Ron stares hard at Leslie. "It looks like hippie vomit," he says. "State your business or I, for one, will be on my way."

"No!" Leslie cries, her forehead wrinkling. "Nobody leave! Let's just -- I know, we can play a game! We can play Monopoly. Ron, you can be the top hat!"

"Leslie," Ann says, rising to her feet. She steps to Leslie's side and takes her hand. "Everybody showed up. It's time to tell them."

"Hold up!" Tom shouts, his eyes practically falling out of his head. "Is this what I think it is? Ann, sweetheart, you don't have to give up on all men just because Mark was a huge disappointment!"

"No, ew!" Ann says, making a face at Tom, then she turns to Leslie and tilts her head with concern. "Wait, I didn't mean ew, I just meant no. I mean, I should be so lucky." She squeezes Leslie's hand tightly. "Come on, Les, you can do this."

Leslie takes a deep breath and straightens her blazer. "All right," she says. "The reason I gathered you all here this evening is that... you're my very best friends in the whole world, after Ann. And I trust you all with my life, and I know that you will be there to support me in the choices I make and in any difficult times ahead."

"Get to the point, Knope," Ron says.

Leslie looks him dead in the eye. "I'm pregnant," she says.

The room goes briefly, totally silent, until she clears her throat.

"It's still early. All the books say you're not supposed to tell people until you're at twelve weeks, and I'm only at ten, but as some of you may have realized by now I sometimes have a tiny, slight, negligible problem with patience. So I'm telling you now. I'm sorry I lured you here under false pretenses, but I didn't want anyone else to overhear. Only my nearest and dearest. And, of course, Jerry."

Andy is the first to collect himself, leaping to his feet and stumbling over Leslie's coffee table to envelope her in a hug. "A baby?! Leslie, that's awesome! Oh, man, you're totally going to be the best mom ever! That kid is super lucky. Oh, no, am I squishing it?!" He steps back suddenly and Leslie laughs.

"I think it's okay," she says. "Thanks, Andy."

A round of congratulations and smoothie toasts follows, then Tom leans forward in his seat. "Hang on," he says. "Ten weeks? Justin's been gone for more than three months. Did he roll back through town? Why didn't he call me?"

Leslie shakes her head. "Justin's not... the guy. The donor. Dad. Person."

Donna sits up straight, her eyes wide. "What? Spill it, girl!"

Leslie stands up very straight, holding her head high, her expression perfectly even. "To be honest, it was a one-night stand. It was a momentary lapse in judgment, and I didn't expect anything to come out of it, but something did, and I'm really happy, you guys. I'm going to love this baby so much, it's going to feel like it has ten parents. And beautiful, selfless Ann is going to be there every step of the way with me, from doctors' appointments to Lamaze classes to the whole disgusting miracle of birth. Right, Ann?"

Ann beams. "One hundred percent."

A flurry of hugs and pats on the back continues across Leslie's living room, and Ron remains very still and silent in his seat, beset with blurry memories of the momentary lapse in judgment he and Leslie shared, just about ten weeks earlier.

**

Ron doesn't know how not to be the first one out the door at an event like this. He stands awkwardly by the fireplace, studying a knickknack on the mantle while Leslie says her goodbyes at the door. Ann hovers nearby, clearing away the smoothie glasses, and Ron tries to keep his back toward her, willing her to leave.

"Wow, it's getting late," she says from behind him.

"Indeed," Ron says, without a glance. "Shouldn't you be getting home soon?"

"I'm just gonna help Leslie clean up," she says. "In the kitchen. So that's where I'll be. In case Leslie needs me for anything." Her tone is tough and pointed, so Leslie must have told her the whole story. He wonders if this ambush was her idea. He wouldn't be surprised.

A moment after Ann finally departs, Leslie closes the front door and clears her throat.

"Here's your coat, Ron!" she offers in her most helpful voice. "You probably want to get on the road. Traffic and everything."

"It's nine-thirty," Ron says, "and this is Pawnee. What traffic?"

Leslie sighs and lays his coat over the back of a chair. "I'm sorry," she says. "I know the pregnancy and maternity leave and everything is going to end up meaning more work for you in the long run, but I'll find someone great to fill in temporarily. Obviously not as great as me, but at least it will be something, and I'll do as much as I can from home, you know that."

"Leslie," Ron says, blinking in disbelief. "You couldn't have addressed this matter with me privately before you announced it to the whole world?"

"Oh, really?" Leslie says, putting her hands on her hips. "The Parks Department is the whole world now? Because I distinctly remember you telling me otherwise on several occasions. Maybe you're the one who needs to get out more, if that's what you think all of a sudden. Broaden your worldview a little bit!"

"I prefer it narrow," Ron says. "Damn it, Knope, you can't just drop this kind of bomb on a man with no warning! I would have appreciated a heads-up that you're bringing my child into the world."

Leslie's eyes go very wide, and she holds up her hands in a time-out gesture. "Whoa, who said anything about it being your child?! There could be any number of explanations here! I was in a hot tub on Presidents Day, that could have -- I mean, you know, anything can happen! Justin could potentially just have very slow-moving but tenacious sperm! And let's also not forget about, um... the baby Jesus."

Ron blinks again. "You're going to entertain the possibility of immaculate conception before the notion that you're ten weeks pregnant because you and I had unprotected sexual intercourse ten weeks ago?"

"Shhhh!" Leslie hisses suddenly, as though they aren't alone in the room and the only other person in the house isn't already aware of the situation. "That was a momentary lapse in judgment!"

"Stop saying that," Ron says, his hackles rising.

"You're the one who called it that in the first place!" Leslie exclaims loudly. There's a random rattle from the kitchen, which Ron assumes is Ann reasserting her presence. Damn nosy nudnik. "Look, we were drunk, and it was a stupid mistake. We agreed not let it affect our friendship, and that it would be best for both of us to just forget it ever happened. Neither of us were planning on any consequences, and just because I happened to get one, that doesn't mean I'm going to drag you into a whole big thing. I know this is the last thing you would ever want, but I want it so much, Ron. I didn't know how much until I found out."

Leslie puts her hands on her stomach, and Ron swallows hard, an unnerving tightness cinching his lungs.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you privately," Leslie says, "but I didn't want to put you on the spot like that. The only support I expect from you is the support I would expect from any friend. Just hugs and maybe occasional ice cream. If there's enough ice cream, I might let you skip the hugs."

