Archive of Our Own

Ron calls this the perfect storm. He told her to prepare for this, that this would happen in a city like Los Angeles or New York, when their schedules are crisscrossing like, “a well caned chair.” He said she wouldn’t get any sleep (not a problem for her) and that she, under no circumstances, was to bother him about it.

It, being whatever insanity would happen at some point. That point is now.

Leslie refuses to talk to Ron about it, to ask for his help or seek his guidance. She’s only been here for a few weeks and she is determined to prove herself. This is a good step for her career and if she can just get through this, good things will happen. She can do this, she can do anything.

Except, apparently, find an entire crew replacement for tomorrow’s show because of stupid union strikes.

No, no, union strikes are important, and decent compensation for decent work is important and admirable, but now? Right now? Couldn’t they strike in a couple days or something? Do families really need health insurance or vacation days?

Yes, yes, they do.

Leslie tries to take a few deep breaths like Chris taught her in one of their brief interactions last week.

“Excellent! You’re really opening up your lungs, letting in that good energy and letting out the bad! Great job!”

She still thinks he has crazy eyes, but there’s something to his relentless positivity that really speaks to her. He’s also nice and treats Leslie like an actual human being, which is something she can’t say for all of them.

Her binders would be great right now, but they’re not here. They’re tucked away in her bunk on the bus and she’s stuck in the corner of another TV studio, scrolling through her phone and nodding when people ask her anything. More than one camera man has shushed her when she whisper-talks on her phone. They have no sprinkles at the craft services table to go in her coffee so she’s not being as polite as she probably should be about that. She doesn’t flip people off, but she does use Ross and Monica’s version.

“Yes, hello, I need some technicians. Nonunion, of course.”

“You understand what’s happening right now, right?’ the man on the other line says.

Leslie sighs. “I do, but I have a concert tomorrow that needs to go up.”

“Great, good luck with that.”

“No, don’t hang up!” she yells.

McGrumpy Pants camera man glares at her and Leslie turns around, walking back into the mess of cords and other PAs who are chatting and flirting in clumps around the studio.

“What?”

“Please. It’s,” Leslie whispers, lowering her voice. “It’s for NICE.”

“Okay.”

Leslie takes another breath and smiles, as if he can see it.

“Yes, and that means the pay will be good.”

“How good?”

Leslie bites her lip, trying not to smile too big. She wasn’t kidding. NICE has more money than anyone knows what to do with. She’s got this.

“What is good to you?”

“You’re actually gonna let me price for you? How long you been doing this, sweetheart?”

Leslie’s blood boils, pushing through her veins like rapid lava. Her teeth chomp down and her jaw grinds as her fingernails dig into her palm. No amount of counting backwards or warm brownies can help her now.

Leslie’s ears perk up at the sound of a voice she most definitely should be hear. She spins around slowly, eyes widening.

“Uh, well, when… uh when singing… there’s-uh-uh-something--”

No, she told them explicitly not to do this.

“I have to call you back.”

She doesn’t wait for him to respond, just shoves her phone into her pocket and runs to a producer, any producer, and grabs their arm. She thinks this one’s name is Jazzmine.

“No one is supposed to let him talk on camera!” Leslie whispers. “I said don’t ask him questions.”

“It was a question from Twitter, okay? Chill.”

Leslie mentally stores away that she needs to check Twitter questions before they go on air from now on.

“Ben isn’t supposed to talk in TV interviews, that’s the deal.”

“Sorry,” Jazzmine says. She doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Hey, can you introduce me to Henry? He’s--”

Leslie rolls her eyes and tiptoes across the studio, behind a camera and in the eyesight of the group. She waves her hands and only Jack sees her, followed by Ben’s wide, lost eyes.

She gives him a thumbs up and a big smile, hopefully encouraging him to put more than four words together to form a coherent thought.

Ben’s not stupid, far from it, really, but cameras do something to him. Performing in front of a packed stadium is no problem, but a couple cameras on a local morning show is a huge deal.

She’s only been here a couple weeks, she hardly knows them. Them being the five childhood friends from Minnesota turned phenomena boy band, NICE. Some things, however, she does know. She knows that Henry can’t stop bringing girls everywhere he goes and she’s already caught him in a compromising position with one more than once. She knows that Andy has strict dietary needs that are even more alarming than her own, she knows Chris would run alongside the tour bus if he could, that Jack’s caffeine intake is probably going to result in heart failure one day.

And Ben is never to speak during television interviews.

Leslie mouths, “You’re doing great,” and Ben’s lips twitch in the start of a smile and he nods at her. Sweat is rolling down the side of his forehead and his hands tremble while he gestures with his words. He clears his throat and keeps his eyes steady on hers.

Then the unthinkable happens.

“Um, yes, of course I get a huge rush from performing. I always have. We’ve all been performing together since we were kids, from living rooms to playgrounds.”

There’s a polite laugh from the rest of the group. Henry looks nervous and ready to take over, but he waits. Bless Henry. Leslie smils at him but her eyes go back to Ben, whose gaze hasn’t drifted from hers.

