Ficlet: Puzzle Pieces
Title: Puzzle Pieces
Author: saucydiva
Word count: 1.5k-ish
Rating: PG-13? I suppose
Disclaimer: Clearly I don’t own it or I would buy myself the world’s tiniest park
Timeline: post-3x09
Summary: Leslie. Ben. Feelings. Snakehole.
Author’s Note:
Happy birthday to ballroom_pink! She requested a ficlet to celebrate, and when pressed for details said, “The dream ficlet would have to either take place at the Snakehole or transpire after events at the Snakehole. It should involve feelings and Leslie and Ben.” I wanted a challenge, so I went forth, with a time limit, and limited myself to two characters, one setting, and no subplot. Then my computer ate it, so I went forth with an even shorter time limit. Sigh.
Thanks to popgurlie and whimsical_irony for the quick betaing.
Leslie Knope always got her man.
Well, rarely her man. She got things that really mattered; a filled-in pit, a Harvest Festival, and a best friend she would walk through fire for.
These things made her happy.
But lately, something-someone-was on her mind, and she had to try to get that too. It was not in her nature to wait patiently, so she did what she always did. She made a plan, outlined it in a binder, threw in a few quotes from literature (D.H. Lawrence, mostly), highlighted the important passages, and called up Ann, possibly at three in the morning, and Ann had approved, probably because she was mostly asleep at the time.
Leslie couldn’t just wait around forever.
Tonight, she was going to get her man.
***
“Where is everybody?” Ben looked at her, and she locked eyes with him; wanting to see who would look away first. He did, eyes darting around the Snakehole, looking for stray coworkers. “I thought you said this was for Tom.”
“Oh, they’ll be here soon enough. Let me get you a drink.”
She grabbed at his hand but missed, so she half-trotted, half-dragged him to the bar by the wrist. She ordered a beer and a chocolate martini. While they waited, she twisted back to him, and saw that he was studying her hand like he was missing a piece of the puzzle.
She understood that.
She, too, had recently missed a lot of the puzzle. And that was to be expected; Leslie was not someone who waited for hints, or who would take the time to wonder why this man was putting so much effort into her town. But he had asked her to ask him to stay; and she had made a list in her head and then one on paper and then one on another piece of paper and each time the answer was go back to on the road. There was no logical reason for Ben to stay in Pawnee -- the pro/con list really made that clear. Leslie had sat there, trying to make seventeen pro-Pawnee reasons greater than or at least equal to thirty reasons to go back to his non-Pawnee life and the math, like her logical, fact-based list, was cold and unfeeling.
But Ben wasn’t. Her first impressions had been wrong, and if she had followed a pro/con list back then, she would have made a grave error.
She let go of his wrist, and handed him his beer. This is a piece of the puzzle, you.
The way Leslie saw it-at least the way she saw it in retrospect, having missed it the first time around- Ben’s first piece was bringing her waffles (there had also been soup, but, well, waffles). So she had started doing that too; brought him coffee with extra sugar, waffles with extra whipped cream, and a box of thumb tacks to complete his new office. Bought him this beer.
The next piece she had down. He-apparently learning his mating rituals from peacocks-wore these shirts, these colorful expressions of his soul. He wasn’t just a numbers robot, and she had missed that, because clothes weren’t really her thing. But he wore these awful wonderful shirts, and she should have seen his notice me plaids for what they were. So she was wearing a notice me shirt too, borrowed from Ann’s closet months ago and never worn, because she really tends towards a conservative look, but this shirt was both gauzy and shiny, and under the club lights the yellow almost glowed.
They started talking about work. Talked about books, cake, kittens. And since the club was crowded, they kept getting jostled into each other, and if she had to lean in to him to hear what he had to say, well, that just couldn’t be avoided.
And here was the third piece: Touching. Incidental touches, that could be accidental but weren’t. He touched her arm to bring home a point, she poked him in the chest with some faux-aggression, they high-fived while joking about expense reports. Only, instead of going into their usual routine, she grabbed his hand, brought their hands down, twisting so that when she leaned into him this time, her hand was against his heart and his was against hers.
“Let’s dance,” she breathed into his ear, and he looked like he might faint or vomit.
“Oh, that’s a bad idea, Leslie, I don’t really-that is, if you haven’t noticed I’m not a…”
“Calm down, I promise no one is watching you here,” she said. “This isn’t salsa or ballroom, no one is paying attention.”
He turned a little pink. “I just probably-”
If Ben said anything after that, Leslie didn’t hear it, because she was on the dance floor, holding her breath and wondering if he had followed her. But she was determined not to look back. An hour later-or maybe it was just a moment, who could tell- she could feel his hands lightly on her hips, and Ben whispered to her, “This is a bad idea, you know this is a bad idea.”
She turned around, wrapped her arms around his waist. “I don’t care.”
“You’re incorrigible.” But he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and pulled her close.
Ben was, it would turn out, the worst dancer. It wasn’t that he had no rhythm, although there was that to consider. It wasn’t that he couldn’t lead-Leslie had that covered. And it wasn’t that he was nervous, though he was clearly afraid of either dancing or her. It was that he lacked confidence.