Ron looks down at the floor, slipping his hands into his pockets. It's true, they both agreed not to let the incident change their professional or personal relationship. They even shook hands on it. This is the twenty-first century and Leslie is a liberated woman. Of course she's not expecting him to propose on the spot and make an honest woman out of her. Ron has no idea what he would do if she did. Marriage ruins everything, he knows that better than anyone, and he can't even fathom bringing a baby into that kind of hateful environment. He and Leslie conflict on so many fundamental levels; surely they would be at each other's throats before the child said its first word.

If Leslie wants to raise this baby on her own terms -- undoubtedly as some kind of big-government-loving, anti-free-market Socialist -- then Ron's just going to have to try to find a way to live with that.

"Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?" he asks, lifting his head slightly, looking into her eyes.

"This is my choice," Leslie says, her smile certain, "as a free American. It'll be great, you'll see. You can be cranky Uncle Ron, and I'll be a kickass single mom, like Sheryl Crow or Kate Gosselin."

"I don't know who those people are," Ron says, and Leslie's expression goes watery for a moment. Ron offers her his handkerchief but she waves it away, wrinkling her nose distastefully, dabbing her eyes with her knuckles instead.

"Sorry," she says, a little congestedly. "Kate has just been through so much!"

Ron's struck with an overwhelming urge to touch her, comfort her somehow, but it seems like a dangerous proposition. There's a new life inside her which he, however inadvertently, helped create. Who knows what might happen next? He gingerly extends his arm and pats her elbow with his fingertips. That will have to suffice.

"If you need anything," Ron says, his voice sounding odd in his own ears, cautious and stilted. "Day or night. You say the word and I'll be there."

Leslie lifts herself up on her toes and throws her arms around Ron's neck before he can flinch. He remembers the violet scent of her hair, if not much else from that night back in February. His hands stay at his sides.

"I know, Ron," Leslie says brightly. "But don't worry. Ann and I have it covered. You're totally off the hook."

**

Ron always thought the old adage about pregnant women glowing was sentimental malarkey, but Leslie does seem to look a little different now that the secret's out. Whenever she catches his eye through his office blinds, he can't quite put his finger on it. She's still as slender as ever, and she's always had a bounce in her step and a healthy flush to her cheeks. Maybe it's just the increased estrogen making her hair look shinier.

Of course, a little bit of the magic is lost every time he catches her vomiting into the wastepaper basket near her desk. Ron is a man who places a high premium on individual liberties, but over the next few weeks he finds himself banning Tom's cologne, Jerry's egg salad sandwiches, and Donna's nail polish remover to avoid triggering the department's collective gag reflex.

Everyone's walking on eggshells around Leslie, doting on her every whim, and since Leslie's foremost desire is for everyone to just do their damn jobs, the Parks Department actually runs a lot more smoothly than usual. It's basically Ron's nightmare.

Ann's visits don't seem any more frequent than usual, but now she never arrives without some kind of fluffy rabbit food in hand for Leslie, and she never leaves before charting Leslie's vital signs. Leslie keeps a binder with her at all times, noting every detail of her pregnancy, which she plans to share with the child when it comes of age. Ron thinks it could probably do without knowing the consistency of Leslie's stool on any particular day, but it's none of his business. He flips through the binder one afternoon when Leslie accidentally leaves it behind in her haste to attend a pointless meeting. His name is not mentioned anywhere.

It's getting toward the end of May, and when Ron leaves his window open to catch a breeze, he occasionally overhears Leslie and Ann in the courtyard, gabbing about women stuff. From what he can gather, this baby business is a real racket. The price of a crib these days is untenable, never mind all the other accoutrements. Most of the so-called necessities sound like indulgent mollycoddling to Ron (don't get him started on car seats), but this is Leslie they're talking about, and Leslie deserves to have any damn thing she wants.

He stops Ann in the hallway one afternoon and asks her to steer Leslie away from any top-dollar crib purchases. He finishes the project, using a nice sturdy white oak, within a weekend, and next time he runs into Ann, he adds a rocking chair, changing table, and high chair to the list. There's still another six months to go, and Ron has to fill his evenings somehow. It's the least he can do, considering all the work Leslie has spared him over the years.

**

One Friday afternoon when Ron has confined himself to his office to avoid a particularly determined city councilman, who has spent the better part of the week trying to get Ron to discuss something boring and ineffectual, the details of which Ron would prefer to remain unclear, April brings him lunch from the commissary. She waits until he has taken the first bite of his hamburger to say, "Did you see Leslie's ultrasound picture? It's totally disgusting. It's like a gross alien tadpole. Its head is, like, twice as big as the rest of it." She sighs wistfully. "I wish I had an awesome mutant parasite, but not one that would turn into a stupid baby."

Ron chews and swallows carefully, then puts down the sandwich. "When did you see her ultrasound?"

April shrugs. "Um, like two days ago? She was showing everybody."

"She didn't show me," Ron says, an undignified thread of dismay in his voice.

She blinks, then opens her eyes wider than usual. "Um, maybe because you said you would shoot the first person that bothered you and then locked yourself in your office all day?"

Fair enough, that does sound like him. He takes a deep breath, then folds his hands on his desk and looks down at them. "Did it look like anything was wrong with the baby?"

"Uh, well, I thought so, but I guess it's supposed to look like a creepy deformed sea monkey. Leslie seemed super happy, anyway. Why are you being weird about this?"

Ron looks up sharply. "You're dismissed."

She rolls her eyes dramatically. "Fine, weirdo."

For the first time in his life, Ron thinks he understands what people mean when they say they've lost their appetite.

**

In the middle of the first crackpot convention of the summer, Leslie removes her blazer due to the heat in the middle school auditorium, giving Pawnee at large its first good look at her swollen abdomen. The next day, Marcia Langman from the Society for Family Stability Foundation appears on Pawnee Today for a special segment dedicated to immorality at City Hall. The topic, specifically, is gluttony and obesity. Out of all the Parks Department employees, only Tom and April escape the segment unscathed.