“So, yeah, I’d say it’s like a drug. Addicting and overwhelming, and afterwards everything is buzzing and life… it moves in slow motion. Then you take in the details -- everything is intense.”

Ben laughs, actually smiles like he’s at ease. Like he does after Chris and him high five on stage.

“So I guess it’s not like a drug, really. Or it’s a drug with a really good come down.”

There’s more polite laughter and Chris warns that no one should do drugs and the host moves on to the next question.

Leslie claps and jumps up and down, giving him more thumbs up. Ben smiles, rubbing his neck as a pink flush spreads across his cheeks. Finally, his gaze drops from hers and Leslie spins away, dialing her phone again.

“Okay, you sexist piece of crap, I have a deal for you.”

--

Leslie, too, remembers performing in living rooms.

As a family, they watched television, of course, but more often than not, her wonderful parents were watching her sing. Sing, dance, pluck at a toy guitar as if she was a small, blonde, female Santana. Her dad would play piano, too. Christmas seemed to last from October to February in the house, Leslie’s small voice filling the quiet spaces with hymns and pop classics alike, all warning of Santa coming and snow covered streets.

There were playground performances, too. Ann would choreograph and Leslie would try to get everyone to harmonize, but they were 7-years-old and looking back, no one was harmonizing. Not even Leslie.

Leslie sang in churches even though she wasn't religious, community centers that she didn’t attend, and nursing homes where she wasn't related to anyone. She sang the national anthem at so many little league baseball and basketball games, then at her college games, and then only in the bathroom when she was washing her face.

Now, she sings in the shower, mostly. Or while taking brain break walks along whatever city street they’re in at that moment. People stare at her, but she likes the shift in those looks. How their eyebrows scrunch a little but then relax, eyes growing just enough, that sparkle in them that she remembers her father having, strangers in wheelchairs, and in bleachers. She’s performing, just for smaller crowds now. Her headphones are her father’s accompaniment and the sidewalk her stage.

Ben was right, performing is kind of like a drug.

“Hey, Elsie!”

Leslie blinks, spinning on her heels.

“Leslie, it’s Leslie.”

“Listen, no one told me about the In-N-Out run.”

Leslie shrugs, glancing up at Cindy. Cindy is tall and always wears heels, even when she’s not performing or doing anything important. Cindy always towers over Leslie, and she always talks down to her, too. Not many things enthuse Leslie about Cindy Eckert, even though Leslie was determined to not hate her based on rumors. Leslie just didn’t expect the rumors to be true.

Leslie never uses the B word and she will not use it now.

“I’m sorry Cindy.”

“I need you to go get me some,” Cindy says, gesturing like she does with her phone as if it’s a magic wand.

“Doors open in a few minutes, I’m sorry. Maybe tomorrow.”

Cindy narrows her eyes, scanning over Leslie. Leslie would like to say the way she looks at her doesn’t make her feel inferior or like she’s back in the halls of her high school and girls that looked a lot like Cindy whispered about her haircut or her clothes or her multicolored tabs and binders.

“I’m going to tell Ben.”

Before Leslie can say anything at all, Cindy whips around and stomps off in her heels, clicking away against the concrete of the stadium halls. Leslie really doesn’t want to hate Cindy, she doesn't want Cindy to be this poster girl for pop diva stereotypes, but unfortunately, she is.

Leslie pulls her phone out of her pocket and texts Ann.

Please tell me this job is worth it. I need your constant encouragement ANN!!!!!

Before Leslie can start her list of feminists books and music, and a few podcasts about the power of female friendship for Cindy, Ann texts back.

It’s worth it, you’re amazing, and you’ve got this.

Oh, Ann, you beautiful starfish.

“Cindy didn’t get In-N-Out.”

Leslie rolls her eyes, shoving her phone in her pocket. The list of powerful women media will have to wait.

“I’m sorry, I forgot, I actually forgot to get her order, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Ben throws up his hands in surrender. He’s smirking a little, because Ben Wyatt smirks all the time, as if there’s a joke or passive aggressive comment he can make at any given moment. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and she’s wondering if he’s allowed to grow a beard. Isn’t that Andy’s thing?

“Hey, I’m just telling you what Cindy told me to tell you.” Ben scrunches his face with something that looks like fatigued bewilderment. “Or something.”

Leslie starts walking down the hall, because there’s something she’s supposed to be doing, she knows that. But what? Definitely not worrying about cheeseburgers and animal fries.

“Maybe you should go get your girlfriend In-N-Out, then.”

“Please don’t call her that.”

“Well, she is, right?”

“Technically, yes, but--”

“Well then,” Leslie says, stopping. Ben runs into her and she pushes him away. He shoves her arm in return. She looks at the spot on her skin where he touched her as if he’s burned her. “Romance her then, Romeo.”

“You and I both know I can’t just walk out of here and get her a cheeseburger.”

“No, you can’t, especially now. Doors open in five.”