“Close your eyes,” she said, and when he looked startled, she followed with, “Trust me.”
He did.
She positioned his hands on her hips firmly and pressed her palm to his chest. “Feel-” and she tapped on the down beat. “The. Music. Hear. The. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Like. Your. Heart.” She started swaying in time with her tapping. “Can. You. Feel. This. This. Is. The. Beat. Move. Your. Hips. Too.” She moved her hands, started touching his hipbone, tapping, pushing slightly.
It wasn’t working.
She pulled him closer, pressing their hips together. Whoa. She wasn’t the only one affected; Ben stumbled, moved a hand to her shoulder to steady himself. His eyes popped open, flew to hers, and they locked into each other. For a moment-or maybe an hour, who could tell-they stood still, pressed together, sweaty and nervous and too close.
Leslie reached up and brought his face down and kissed him. Ben didn’t respond for a moment, then laced his fingers through her hair with one hand and pulled her closer with the other. She ran her fingers down the back of his neck, and he shuddered. She moaned a little as he touched her back. Somehow they weren’t close enough, she had to get closer, she had to-
Ben broke it off, stepped back. Put out a hand to her, and then looked down and pulled it back. “We can’t-there’s this rule- Leslie, you realize, technically, well, not technically, actually I’m your boss.”
“I don’t care-that was-you felt it too, right? Ben, Ben, you felt it too, you had to, I could feel you feeling it.” Wait, that wasn’t quite right. “You felt what I felt-” No, that wasn’t right either. “Ben, I like you.”
He blinked. “Like me?”
“Really like you,” she said, clapping her hands together once, definitively. Held them together. Looked him in the eyes.
He put his hands behind his back. “I like-I am fond of-I appreciate you too.”
“I think we could make it work,” she said, tilting her head at him, trying to catch his eye.
And then Ben launched into a mini speech, full of awkward pauses, in which he explained that she was great, Pawnee was great, but he really shouldn’t, not that he didn’t want to, but he shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t, and he wanted to-oh man, he wanted to-but no.
Leslie noticed, though, that the entire time he was talking to her, he kept his hands pressed against his sides. Meanwhile, his eyes kept drifting down to her lips, and whenever they lingered he would shake his head and lock his gaze with hers.
She told him she understood, and then put out her hand to shake on it. He waited a beat, and then put out his hand. She grasped his hand with both of hers; stroked the back of his hand lightly with two fingers.
He gulped.
She smiled.
Maybe not tonight, but she was going to get her man.
***
Fin
Author: saucydiva
Word count: 1.5k-ish
Rating: PG-13? I suppose
Disclaimer: Clearly I don’t own it or I would buy myself the world’s tiniest park
Timeline: post-3x09
Summary: Leslie. Ben. Feelings. Snakehole.
Author’s Note:
Happy birthday to ballroom_pink! She requested a ficlet to celebrate, and when pressed for details said, “The dream ficlet would have to either take place at the Snakehole or transpire after events at the Snakehole. It should involve feelings and Leslie and Ben.” I wanted a challenge, so I went forth, with a time limit, and limited myself to two characters, one setting, and no subplot. Then my computer ate it, so I went forth with an even shorter time limit. Sigh.
Thanks to popgurlie and whimsical_irony for the quick betaing.
Leslie Knope always got her man.
Well, rarely her man. She got things that really mattered; a filled-in pit, a Harvest Festival, and a best friend she would walk through fire for.
These things made her happy.
But lately, something-someone-was on her mind, and she had to try to get that too. It was not in her nature to wait patiently, so she did what she always did. She made a plan, outlined it in a binder, threw in a few quotes from literature (D.H. Lawrence, mostly), highlighted the important passages, and called up Ann, possibly at three in the morning, and Ann had approved, probably because she was mostly asleep at the time.
Leslie couldn’t just wait around forever.
Tonight, she was going to get her man.
***
“Where is everybody?” Ben looked at her, and she locked eyes with him; wanting to see who would look away first. He did, eyes darting around the Snakehole, looking for stray coworkers. “I thought you said this was for Tom.”
“Oh, they’ll be here soon enough. Let me get you a drink.”
She grabbed at his hand but missed, so she half-trotted, half-dragged him to the bar by the wrist. She ordered a beer and a chocolate martini. While they waited, she twisted back to him, and saw that he was studying her hand like he was missing a piece of the puzzle.
She understood that.
She, too, had recently missed a lot of the puzzle. And that was to be expected; Leslie was not someone who waited for hints, or who would take the time to wonder why this man was putting so much effort into her town. But he had asked her to ask him to stay; and she had made a list in her head and then one on paper and then one on another piece of paper and each time the answer was go back to on the road. There was no logical reason for Ben to stay in Pawnee -- the pro/con list really made that clear. Leslie had sat there, trying to make seventeen pro-Pawnee reasons greater than or at least equal to thirty reasons to go back to his non-Pawnee life and the math, like her logical, fact-based list, was cold and unfeeling.