Leslie calls up Joan Callamezzo and makes an appearance the following day, with Ann by her side, to discuss the many fitness initiatives on which Parks and Health are currently collaborating, as well as to formally announce her pregnancy. Three guesses which one gets the switchboard lighting up. Ron can't fathom why anyone thinks it's any of their business, but the citizenry certainly seems to feel entitled to as many bullshit opinions as ever. When the phrase "deadbeat dad" comes up, every follicle on Ron's body prickles with rage. Another caller asks if Leslie plans to go on welfare, and Ron puts a hole in the conference room wall. If anyone asks, he'll think of a way to blame it on Jerry.

The day after that, Marcia Langman resumes her pulpit to preach against the evils of promiscuity and "single parenthood," making dubious air quotes around the phrase every time she utters it. She demands Leslie's resignation for roughly the tenth time this year, and in the process manages to refer both to Ron's child as a bastard and Leslie as a whore.

Ron wakes up early on Sunday morning, visits Marcia Langman's home while she is undoubtedly at church, and demolishes her mailbox with a baseball bat. That's what she gets for flaunting her address in the phone book.

**

He knocks on Leslie's front door and presents the dented reg mailbox flag to her the way a warrior would present the standard of his vanquished enemy to the queen.

"You shouldn't have done that," Leslie says, but the sparkle in her eyes suggests she's not too terribly put out.

"What kind of man lets some crank take cheap shots at the mother of his child?" Ron asks. "What kind of man do you think I am, Leslie?"

Leslie opens her mouth to respond, but before she gets a word out, Ron charges forward, on a roll.

"I didn't appreciate her calling me a deadbeat either. I'll thank you to correct the next person who makes that assumption. I know you're very committed to this independent single mother idea but I'm still planning to meet my financial obligation. If you don't want to spend the money now, sock it away for college, bury it in the backyard... burn it if you want, I couldn't care less."

Ron stops and takes a breath. His heart is pounding uncomfortably, his skin hot with righteous anger. He hasn't spoken at such length in quite some time.

Leslie looks up at him with wide compassionate eyes and Ron almost wants to take the whole speech back on the spot. Emotional scenes are bad enough; causing them is practically intolerable.

"If you want to be involved," she says, her voice painfully sincere, "I would never stop you. What would make you think that?"

Ron's eyebrows furrow. "How about the fact that every other person in the department saw your ultrasound photograph except me?"

That seems to get Leslie's back up, and she fists her hands on her hips, sticking out her skinny neck as though she could bridge their height difference. "I had no idea you wanted to see it! What was I supposed to do, break into your office and shove it in your face?! You never want to look at pictures of other people's kids!"

"It's not someone else's kid!" Ron roars, forgetting for a moment that they're still standing on her front porch in broad daylight. "That's my kid in there," he says, pointing at Leslie's rounded belly, "and given my romantic history, it's probably the only one I'll ever have. It's my duty as a father and an American not to stand idly by while you and Ann go gallivanting all over town, choosing a namby-pamby gender-neutral nursery theme and playing my child foreign language tapes in the womb! Do you want to raise a patriot or a pot-smoking Communist? And while we're on the subject, what kind of boy's name is Blaise? Are you high right now?"

"All right, all right!" Leslie shouts over him, signalling for a time-out. "Geez, Ron, I'm not a mind reader! You could have said something instead of eavesdropping for weeks!"

Ron takes a deep breath, gearing up for another round, but Leslie holds up her tiny hands in supplication.

"But you're right," she says quickly. "Well, kind of. It's important for children to learn that there's more than one perspective on the world. And it's also important for them to know where they came from. Just because we fundamentally disagree on almost every aspect of life, and would be a total disaster as an actual couple, doesn't mean we can't somehow work together to raise an amazing kid." She pauses and takes a deep breath, looking earnestly at Ron's face. "Right?"

"Right," Ron says, looking down at the porch, putting his hands on his pockets. "Does that mean you'll put my name in the baby book?

"You looked at the baby book?" Leslie says, sounding more stunned than Ron feels is strictly warranted.

He turns his head and looks down Leslie's street for a moment. It's quiet, not too crowded. There are worse parts of town. "The wind might have knocked it open," he says, still looking away, "and I may have unintentionally glanced at it."

Leslie reaches out and runs her hand along Ron's arm, the summer sun lighting up her face. "Of course I'll put your name in the book. Of course I want my daughter to know she has a father."

Ron knows it's too soon for Leslie to know the actual sex, but his chest tightens at the term anyway. He clears his throat and cocks an eyebrow in Leslie's direction. "You mean your son."

Leslie sighs and rolls her eyes. "Oh, brother," she says. "Like I said, a total disaster. Just come in and look at the stupid ultrasound already, would you? Quit being a pain in my ass."

**

There's no general paternity announcement, but it's Pawnee, and news has a way of spreading. Ron and Leslie sign some documents at Paul's request to cover the government's ass, and that's more or less the end of it. Even Tom is cowed enough by Ron to keep his opinions to himself.

Leslie stays true to her word, of course. Suddenly Ron's up to his neck in baby planning, roped into every courtyard hen session and emergency craving run. For a week straight, Leslie wants nothing but pickle juice. It takes all Ron and Ann's combined effort to get her to eat so much as an actual pickle and not just slurp down the juice like a milkshake. Ron's suddenly stricken with begrudging sympathy for what Ann must have dealing with alone this whole time.

He's also permitted to veto a few of the more offbeat names from Leslie's short list. Come on, Fleur? Ron's all for telling their hypothetical daughter that she can be anything she wants to be, but he's not going to openly root for "French floozy."

He keeps Leslie up to date on his cellular telephone number (he changes it frequently) so she can reach him urgently. Ron and Leslie define urgency differently, so there are a lot of calls between two and four in the morning to discuss the extracurricular activities that are most attractive to Ivy League admissions officers, but that was to be expected.

Despite knowing Leslie's tendency to overreact, Ron's heart still sinks down to his loafers when he hears Leslie shout across the office one afternoon, "Ron, hurry, come quick!"

When he reaches the conference room (his trip across the department is a blur but may have involved some hurled furniture) he can't even see Leslie at first, only everyone crowded tight around her, and he braces himself firmly for the shock of blood.

Instead Jerry and Donna step away and make a hole for him, and Ron sees Leslie seated and smiling beatifically, with no sign of trauma or pain. Her jacket is spread open and her blouse pulled taut across her belly.

Tom and Andy have their hands all over her.