Leslie starts walking again.

“Unless--”

“No.”

“You like being in charge, huh Knope?”

“I’m hardly in charge.”

“You are, everyone knows you run the show. You’re good at it.”

A warm wave starts in her stomach and pushes up into her chest, burning the skin on her neck and cheeks. She tries to push the feeling aside, but it keeps rolling through her. No one really tells her she is doing a good job, or a bad job. She just does it and the wheels keep moving day in and day out.

But Ben’s words feel like pats on the back and hugs after performances. A bouquet of wildflowers.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

“I’m trying to skip Chris’ preshow mindfulness breathing exercise regime.”

Leslie scowls, checking in on a group of technicians that she paid way too much for. She keeps walking.

“Does Andy do those things?” she asks as she checks a few messages on her phone.

“He falls asleep, usually.”

Ben scratches the back of his head, messing up his hair even more. Ben is a skinny guy, with big hands and a long torso. He’s entirely made of hard edges and sharp angles and his face, his body, shouldn’t really make sense the way it's put together, but it does. He’s cute, they all are undeniably handsome, that’s part of the gig, but Ben is a more unique cute. Unlike his brother, who actually has muscle and a six pack that he shows off too often, Ben is not a standard handsome.

“The other guys like it, I think. Even Henry.”

They keep walking, the sounds of people filling the stadium starting to push through the concrete walls. There's an echo of voices and stomping, even some chanting. Leslie watches Ben lower his head and listen to it. There’s that usual shake in his hands, even as he walks, and a very small lift to the corners of his lips.

“Hey,” Ben says, grabbing her arm.

Leslie looks down again, as if his touch is adding flame to her skin. She doesn’t know why his touch does that, it shouldn’t. He’s usually very short with her, or commanding she do something for Cindy, but right now he’s actually talking to her. And complimenting her. And touching her.

The last time she talked to him, he yelled at her to never wake him up again and threw an empty Pepsi can at her.

This, the niceties, makes her feel weird. Like time is slowing and she doesn’t have a million to do lists and schedules in her head for once.

His fingers loosen a little, but he doesn’t let her go. Leslie finally looks up at him. A piece of his brown hair has fallen over his forehead as if this is another GQ photoshoot or something. But it’s not, it’s real life, she knows because she can smell the cinnamon on his breath (Big Red is his favorite, but he’ll take anything cinnamon).

“Thanks for your help yesterday. With the interview.”

“Oh, I didn’t do anything--”

Ben’s brownie-colored eyes flick up to the ceiling in a quick roll.

“You’re supposed to say, ‘you’re welcome,’” he teases.

“You’re welcome.”

He smiles, his teeth showing between his lips in a full on grin instead of a smirk. It’s cute, and makes the crinkles near his eyes deepen. His fingers tighten again, sliding just a little down her arm.

“Just” -- Ben clears his throat -- “Thank you.”

He lets her go and turns around, walking back toward the green room. He looks back once, smiling.

--

“Is everything okay in here?”

Five pairs of eyes move to look at her in odd synchronicity. They do this, a lot of saying the same thing at the same time and walking perfectly in step. It’s actually kind of endearing, if not a little creepy.

“Leslie! I want some Skittles and Starbursts, please. Oh please, Leslie, can I have some?” Andy asks, jumping from the couch, his big puppy dog eyes looking down at her.

“I can try to get some, I thought we made sure those were in here.”

“I ate ‘em.”

“Right, okay.” Leslie nods and moves so she can look at the rest of them. “Anything else? How’s water? Jack, you didn’t drink any water today.”

“Okay, mom,” Jack snaps, rolling his eyes.

He’s been in a constant mood as if turning 22 is really like turning 13. She tries not to take it personally, he did just break up with his boyfriend that he certainly wasn’t dating at all, according to the world.

Chris puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder.

“Henry?”

“I think your new rule is bullshit.”

Leslie’s new rule about no random girls in hotel rooms isn’t going well for Henry. He’s been mad at her ever since she made it. Following it? Not so much.

“Okay, sounds like you guys are taken care of, thanks. Drink water!” Leslie grabs the door handle and starts to swing the door shut but stops, popping her head in one more time. “Cindy goes on in five, Ben.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks.”

Ben’s always been on the side of the stage as Cindy performs, acting as the perfect boyfriend. They even sing one of her songs together that she originally collaborated with someone else. The crowd goes insane for it. The song isn’t anything special, it sounds just like the rest of the pop mumbo jumbo both NICE and Cindy are pouring out. Not that it’s bad, or that one kind of music is necessarily better than the other, but… none of it has real heart.

No one is even writing their own music. Though, Leslie’s seen Chris and Ben with a guitar. Henry even carries one around, but Leslie is pretty sure he’s only doing it to gather more girls into his love den.

Leslie nods at another PA, one that works exclusively for Cindy. His name is Tom and is somehow more self absorbed than Cindy. He has good ideas, though, he’s actually the mastermind behind Cindy’s latest glitter body spray, even if he didn’t get any of the credit.