But Ben wasn’t. Her first impressions had been wrong, and if she had followed a pro/con list back then, she would have made a grave error.
She let go of his wrist, and handed him his beer. This is a piece of the puzzle, you.
The way Leslie saw it-at least the way she saw it in retrospect, having missed it the first time around- Ben’s first piece was bringing her waffles (there had also been soup, but, well, waffles). So she had started doing that too; brought him coffee with extra sugar, waffles with extra whipped cream, and a box of thumb tacks to complete his new office. Bought him this beer.
The next piece she had down. He-apparently learning his mating rituals from peacocks-wore these shirts, these colorful expressions of his soul. He wasn’t just a numbers robot, and she had missed that, because clothes weren’t really her thing. But he wore these awful wonderful shirts, and she should have seen his notice me plaids for what they were. So she was wearing a notice me shirt too, borrowed from Ann’s closet months ago and never worn, because she really tends towards a conservative look, but this shirt was both gauzy and shiny, and under the club lights the yellow almost glowed.
They started talking about work. Talked about books, cake, kittens. And since the club was crowded, they kept getting jostled into each other, and if she had to lean in to him to hear what he had to say, well, that just couldn’t be avoided.
And here was the third piece: Touching. Incidental touches, that could be accidental but weren’t. He touched her arm to bring home a point, she poked him in the chest with some faux-aggression, they high-fived while joking about expense reports. Only, instead of going into their usual routine, she grabbed his hand, brought their hands down, twisting so that when she leaned into him this time, her hand was against his heart and his was against hers.
“Let’s dance,” she breathed into his ear, and he looked like he might faint or vomit.
“Oh, that’s a bad idea, Leslie, I don’t really-that is, if you haven’t noticed I’m not a…”
“Calm down, I promise no one is watching you here,” she said. “This isn’t salsa or ballroom, no one is paying attention.”
He turned a little pink. “I just probably-”
If Ben said anything after that, Leslie didn’t hear it, because she was on the dance floor, holding her breath and wondering if he had followed her. But she was determined not to look back. An hour later-or maybe it was just a moment, who could tell- she could feel his hands lightly on her hips, and Ben whispered to her, “This is a bad idea, you know this is a bad idea.”
She turned around, wrapped her arms around his waist. “I don’t care.”
“You’re incorrigible.” But he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and pulled her close.
Ben was, it would turn out, the worst dancer. It wasn’t that he had no rhythm, although there was that to consider. It wasn’t that he couldn’t lead-Leslie had that covered. And it wasn’t that he was nervous, though he was clearly afraid of either dancing or her. It was that he lacked confidence.
“Close your eyes,” she said, and when he looked startled, she followed with, “Trust me.”
He did.
She positioned his hands on her hips firmly and pressed her palm to his chest. “Feel-” and she tapped on the down beat. “The. Music. Hear. The. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Like. Your. Heart.” She started swaying in time with her tapping. “Can. You. Feel. This. This. Is. The. Beat. Move. Your. Hips. Too.” She moved her hands, started touching his hipbone, tapping, pushing slightly.
It wasn’t working.
She pulled him closer, pressing their hips together. Whoa. She wasn’t the only one affected; Ben stumbled, moved a hand to her shoulder to steady himself. His eyes popped open, flew to hers, and they locked into each other. For a moment-or maybe an hour, who could tell-they stood still, pressed together, sweaty and nervous and too close.
Leslie reached up and brought his face down and kissed him. Ben didn’t respond for a moment, then laced his fingers through her hair with one hand and pulled her closer with the other. She ran her fingers down the back of his neck, and he shuddered. She moaned a little as he touched her back. Somehow they weren’t close enough, she had to get closer, she had to-
Ben broke it off, stepped back. Put out a hand to her, and then looked down and pulled it back. “We can’t-there’s this rule- Leslie, you realize, technically, well, not technically, actually I’m your boss.”
“I don’t care-that was-you felt it too, right? Ben, Ben, you felt it too, you had to, I could feel you feeling it.” Wait, that wasn’t quite right. “You felt what I felt-” No, that wasn’t right either. “Ben, I like you.”
He blinked. “Like me?”
“Really like you,” she said, clapping her hands together once, definitively. Held them together. Looked him in the eyes.
He put his hands behind his back. “I like-I am fond of-I appreciate you too.”
“I think we could make it work,” she said, tilting her head at him, trying to catch his eye.
And then Ben launched into a mini speech, full of awkward pauses, in which he explained that she was great, Pawnee was great, but he really shouldn’t, not that he didn’t want to, but he shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t, and he wanted to-oh man, he wanted to-but no.
Leslie noticed, though, that the entire time he was talking to her, he kept his hands pressed against his sides. Meanwhile, his eyes kept drifting down to her lips, and whenever they lingered he would shake his head and lock his gaze with hers.
She told him she understood, and then put out her hand to shake on it. He waited a beat, and then put out his hand. She grasped his hand with both of hers; stroked the back of his hand lightly with two fingers.
He gulped.
She smiled.
Maybe not tonight, but she was going to get her man.
***
Fin