Not all over, precisely; their palms are confined to the still gentle slope of her four-month belly. That doesn't make Ron want to grab them both by the scruff of the neck and crack their skulls together any less. Not that it should -- of course it's the baby inspiring his possessive impulses, not Leslie. Leslie is an independent woman with the right to be touched by whomever she chooses, Ron knows that. The temporary adrenaline surge must have clouded his mind for a second there.

"What's going on here?" Ron demands.

Leslie looks up at him and her smile widens impossibly. She reaches her hand out and beckons him closer.

"The baby started kicking," April says before Leslie can speak. "It's weird and gross and awesome. Andy, move, let me feel again," she whines, elbowing Andy.

"Everybody, move!" Leslie says, shooing them away. "Let Ron feel! Ron, come and feel!"

Suddenly all the eyes in the room are on him, including the beady little ones in Jerry's insufferably smug, paternal face, and Ron can't bring himself to do as Leslie asks. He wants to feel the baby kick. He wants it very badly. His body simply rebels.

Ron takes a step backwards, shaking his head, closing his eyes briefly. "I'm, uh, not," he hears himself say, as though from a great distance. "I was just -- I have... work. Maybe next time. Carry on."

He beats a hasty retreat to his office, feeling callow and small, and Leslie stomps after him as through hell is following with her.

"What the hell was that?" she hisses, slamming the door shut behind her. "First you throw a big hissy fit about wanting to be involved, now you don't even want to feel the baby kick for the first time?! You can't just pick and choose when you want to be a part of this, Ron, you either are or you aren't!"

"Goddammit," Ron says, "of course I want to feel the baby kick! What I don't want is for Tom and Andy and April and Jerry and Donna and God knows who else to feel it before me! I don't want a roomful of people staring at me when I feel my son move for the first time! There are things that should stay private between a man and a woman!"

Leslie stares at him dubiously. "I've literally seen you get to third base with Tammy in front of a roomful of strangers and you're going to lecture me on what should be private?!"

Ron turns his head and stares hard at the wall, fighting back the urge to punch it. Trying to put his feelings into words is the second worst thing to actually feeling them. "Come off it, Knope, you know it's different. This is our baby, yours and mine. I don't want to be one more person in the crowd. I want to be his father. And his father should feel him kick first."

She looks at Ron for a long considering moment before her posture relaxes. She tilts her head and that irritating corner of her mouth goes up. "You're right, Ron," she says in her softest, gentlest voice. "I'm sorry. I had no idea you felt so strongly about this."

"Don't," says Ron, his jaw tightening.

Leslie steps toward him, her eyes starting to twinkle. "I should have taken your very deep emotions into consideration."

"Stop this," he says, shaking his head firmly.

She gets right under his nose, smiling up at him sunnily, and pats her hand against his chest. "I should know by now that under this rough-and-tumble exterior beats the tender heart of a poet."

"You're fired," Ron says, and Leslie cackles.

"The next ultrasound is coming up," she says brightly. "You can be first to find out if it's a boy or a girl. Spoiler alert, it's totally a girl, so you can go ahead and drop the masculine pronouns now, buddy."

"I suppose that would be acceptable," he says, feeling himself start to smile slightly, hoping his mustache covers most of it.

Leslie puts both hands on her belly, drawing her shirt tight across it again. "She's still wriggling around, by the way. Do you think you might want to feel it now or do you still have too much work?"

Ron draws a breath and holds it, reaching out slowly. He rests his hands on the bump, waits a beat, and -- oh. Oh.

He was wrong, he realizes, exhaling. A hundred people could have felt this before him, this tiny shift under her skin, and it still wouldn't have done a thing to diminish this moment.

Well, even so. One slight overreaction on his part at this point is hardly enough to tip the scales.

**

The first question out of every mouth at the obstetrician's office is, "Where's Ann?" and Ron feels bizarrely pressured to hold Leslie's hand or something equally ridiculous just to prove he's not the lowlife they must think. He finds himself doting on her sheepishly, asking every five minutes if she needs anything, a glass of water, a pillow, a magazine, if she's hungry or uncomfortable, until finally she snaps.

"What is wrong with you?" she seethes under her breath. "Are you trying to find an excuse to get away? If you can't even handle an ultrasound, how are you going to be there for the birth?! Because it's disgusting, Ron, okay, I've seen videos, you have no idea. There's going to be stuff flying out all over the place, and I don't need you wussing out in the middle of that. Ann would never wuss out!"

"I'm not wussing out!" Ron hisses back softly. He doesn't know why they're whispering; the ultrasound technician hasn't even come into the room yet. He takes her hand and holds it tightly anyway. Take that, Knope. "I'm not going anywhere."

They're still sitting there in stubborn silence, holding hands, when the tech enters.

"Hi, Kayla!" Leslie says animatedly, like they're old friends. "This is my -- Ron."

"Nice to meet you, Ron!" says the tech, with relatively little judgment. "All right, Leslie, you know the drill." Leslie pulls up her shirt, and once her belly is covered in clear goo and all the bells and whistles are in place, the tech smiles at both of them. "So are we ready to find out the sex today?"

"Yes!" Leslie answers quickly, like a brown-noser in grade school. Then she glances at Ron from the corner of her eye. "Right? I mean, we talked about wanting to know. It's better to know, don't you think? Then we don't have to worry about buying the wrong thing. Not that there are any wrong things, I mean, girls can wear blue, there's no law. We got that one off the Pawnee books a long time ago. You don't want to be surprised, do you, Ron? Of course not, you hate surprises."

"Leslie," Ron says firmly, squeezing her hand as the monitor flickers to life. He's known the baby was there all along, but somehow he's never been as surprised in his life as he is right now, seeing it plain as day, moving and alive inside of Leslie, not just a grainy black and white screenshot. He looks back and forth a few times between the monitor and the curve of Leslie's belly, and everything is suddenly so real, he feels like he's been shot in the head all over again. Before he can stop himself, he reaches out and presses his hand to Leslie's stomach, his fingers sliding through the gel, touching Leslie's bare skin for the first time since the night they made this baby.

When he comes back to himself, Leslie's pushing his arm away gently and saying his name for what doesn't seem like the first time. "Ron, we're actually not done yet," she says.

He slumps back in his chair, feeling gobsmacked, wiping off his messy hand on the leg of his khakis and not caring.

"Where did we land on finding out the sex?" the tech asks, amused.

"Yes," Ron says, every bit as damnably eager as Leslie was before. He looks at Leslie earnestly. "Please?"