“You work too hard, Knope,” Tom says as she passes, his eyes glued to his phone.

“Proud of it, Tom!”

Leslie races up to the side of the stage, staking out a spot for Cindy’s set. She watches the temporary crew move in and out from backstage and onstage, below the stage, above it. There’s every kind of trap door and hook wires and pyrotechnics for this show. There’s interlude videos of the guys goofing around and some stylized cinema of them charming no name girls with sunset walks on the beach and tandem bicycle rides. There’s a clip of Andy falling off monkey bars that always gets a laugh, and a shot of Chris winking at the camera that sends the whole place into ear piercing screams.

In fact, throughout the night, there is a lot of screaming.

Leslie likes the slideshow that plays before their set, when Cindy is off stage and the house lights com back on. It’s simple, just one of those photo slideshows that can probably be done on an iPhone, but the pictures are what sells it. All five of them, growing up over the years, sometimes apart, with family, together, in pairs.

There’s a picture of Chris who can’t be more than five years old playing an inflatable saxophone. Jack is reading a comic book alone on a race car bed. There’s the five of them at some kind of school dance, probably right before they started this insane journey together. Henry and Ben in matching Jedi costumes, Andy and Chris in gym class with their arms around each other. Baby Jack in a swing. Henry trying to hide his face, woken up on Christmas morning. The five of them making a wobbly cheerleading pyramid, Ben victorious at the top.

This is what sells it. Them, as a unit. A family.

The lights go down and the crowd erupts. Leslie takes out her earplugs, pushing them in her ears and laying her walkie earbud over her right one. Cindy’s pre-recorded giggle echoes into the stadium, followed by the twinkling interlude to her first song. Leslie unlocks her phone and texts her mom that she misses her and checks over their hotel reservations for tomorrow. They’re spending two days in Vegas, thanks to Henry’s whining.

“Crystals” ends and the lights dim for the arrival of Ben. His spot on the darkened stage is empty. Leslie’s heart jumps in her throat as Cindy begins to talk about how, “this next song is very special,” and how it can only be, “a true duet with a special someone.” She loves the word special.

But her special someone is not here and if he’s not here, Leslie is going to pay for it. Damnit, Ben. Shoot, shoot, crap on a crayon, what is he even doing? Leslie turns and runs toward the green room. She doesn’t get far before a body runs into her, making her fall backwards.

“Sorry--”

“Where were you?”

“I’m sorry, I forgot, I was--”

“Get out there!”

“I don’t have anything to give her!”

“What?”

They’re yelling over Cindy’s thankfully long speech. Leslie rips her left earbud out, Ben’s earpiece is draped over his shoulder.

“To give her, no flowers?”

“I left them in the green room for you.”

“Well they aren’t there!”

Leslie sighs, running her hands through her hair.

“What is wrong with you lately? You can’t even bring flowers to the stage, let alone be on time?”

Not to mention being nice to her, which Leslie still can’t figure out and should probably make her stop yelling at him.

“You’re supposed to leave them there for me!”

“I did!” Leslie steps closer to him. “I’m not your mother, you have to be able to take some responsibility for yourself. I did everything you needed. Your job was to show up, look pretty, sing your dumb song, and give her your dumb flowers.”

The anger dissipates a little from the crease in his brow.

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Get on stage!” She yells it loud so the weird, warm bubbly sensation in her stomach will hopefully go away.

“The song isn’t dumb,” Ben says.

“What? Just, get out there.”

Ben’s eyes soften, blinking. He leans down a little, the crowd stirring, getting louder. His mouth moves, but Leslie can’t hear him. She shakes her head and he repeats himself.

“You think our songs are dumb?”

She almost yells that yes, some of them are very dumb. That they’re all the same, and the one he sings with Cindy is almost cringe worthy in its decades of cliches and nonsense. But she’s not that cruel, she wouldn’t say that.

Except, she does. She absolutely just word vomits all over Ben about the music he sings, performs, lives his life by. She yells it over his screaming fans and his waiting girlfriend who probably is staring at an empty spotlight wondering where the hell he is.

Ben stares at her, unblinking, as the crowd gets louder, and Ben’s name is muffled in her ear. His jaw is hard and clenched as he towers over her. She’s not afraid of him, but she is mortified at her own behavior, but the apology won’t come out. She’s trying so hard to get her mouth to catch up with her mind, to get her voice to gain traction along her throat and say she’s sorry, she’s very sorry.

Ben just thanked her for her help hours earlier, was nice to her for once, actually recognized her work, one of the few people to ever do that, and she just beat him senseless with her words. She turned his career on its head and not in a constructive way, or in a way that could help someone grow or be at all helpful. She was mean, she was a total b-word.

Finally, she says his name but he pushes past her, up the ramp to the stage, missing his spotlight cue, but the stage right entrance was captivating, Leslie’s sure. The crowd goes even more insane and the sound of it all, the music, the screams, Ben’s voice mixing with Cindy’s, melts in her ears, echoing.