She gives the nod, and Ron takes her hand again.

"Congratulations, mommy and daddy," the tech says. "It's a beautiful baby girl."

"It knew it!" Leslie hoots, pumping her fists in the air, pulling Ron's hand along with her. "That's right, suck it, Swanson! In your face!"

Up until now, Ron's always imagined a baby girl as some delicate frilly thing he'd be afraid to touch, but sitting here with Leslie, seeing the baby inside her and knowing it's actually theirs, suddenly all he can imagine is a tiny version of her, running around all over the place and sticking her nose where it doesn't belong, bossing him around and taking on the world, driving him up the wall, and he can't remember ever wanting anything more in his life.

Before he knows what's happening, they're alone in the room again, Leslie fixing her clothes and humming softly to herself. Ron rests his hand on the small of her back as they move toward the door, but before they reach it, Leslie spins on her heel and looks up at him anxiously.

"I want to name her Eleanor," she says. "Ellie for short. Ellie Knope."

"Swanson," Ron says, touching her stomach again, spreading his fingers wide and protective.

"Knope-Swanson," Leslie counters, a contrary gleam in her eye.

Hyphenated names are for weak-willed Socialists, but that's an argument Ron's willing to save for another day.

**

Ron spends the next several weeks in an unprecedentedly blissful fog, but he's not too far gone to realize that something is amiss when he arrives at work one morning and the lights are still out in Leslie's office.

His phone rings before he has time to sit down at his desk.

"Don't freak out," Leslie says, and his blood pressure catapults. "I noticed a tiny little bit of spotting, and Ann says it's probably totally fine and normal, but she thinks I should take it easy for a day or two just to be safe."

"What's spotting?" Ron asks. He thinks he knows, but he would prefer to have confirmation before his full-blown heart attack begins.

"Um," Leslie says, "bleeding but only a tiny, tiny bit? And I'm not in any pain at all, so Ann says it's probably totally one hundred percent fine!"

"Is Ann there with you now?" Ron asks, as evenly as possible.

"No, she had to go to work. But, Ron, I'm fine!"

"Get in bed and stay there," Ron says. "I'll be there in ten minutes. If I find you cleaning the gutters, or recaulking the bathtub, or alphabetizing your pantry, or doing anything other than staying in bed, we're going to have a very serious conversation."

"All right, geez, I'll go to stupid bed," Leslie mutters.

"Good girl," Ron says.

"Oh, Ron, wait, Ron!" she exclaims just before he lowers the phone. "Ron, bring waffles, Ron, please, I really need them!"

**

He brings Leslie a double cheeseburger instead. The baby needs protein.

"Ron, I can't lay here like a bump on a log all day long!" Leslie whines, flopping around on her bed. "There's too much to do before the baby comes, and I'm just going to get pregnanter and pregnanter, and then she'll be here and I'll never have time to get anything done again!"

"Tell me what needs to get done and I'll do it," Ron says, doing his best to keep his voice even and reasonable.

"Oh, yeah," Leslie says, rolling her eyes. "Because that worked so well at Christmas."

"I'll try harder this time," Ron says. "This stress isn't good for you or the baby. What's the biggest project right now?"

Leslie bites her lip. "Cleaning out the spare room so I can set up the nursery. But it's not that bad, and Ann's going to come over for a couple hours this weekend and help me! It's no big deal!"

"Let me take a look," Ron says.

Her eyes widen and her tone becomes stilted. "What? No! You don't need to do that!" She sits up in bed as Ron turns toward the door. "No, Ron, don't go in there!"

Ron opens the door next to Leslie's bedroom and curses a blue streak. It's filled to the brim with cardboard boxes and Rubbermaid storage bins, containing what appears to be every piece of paper or random item Leslie has touched in her life up to this moment. He walks back to Leslie's doorway slowly.

"What the hell, Knope?" he asks, his voice low and deliberate.

"I know it looks bad," Leslie says, holding up her hands defensively. "Remember when I had that dinner party at the beginning of the year? I had to move some things out of the way to make it looks nice downstairs! I didn't keep everything, I let Ann throw a ton of things away!"

Ron looks at her sternly.

"Fine, maybe I went out and took some stuff back from the trash when she went home to change," Leslie admits. "But I really needed it! At least I thought I did. If I had known the baby was coming, I would have let it go. I just want to make a nice room for her and now all that crap is in the way!" Her eyes mist up, and Ron starts feeling all manner of strange compulsions.

"You could keep all that junk and turn the downstairs guest room into the nursery instead," he says. "I can take that bed out, no problem."

"I can't leave the baby all the way downstairs, are you crazy?!" Leslie cries. "Besides, Ann needs the guest room for sleepovers!"

"How often does Ann sleep over?" Ron asks.

"Well, she did once," Leslie says, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. "But it could happen again!"

Ron enters the room slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements while Leslie is in this emotional state. He sits down on the far corner of her bed, out of reach, just in case.

"I'll finish the nursery," he says. "You won't have to lift a finger. If there's anything else you need done around the house before the baby comes, I'll take care of that, too."

Leslie makes a skeptical face. "I appreciate the offer, Ron, but when are you going to have time to do all that?"

A solution presents itself to him immediately, and although he doesn't expect Leslie to go for it for one minute, he can't come up with anything better. "I could move in until the nursery's done. Sleep down in the guest room, stay out of your hair. That way you'll have someone here anytime you need anything."

"I can't ask you to do that," Leslie says, shaking her head. "It's too much."

"You're not asking," Ron says. "I'm offering." He pauses for a second, then adds, "I want to." He's surprised to realize it's the absolute truth.

Leslie looks at him for a long moment, then sniffles and rubs her nose with the tissue. "Well," she says thickly. "If you really want to, I guess I won't stop you."

Ron's fully aware that this is probably the only time he'll get his way under Leslie's roof, but that's all right. If this is his only win, at least it's a big one.

**

In some ways, sharing a house with Leslie is easy for Ron.

He enjoys having someone to cook breakfast with, moving wordlessly around the kitchen like they're doing a familiar dance, as well as the fact that Leslie's usually up for it at any time of the day or night. Ron loves the smell of sawdust and cured meat, but it turns out there's also something to be said for potpourri, once he stops mistaking it for trail mix and trying to eat it. When Ron spends a day meeting with taxpayers, Leslie fixes him a steak and a glass of whiskey when they get home, without so much as a word.

In other ways, it is predictably problematic.

Ron used to spend his daily drive to the office in silent contemplation, readying himself mentally for the onslaught of pointlessness and stupidity he was about to face. Leslie, on the other hand, likes to play the same homemade compact disc each and every morning, consisting of cheerful upbeat songs to lift her mood. The first track is about walking on sunshine and feeling good, and the rest continue in a similar vein. After about a week of carpooling, Ron reaches the end of his tether and hides the disc under the spare tire in the trunk of his car. She spends the day noticeably off kilter, and by lunchtime Ron feels like a monster for depriving the mother of his child such a simple pleasure. The next day he pops in the disc without her asking, and she bounces and claps in her seat like he's performed a magic trick. Coincidentally it ends up being one of the less soul-crushing days on the job in Ron's recent memory.

Then there are the instances which are downright intolerable.

One evening while Leslie is busy with a late meeting, Ron spends hours preparing a fine and iron-rich meal of pork and fermented cabbage (Ron Swanson consumes nothing with the word "kraut" in the name). When Leslie arrives home, she stands in the kitchen and berates Ron for a solid twenty minutes about his carelessness and inconsideration. The smell, she says, is sickening.

This is the same woman Ron has seen, not so very long ago, chugging pickle juice straight from the jar.

"What's wrong with you?!" Leslie shouts, near tears. "Why do you have to be so disgusting all the time?!"

Ron puts his hands up and slowly backs away, as though she were a rabid animal, and Leslie grabs an orange from the counter and chucks it at him.

"It's your stupid fault I'm like this!" she shrieks. "You did this to me!"

As unpleasant as the yelling is, incalculably worse is the way the encounter leaves him feeling... oddly stirred.

If it were Tammy, he would simply scream back in her face and then set the bed on fire, but he can't do that with Leslie. Even if she felt the same unsettling urges, it would obviously be a terrible idea to complicate their relationship even further, what with the baby coming. Just because Ron's not currently experiencing the intense feelings of hatred which usually coincide with his sexual desires doesn't mean they won't develop, and he can't take that risk with a child involved.

He reminds himself of that decision when she curls against him on the couch a few days later, resting her head on his shoulder while they enjoy a History Channel special on America's greatest military leaders.

He repeats it like a mantra when he steps out of the halfway-finished nursery in his paint-spattered overalls and bumps into Leslie on her way out of the shower, the tensile strength of her towel being tested by her rapidly expanding midsection and swollen bosom.

A few private fantasies late at night, on the other hand, never hurt anyone.

**

When the close quarters and constant contact grow too frustrating, Ron starts delegating any and all responsibilities that include actually touching Leslie. After a glowing recommendation from Donna, he enlists Andy to take charge of the foot rub situation. Given that Andy is both easily intimidated by Ron and obviously in love with April, Ron doesn't foresee any difficulties.

That's before he walks into Leslie's office and finds Andy sitting on the floor in front of Leslie's chair, groping her bare feet while Leslie squirms and moans an uncomfortably familiar moan.

Ron grabs Andy by collar of his neo-hippie flannel shirt and hauls him to his feet. It takes every ounce of Ron's restraint not to flip him over Leslie's desk.

"Whoa, Ron!" Andy yelps, wide-eyed. "I just wanted Leslie to be comfortable! The chairs at the shoeshine stand are way too hard for her! I didn't look up her skirt, I swear!"

Ron gives Andy a decisive shove in the direction of the door. "Take a walk, son," he says.

He tries to put April on foot rub duty instead, since at least she's a girl, but she pulls a revolted face and pretends to vomit into her desk drawer. Ron turns to Donna, who waves her freshly manicured nails and shakes her head.

It's a mutiny, and it won't be soon forgotten.

That night Leslie traps him on the couch with her feet in his lap, her sweatpants all tugged up around her calves, creamy skin warm against him through his jeans.

"Come on, you owe me," she says, wiggling her toes. "Andy was just starting to get some business taken care of."

Damn it, Andrew. Well, fine. Ron will show Leslie who takes care of business around here. He starts working his thumbs against Leslie's arches and she sighs and lays back on the couch, closing her eyes. It's endurable enough at first, until she lets the first whimper slip out, squirming on the couch, rubbing her heels against Ron's thigh.

"Mmm, Ron, your hands are so strong," she murmurs sleepily, stifling a yawn. "Your fingers are like wooden blocks, wrapped in... ham."

Ron's never been more flattered in his life. He lets his hands drift up to her ankles which are swollen and sore, and Leslie moans and wiggles down deeper into the couch, her head lolling back on a throw pillow. Ron watches her thighs rub together and carefully angles her feet away from his crotch.

"Maybe you should, uh. Think about getting to bed," Ron says, his voice rough.

"No, I'm comfy," Leslie mutters, sounding drugged and drowsy. "I'll sleep here."

Ron won't have the mother of his child sleeping on the couch, so he keeps working on her feet until her breath comes slow and even, then picks her up off the couch carefully and carries her upstairs. He'll feel it in his back tomorrow, but that's nothing compared to what Leslie's going through every day. He tucks her into bed and sits beside her for a moment, against his better judgment, listening to her breathe. It's hard to motivate himself to return to his lonely guest room, but he thinks he surely must be on the verge of succeeding when Leslie suddenly squints her eyes open.

"Ron?" she mumbles, still out of it.

He clears his throat. "Yeah, I'm here."

She smiles and reaches for his hand, pressing it firmly to her stomach. "Baby's kicking," she whines softly. "She's gonna keep me up."

Ron smiles back at her and rubs at her skin, where he can feel a little foot. Impulsively he leans down and says to Leslie's stomach, "Settle down there, kiddo. Let your mom get some rest."

Leslie closes her eyes and snuggles down into the bed, flailing her hand at Ron blindly and clumsily, half patting his head and half slapping his face. "Good, keep distracting her," she says, all slurred and sleepy, her breathing quickly settling itself back into a quiet snore.

Ron feels lost suddenly, all alone with the baby. He doesn't spend much time talking to Leslie's belly when she's awake, and it feels like an awkward introduction. There's a sliver of skin peeking out under the hem of Leslie's t-shirt, and Ron gently pushes it up an inch or two so the baby can hear him better.