Leslie turns, walking slowly back to look on stage. Ben is holding hands with Cindy in the middle of ankle deep fog and pale blue and purple lights. They touch foreheads and sway, and at the end, with the sound of soft piano trailing behind them, they kiss.

She runs, down the steps and the two quick rights along the concrete floor as the crowd screams, vibrating the walls and overflowing her ears.

“No, no, no.”

She opens the door, Chris and Andy looking up from their silent meditation. Jack and Henry aren’t there. Ben hasn’t made it back from the stage yet.

And the flowers aren’t on the table. They're not in the room at all, because in the mess of hiring the new technicians, she forgot to order the fucking flowers.

--

Leslie’s phone is buzzing in her back pocket, but she can’t be bothered to look at it. She falls face down on her hotel bed, the artificial smell of roses suffocating. She doesn’t move, just feels the vibration of her phone in her back pocket and listens to the night time sounds of feet and ice machines outside her door.

The technicians were a success, the drive to Vegas was smooth with only mild traffic getting out of Los Angeles. She walked down the strip to a store that sold overpriced Monster energy drinks and bags of candy, dropping them outside the room Andy and Jack were sharing. She left Big Red, Pepsi, and a vitamin refill outside Henry, Ben, and Chris’ room.

Now, she refuses to move. She’s numb anyway, overrun with guilt.

She’s not a bully, she’s not mean, she’s not even cynical. Cynical music reviewers say that pop music has no substance, that no one is a real musician, that he industry is overrun with autotune and false talent. That’s not what Leslie Knope says, it’s not what she believes, it’s not who she is. She’s not a run down, negative garbage person.

She has her reservations about NICE, about Cindy, about the industry, but the way she acted tonight? That’s not her.

Tears prick the corners of her eyes, but she doesn’t cry, just lets them fall if they overflow and rub her face into the rose-infused sheets.

She’s had opportunities to apologize. The entire ride to Vegas, she sat in the front of the bus, head resting along the back of the couch. The guys passed her, celebrated a good night, texted and called loved ones. Chris told her he needed more multivitamins and B12. Cindy and Ben were tucked away somewhere in the back of the bus, but she did see him. She saw him walk by her, shoulders slumped, eyes soft and distant, not looking at her. Not looking at anything.

She could’ve apologized then, explained that she’s been tired and stressed and that the flowers were her fault. She could’ve said she was sorry when she handed him the hotel room keycard after she checked them in. He didn’t look at her when he took it, but she did catch him watching her as she walked past him to the elevators. Her chest felt heavy, as if just him looking at her made her feel sorry for the effort of lifting his eyes to her.

“Stop,” she mumbles into the mattress. Her phone continues to buzz. It makes her cry.

A knock on her hotel room door makes her squeeze her eyes shut, willing it to stop. Everything just needs to stop. She just needs some time and then she can find a kitchen and back a bouquet of I’m Sorry cookies and get back to work. She can stop feeling sad and guilty and wondering how she found herself here instead of at Juilliard or something else more prestigious or where she wanted to be. Some path that didn’t make her so mean and bitter for no reason.

The knock sounds again, louder this time.

Leslie takes a deep breath as she gets off the bed, wiping her face with her hands. She sniffs, throwing her still vibrating phone onto the mattress before she walks to the door, opening it.

Ben stands in the doorway, his phone pressed to his ear, hand raised to knock again. His lips look swollen and he has dark circles under his eyes. He’s not wearing shoes, his feet bare on the maroon carpet of the hotel hallway. His jeans are low on his hips, like they always are, and his white shirt has a hole in it on the side of his stomach. The muscles in his arm flex as he lowers his fist, the phone secure against his ear.

“I’ve been calling you,” he says.

Say it. Say you’re sorry.

He finally takes his phone away from his ear, ending the call and sliding it into his pocket. His jeans fall even lower on his hip and Leslie hates that she’s staring at the small sliver of boxer shorts and skin.

“Excuse me.”

Leslie’s eyes snap back up at his face as he moves past her and into the hotel room. It takes too long for her to finally close the door and turn around.

She presses her back to the door as Ben paces around her room. He takes the beanie off his head in a two handed swoop and his long fingers squeeze into the fabric, his hair wild.

Her throat is closed and dry, unable to even offer him water, let alone apologize.

Leslie glances at the clock on the night stand. 3:12AM.

Ben stops, locking his gaze with hers like he did days ago in a television studio. This time, though, without a goal to make him get through stringing sentences together, she can feel his stare a little more. She can feel the lost haze in his eyes, the intensity. She blinks and he takes a step toward her, still leaving at least three feet between them.

“Did you mean what you said?” Ben asks, his voice low, but strong.

Tell him no, tell him no, tell him no.

“I’ve -- shit.” Ben stretches his neck, scratching the back of his head. His smile is not happy at all. She misses his eyes, which makes no sense considering how awful they made her feel. “I’m not mad at you, I just -- fuck -- I’ve just thought that before, too.” Ben licks his lips, his muscles loosening a little. He sways toward the bed, but doesn’t sit. “Especially since Cindy.”