"Hello, Ellie," he begins, trying to shake off the stiffness in his tone. It's his damn daughter in there, after all. "I don't generally look forward to meeting new people, but I sure can't wait to meet you. I'm not as much fun as your mom, but I think you might be able to learn a thing or two from me." He strokes his thumb gently over the spot where he can feel her head, and keeps murmuring in a low tone about all the things they'll build together, how he'll coach her T-ball team or take her to dance lessons or any other damn thing she might want to do.

Leslie stirs in her sleep and Ron sits up straight for a second, embarrassed, but she doesn't open her eyes.

He swallows hard, then leans down and murmurs, "Your mom's a nice lady, keeping you all warm and cozy like this. She's good at taking care of people. You're lucky, sweetheart. You're too young to hear the details, so just take my word for it. Out of all the other moms you could have had, you hit the all-time jackpot."

**

Ron enlists Ann's help to get Leslie out of the house one Saturday, and while they're off doing whatever ladies and Tom do at Spawnee, he finally moves the baby furniture into Leslie's house and puts the finishing touches on the nursery.

Leslie comes home glowing and relaxed, and for an odd second Ron wonders if he might be able to hide the completed nursery from her for another few days, just to give himself a chance to make sure every last detail is perfect, but it feels too risky. He doesn't want her wandering into the room without him. He wants to see her face.

He asks Leslie to close her eyes and she complies without question. There's an unfamiliar and possibly unprecedented flutter in Ron's stomach as he takes her by the hand and carefully guides her upstairs. Surely there's no reason for him to be nervous. He's never doubted the quality of his craftsmanship before.

After Leslie opens her eyes, she turns a slow circle and says nothing for what feels like an hour. Ron slips his hands into his pockets and looks down at the floor, straightening the tassels on the throw rug with the toe of his shoe.

"I can paint it if you don't like natural finish," he says.

He doesn't have a chance to look up before Leslie's mouth is on his, warm and soft. Her belly bumps into his stomach, and he's too stunned to move for a long moment, feeling her tiny hands on the sides of his face, their baby pressed between them.

Before he can bring himself to react, Leslie's already turning away, nudging her lips over to the very corner of Ron's mouth instead before she breaks the kiss, like maybe she had been aiming for a crooked friendly peck in the first place and just missed. Her face is pink when she steps back, and Ron's so unsettled and confused, he can't be sure of anything. Maybe he was the one who leaned into it without thinking.

"This is amazing, Ron," Leslie says, her voice forcefully bright. She steps over to the rocking chair and pushes it gently back and forth, delighting in the smooth motion. "I can't believe you did all of this. It's too much."

"It was nothing," Ron says. He clears his throat, then gestures toward the baby. "You're the one doing all the real work here."

Leslie sits down in the rocking chair and tests it out carefully, spreading her palms across her middle. She's obviously imagining sitting there with their daughter in her arms, and Ron can hardly stand it, knowing they'll be sitting there every day and he won't be here.

"I know we said this arrangement was just until the nursery was done," Ron says, barely trying to hide the reluctance in his voice. "So if you want me to pack up, I can--"

"No, stay," Leslie says quickly.

It's like suddenly there's air in the room again. Ron takes a deep breath.

"Stay until she's born," says Leslie. "I mean, if you want to."

It's probably just postponing the inevitable, but at least it's something.

**

When summer ends and the weather turns, Leslie starts having cold spells. The damn fear mongering internet suggests it might be hyperthyroidism or anemia or anything in between, but the doctor gives her a clean bill of health, so Ron starts looking for other solutions.

He visits his own home to retrieve a few of his warmest fur blankets, and he's nonplussed to realize how much dust has accumulated since the last time he was there. He still spends time in his woodshop regularly to avoid overdosing on woman stuff, but it suddenly strikes him odd that besides his toothbrush and clothing, he hasn't needed much of anything from his actual house since he moved in with Leslie. There's no shame in a spartan lifestyle, so it must be Leslie's sentimental influence giving him pause. At least she takes the damn blankets without any bleeding heart claptrap.

When Leslie informs him that the fireplace in her living room is "decorative," it takes Ron longer to stop chuckling than it does for him to get it up and running. Still, no matter how well he keeps the fire stoked, it doesn't stop Leslie from burrowing into his side when they sit together on the couch, tucking her feet under his thigh or jamming her hands behind his back. It's no mean feat to keep Leslie's wandering limbs clear of his lap, where heat is most assuredly being generated, but the effort is nevertheless a small price to pay for the comfort of his child's mother.

Leslie feels like a goddamn human furnace to him, but she's currently enduring a physical trial no man could comprehend, so Ron keeps his opinion to himself.

Suffice it to say, it's no surprise when Ron pours himself a glass of scotch and settles in to watch The Great Escape and Leslie's tucked under his arm before the text appears onscreen declaring it to be a true story.

"Did you know none of the real escapees were native English speakers?" she loudly whispers over the first lines of dialogue. "They were actually Norwegian and Dutch."

"Damn it, woman, is nothing sacred?" Ron asks.

Leslie snickers and rests her head on his shoulder, staying amiably silent until she falls asleep during the second act and starts to gently snore. Fortunately Ron kept the bottle within reach, so he doesn't have to move and wake her when he wants another drink. They've achieved a nice symbiosis that way.

Then she shifts warmly against him, makes a soft sound in her sleep, and rests her hand on Ron's leg, and suddenly sitting still becomes exponentially more difficult.

The movie's still playing across the room but Steve McQueen can't hold a candle to having Leslie in his arms like this, so warm and close, peaceful and trusting. Ron's had two weddings, but the feeling in his chest at this moment is unprecedented.

He tucks a loose strand of Leslie's hair behind her ear, noticing how pale and light it really is, no hint of brass or copper at all. His first ex-wife might as well have been a redhead compared to Leslie.

He's brushing his fingertips back and forth across the back of Leslie's hand, feeling her soft skin and wondering how exactly he's going to survive this, when Leslie startles awake, looking up at him with wide eyes. He jerks his hand back like it's burning but she just reaches out and grabs it, pulling it to her belly instead, pressing his palm there firmly.

"Oh, my God," she says, smiling through her sleepiness, "she's going crazy in there, feel! I just hope that jerk Ian's not still coaching girls' soccer when she's old enough to play."

Ron swallows hard. "Soccer's for bureaucrats and Socialists."