Leslie finally moves, words spilling out of her, her hands grasping Ben’s forearms.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I said that, I’m sorry about the flowers, I really did forget them, I’m such a ding dong, okay? I forgot them. I shouldn’t have said that, I’m so sorry, Ben, I’m sorry. I don’t believe that craziness I--”

“You don’t have to be sorry, Leslie--”

“No, no, no, I was a jerk, I was an ultimate jerk, I was a jerk supreme, a jerk with whipped cream and a cherry on top.”

She has started crying, apparently. She only knows that because Ben wipes a tear off her cheek with his thumb.

“Please,” Ben says, dropping his hand from her face, “stop apologizing. Keep it together, Knope, we both can’t be going through an existential crisis right now.” Leslie laughs, but Ben’s smile has yet to become happy. “I forgive you.”

“Really?” Leslie says, stepping back from him. “Why?”

Ben sighs, finally sitting on the bed.

“Because, I’ve thought that, too.”

“You shouldn’t think that, you’re doing great, you’re making music and living your dream! I’m not going to Yoko this.”

Ben laughs and it breaks something in the air between them. Leslie sits next to him, facing the blank screen of the television. Ben fumbles with his beanie, his long fingers picking at loose strings and tags.

“I would never leave NICE, don’t worry.” Ben swallows; Leslie’s mesmerized by the bob of his Adam’s apple and the clench of muscles beneath his skin. “But this isn’t what I imagined for us, either.”

Leslie blinks, unable to compute this. They’re incredibly popular, practically taking over the world in their popularity. There’s more money in them than anyone knows what to do with. They sell out stadiums, they go on television shows and have stupid cameos in comedic movies, they are plastered over magazines, they are Make-A-Wish granters. What else could he have imagined?

“I think you have it pretty good,” Leslie says.

Ben nods.

“We do. Which makes me a jerk, I think.”

“I’m the jerk.”

“Oh, I didn’t know we couldn’t both be jerks.”

“Nope, only one per hotel room.”

“Damn.”

Leslie smiles and Ben nudges her with his shoulder. She pushes back.

“Okay.” Ben takes a deep breath, letting it out quickly. “You were kind of mean.”

“I was, and I’m so--”

“Sorry, I know. But, I am glad you said it.”

“Really? Why?” Leslie asks.

Ben falls back on the mattress and Leslie isn’t sure why, but she follows him down. The ceiling looks freshly painted and the light figure above the bed looks like a little black and white globe. Having NICE money has its perks.

“Because now I have someone to talk to about my fears and my doubts and my ‘woe is me’ complaints.”

Leslie can feel the muscles in Ben’s arms move against hers.

“What about your brother? Your best friends? You can’t talk to them?”

“Not right now.”

Leslie nods and they breathe next to each other, Leslie’s eyes fixated on the details along the ceiling of her hotel room and the sound of hotel guests outside, the feel of his body close to hers.

“Okay,” she says. Ben turns to look at her and she can feel his gaze on her, and see the tilt to his lips from the corner of her eye. “Only if I get to talk to you about something I can’t talk about with anyone here, either.”

“Deal.”

“You start,” Leslie says, elbowing him.

He kicks her foot and she kicks back and they move back and forth, swaying their feet, as Ben tells her his greatest fears and what he was hoping to do with his talented friends. He tells her he’s thankful for it all, that he does like the songs they perform, the new songs they’re given, but he feels stifled and stuffed into a box. He tells her dating Cindy is a huge joke, but it’s helping her and he doesn’t want her to fail. He tells Leslie he doesn’t want to fail, either.

He falls asleep with his foot on top of hers, mumbling half words about playing guitar.

She doesn’t get a chance to tell him how she misses singing, even just for senior citizens or neighborhood baseball games. How her dreams are still high in the clouds. Instead, she falls asleep to the sound of his breathing.

Another time, maybe.

--

Las Vegas is unbearably hot. And crowded.

The guys enjoy the strip thanks to a crew of bodyguards and Leslie trailing around trying to get casinos to partition off sections of the floor or warn restaurants ahead of time when they will be coming by. Leslie gets Cindy her In-N-Out and Leslie tries not to feel anything about Cindy and Ben sharing fries in their hotel lobby.

Ron actually tells Leslie to take a break as he sits down to play poker with Henry. Leslie waves him off.

“No, go, I don’t want you to burn out. Then I’ll have to work.”

So she walks up to her hotel room, changes into her bathing suit, buys an ebook on her phone, and walks down to the pool. She actually sits down and talks to Ann for more than ten minutes. Ann is getting her MFA in dance in New York and it makes Leslie’s entire body light up in pride to think about her in leggings all day, stretching and studying and looking absolutely gorgeous; being so strong.