Leslie rolls her eyes and groans. "Ugh, just shut up about Socialists already! Everything's not always Socialists all the time! I swear, Ellie's going to grow up thinking there are Socialists hiding under--"

Maybe it's the way she says their daughter's name, or the glow of the fire flickering across her face, or just the fact that he wants to stop her from saying such ridiculous things, but something inside Ron suddenly snaps and the next thing he's aware of is Leslie's mouth, hot and open against his. She leans into it for a second, clutching his arm, and he feels one electric stroke of her tongue before she gasps and shoves him away.

"Wait, Ron, what are you doing?!" she cries.

"Kissing you," says Ron.

"Why?!"

He looks her steadily in the eyes. "Because I want to kiss you," he says. "Because I'm goddamn tired of not kissing you."

Leslie stares at him for an anxious moment, then blinks hard and shakes her head. "No, Ron, listen to yourself, you're talking crazy!"

"We've been living together for months," Ron says. "We're having a baby. It's crazy to pretend that this isn't already happening."

Leslie shakes her head again, starting to breathe fast. She scoots over to the far end of the couch, out of Ron's reach. "Listen, you just said it yourself! You're only feeling what you think you're feeling because I'm pregnant. It's a totally natural biological drive! I see it all the time on the Discovery Channel and at the zoo! You just feel protective and attached because I'm carrying your child. It's like pregnancy-induced Stockholm Syndrome. But once the baby's here, all that stuff will go away and things will go back to normal between us, you'll see! You'd never feel this way about me if I weren't pregnant!"

"Goddammit, Knope!" Ron growls. "I don't feel just feel protective or attached. I feel like I want to take you to bed and show you a pleasure so intense it might send you into early labor. And if you'll recall, I did feel that way about you before you got pregnant. How the hell do you think it happened in the first place?"

"It happened because we were drunk," Leslie says. "And you're obviously drunk again right now!"

Ron shows her the barely diminished bottle of whiskey as evidence to the contrary. "My memory of that night might be blurry," he admits, "but I've had almost eight months to think back long and hard on everything that led up to it. How you stood by me against that bloodthirsty she-demon of an ex-wife. How you deserved better than some selfish son of a bitch who's too blind to realize that being with you would be the greatest goddamn adventure a man could have." He moves off the couch and takes a knee in front of Leslie, touching her hands and her belly, feeling more desperate than he would have thought possible. "How you're the strongest, best person I've ever met," he says.

He closes his eyes as Leslie touches his face, breathing in sharply as her hands move up to his hair. "Ron," she says quietly.

Speeches have never been his strong suit, but he has to see this one through. He looks up at Leslie. "I don't believe it happened because we got drunk together. I believe we got drunk together so it would happen. If I'm wrong, Leslie, so help me God, I will make this up to you in whatever way I can. But if I'm right--"

That's as far as he gets before Leslie's mouth crashes down on his. This time the kiss is eager and ecstatic, hard and deliberate, their fingers tangling in each other's hair, finding the edges of each other's clothing and stealing underneath. It's as passionate and glorious a moment as two human souls have ever shared, but it still ends with Leslie jerking away suddenly and slapping Ron's shoulders with both hands, and goddammit, Ron's heart can't much more of this. He'd like to live to see his daughter born.

"Why didn't you say something sooner?" Leslie gasps breathlessly.

Ron blinks. "Why didn't you?" he asks.

Leslie shoves him again. "I was too busy being pregnant! I can't be in charge of every little thing!"

"Since when?!" Ron says, then Leslie's kissing him again, her hands clasping his face, thumbs teasing the edges of his mustache. Oh, for God's sake, give a man a straight answer, Knope! He breaks the kiss this time and holds her sternly at arm's length. "Leslie, are you absolutely sure--"

Leslie's eyes are bright and sparkling even as she's rolling them. "Ugh, Ron, shut up, yes, I love you too. Let's get married and have ten more babies, you can build them all bunkbeds and someday they can start a family band. Can you please just whisk me off to bed and ravish me already?"

She doesn't have to ask him twice.

**

"Just take her, Ron!" Leslie insists.

"Why?" Ron says, glancing anxiously at the hospital room door. Surely a nurse will come along and put a stop to this ridiculous behavior. Where's that nosy Perkins when Ron needs her? "You're good, you've got this."

"You have to take her sometime! I can't believe Ron freaking Swanson is afraid to hold his own baby daughter!"

Ron's not afraid, per se. More like he's concerned that Leslie may have broken at least one bone in his hand while clutching it during the birth. He just can't quite figure out how to say it out loud without sounding like a wimp, not after Leslie was just in labor for fourteen hours.

Besides, the baby is so tiny and fragile, he's never felt more like Lennie Small in his life. His hands are rough from wood and metal, nothing like Leslie's soft gentle ones. His daughter deserves better.

"Please," Leslie says. The baby's whole miniature fist is wrapped around the tip of Leslie's left pinky, the diamond on Leslie's next finger glinting in the light as the baby tugs her hand back and forth, and Ron can't stop staring. "She waited so long to meet you."

Damn it, she's right. It's time to step up to the plate. Leslie carried their baby for nine months, it's Ron's turn now.

He takes her from Leslie slowly and carefully, making sure to hold her over the bed just in case something goes wrong. He's scared to even breathe in case it jars her. He nestles her against his chest, shocked by how light and fragile she is, that anything so delicate could have come partly from him.

"Hello, beautiful," he whispers, touching his fingertip to her tiny chest and feeling her strong, fast heartbeat. "Hello, Ellie Knope."

"Actually," Leslie says, "about that."

Ron's forehead wrinkles but he can't tear his eyes away from Ellie long enough to look up for clarification. "What?"

"I decided I want her to have her father's name, like my mother did for me," Leslie says, her smile audible. "Eleanor Ann Swanson."

Ron's chest swells with pride, and he cradles the baby even closer. He glances at Leslie, feeling an unsettling dampness at the corners of his eyes. "Are you sure?"

She beams up at him from the bed, looking exhausted and peaceful and more beautiful than Ron has ever seen her. "Of course I'm sure," she says. "I mean, obviously I'm still going to be Leslie Knope-Swanson, so don't get any ideas about that. But she should have a good solid name, with no hyphens or unwieldy silent letters. It suits her, don't you think? Olympic gold medalist Eleanor Swanson. Astronaut Eleanor Swanson. President Eleanor Swanson."

Even Ron has to admit that the last one has a nice ring to it.