Leslie talks to her mom, she reads her book, she jumps in the water and swims past people with ridiculous drinks in their hands and other people almost having sex in the water. She lets her legs burn a little, trying to keep up on coats of sunscreen, but failing. She may even fall asleep for a few minutes.

The sun does miracles.

“You’re getting pink.”

Leslie snaps her eyes open. Ben looks down at her, his Ray Bans on his nose. He doesn’t have a shirt on, a pair of new swim trunks hanging on his hips. He hasn’t taken the tag off.

“I feel like all I’m doing is putting sunblock on.”

Ben smirks, sitting on the lounge next to her. Leslie scans the pool.

“Who's with you?”

“No one.”

“Ben--”

“Calm down, I have sunglasses on.”

Leslie rolls her eyes and leans back on her lounge.

“I’m not rescuing you if you get swarmed.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s your job.”

“No. I’ll buy you a drink if you want it, though.”

“I do, thanks.”

Leslie lifts her sunglasses and stares at him, her nose scrunching and eyes narrowing toward him. Ben reaches toward her, tapping her shoulder with his index and middle finger.

“Look at you. Full of freckles.”

Leslie’s stomach flames and her head swims a little so she bolts upright, stumbling around their lounges to the bar to get Ben a drink. Her heart races as she orders him ‘something not expensive and tasty?’ and turns to make sure he’s still okay and not being stampeded by girls. He’s fine, putting in headphones and grabbing her sunblock to put on his skin. He doesn’t do a very good job rubbing it in, not that she’s looking at his lean, pale shoulders or the muscles and bones in his back. Not at all.

She likes having a friend (Are they friends? After a night of whispering about fears?) around, but he’s still somewhat her boss and she keeps looking at his stupid arms that have a horrible farmer’s tan.

“Here,” she says, handing him his drink.

“Thanks.”

She sits down and tries not to look at the sunscreen that’s not rubbed in on his stomach. He’s hairier than she thought he’d be, not that she’s ever thought about his chest hair. Ever. Never.

She’s as bad as all those girls that scream in stadiums and know all the words to every song.

“Sorry I fell asleep on you last night,” Ben says.

“It’s okay.”

“I didn’t hold up my end of the deal.”

Leslie closes her eyes, leaning back on lounge.

“Well, I’m not telling you out here at the hotel pool.”

“I’ll come by your room again tonight, then.”

Leslie’s stomach starts to knot as the sun penetrates her skin, heating her from the inside.

“I thought you all were going to that club--”

“No, Henry is going to that club in some ridiculous disguise and has convinced the rest of them to do it.” He shakes his head, then turns to her. There’s sunscreen on his nose. “Do you like board games?”

Leslie mirrors him, turning her head to him, cheek pressed into the plastic of the chaise.

“I must warn you, I’m very good at board games.”

Ben lowers his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, peeking at her above the dark frames.

“You’re on, Knope.”

--

When Leslie was ten, her father died.

It wasn’t sudden or scary, she didn’t get a weird call in to the principal’s office that day or get taken out of ballet class early. She simply went to the hospital that morning, like she had a few days in a row that week. He was receiving hospice care in a special wing of the hospital because he didn’t think it was worth the money to get him set up anywhere else. He didn’t have that much time left anyway. It was a fast decline.

That day, Leslie sat down next to his bed and fell asleep hours later. She wasn’t sleeping well, she kept falling asleep at the hospital. She always regrets that, she wasn’t spending enough time with him then.

When she woke up, her mom told her he was gone.

They cried in his room that night. She cried at home. She cried at the funeral. She cried a lot. She cries easily and while her mom always assured her that she always did that, since she was born, Leslie is sure it’s because of her father’s death. She also blames his death on her troubles with sleep.

She didn’t sing at his funeral. She regrets that, too.

It was just too sad. Robert Knope was her whole musical world. He played piano for her, he sang with her no matter what time, where they were, just as long as their lungs filled with air and the world was ready to hear what they had to say.

“Sing your little heart out, wildflower,” he would say. In grocery stores, in parking lots, in the laundry room. Anywhere.

She did continue to do that, at least. For him and for herself. For both of them.

Right now, her audience is a vending machine, the ice machine, and the ice that keeps spilling on the floor. It’s not bothering her, though. She’s had a drink or two and is sunburned and a little dehydrated, but happy. Actually content for the first time since she started this job.

“'Mmm -- nobody knows you, baby, the way I do, and nobody loves you, baby, the way I do, it's been so long, it's been so long, maybe you are fireproof, 'Cause nobody saves me, baby--”

“I thought you didn’t like our music.”

Leslie jumps, ice shooting into the air and scattering around the floor, some clunking against her head. Her heart hammers wildly in her chest as she spins, face to face with Ben. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that smirk on his face.

“I don’t!”

Ben’s eyebrow lifts.

“I mean, I do, it’s fine, what are you doing here?”

“You were taking forever.”

Ben steps forward and grabs the ice bucket, filling it back up again. Leslie tries to will her heart to slow down as the sound of ice plucking into the bucket echoes in her ears. When he’s done, he turns, looking down at her.

“So,” he says, “you’re a singer.”

Leslie walks through the doorway, down the hall toward her room. Ben left the door propped open, thankfully. He follows her in, walking over to the table where their lukewarm soda cans sit. He starts preparing glasses. Leslie contemplates jumping out the window.

She doesn’t embarrass easy with her singing, something her father probably imprinted onto her, but this is mortifying for some reason.

“Uno? Monopoly?” Leslie says, scanning the small pile of travel size games Ben placed on her bed when he arrived an hour ago. “Scrabble?”

“Scrabble sounds good,” he says, walking over to the bed with their drinks. He puts hers on the nightstand as he sips his. She gets the travel Scrabble unzipped and starts organizing it. “Did you have training?”

“I think we’ll draw to see who goes first, even though I like to go by the whose birthday is next rule, but mine is, so let’s be fair.” She laughs. Maybe, it sounds weird.

“You can go first.” Ben sits on the bed. She’s very aware of his eyes watching her. “Do you always add all those flourishes when you’re just singing to a bunch of ice cubes?”

“I’m really good at Scrabble, so just try to win, sir.”

Leslie grabs the bag, now full of letters, and digs in for her pieces. She throws the bag at him.

“Your voice is very pretty.”

Leslie’s fingers stop on the board. She drops her R and taps it once, unmoving. A wave of heat splashes through her body. She tries to keep working on her word but she’s suddenly forgotten how to spell rough.

Ben doesn’t bring up the singing again and she’s able to finish spelling rough and they take turns across the board. He celebrates with his long words and she tracks their scores. He accuses her of cheating more than once. Ben talks about his plan to try to get a song they write on the next album. Leslie tells him it shouldn’t be hard, if it’s good, and he smiles at her for a beat too long and Leslie thinks about kissing him.

She gets up to go to the bathroom after that, unable to handle the need.

Ben wins. They play Uno and order room service. They have to hit the road at 5AM, but neither of them are acknowledging that as time rolls by. Leslie should be making sure everyone is in their rooms by now, she should be asking about Cindy, she should be telling Ben to get some sleep, but she’s not.

Ben yawns and turns on the TV, flipping the channels to C-SPAN.

“C-SPAN always helps me sleep,” he says, and Leslie thinks there’s a red tinge to his cheeks as he admits this. It’s almost as if he’s said he sleeps with a stuffed animal every night.

They don’t talk about how he’s going to spend the night. They just get ready for bed, Leslie turning off the lamps while Ben stacks the board games on the table. They turn down the bed and Ben slips into the covers first. C-SPAN is almost too quiet to hear and Leslie tries not to recognize the shape and weight and heat of him next to her, staring at the ceiling like she did the night before.

She closes her eyes as Ben adjusts next to her.

“When I’m 35,” he says, “will I still be in a boyband?”

Leslie can’t help but smile.

“Probably not, but maybe. The Backstreet Boys are still doing it.”

“My point exactly.”

They both laugh, Leslie’s head rolling back against the pillow and her body deflating as the laughter turns into soft breaths.

“I want to do it forever,” he says. “But not this, I don’t want to do this forever.”

Leslie turns her head toward Ben. It’s hard to see him, the light from the TV really only catching the edges to his face. He’s facing her on his side, arm beneath his head, and his other hand idle between them.

“I like it, I do, but I’m not going to want to do this in ten years, right?”

“You never know.”

He blinks, lips tilting up, his whole face changing from something lost and confused to almost hopeful.

“And if you don’t, you do something else. Maybe you’ll be president.”

Ben laughs, and she notices how he inches closer to her and it makes her blood turn to ice and then race into flames.

“Or run a law firm. Or be an astronaut.”

“And what about you, Leslie Knope? What are you going to be?”

Leslie blinks, turning to look back up at the ceiling.

“You’ll be fine, though,” Leslie says. “The band will carry you, not crush you. Music will be your life no matter what.”

Ben’s voice lowers and he feels so much warmer. So much closer.

“Is it for you? Are you always performing to ice cubes and Snickers bars?”

Leslie smiles, then frowns, her throat closing and her lungs suddenly needing air so she can cry.

She lifts the covers and throws them over her head. Ben says her name a few times, still stranded out of the cocoon of the comforter.

“Come in,” she says.

Ben lifts the blankets and burrows inside and now he’s even closer. It’s warmer under here, she can’t breathe as well, but it’s darker and the smell of cinnamon on Ben’s breath is nice.

“Yes,” Leslie whispers.

Ben moves closer, his hand finding her hip. He moves away and tries again, finding her hand this time.

“It will be, I think, no matter what.” Leslie sighs. “Just like for you.”

“You don’t know that about me.”

“I’ve seen you, though.”

She’s seen him point at crowds and jump up and down as the music pulses, singing into a microphone with his eyes closed. She’s seen him high five Chris and sit on a stool so he can let his voice flow easier. Ben isn’t an effortless kind of guy, everything he does on that stage is precise and like he’s been practicing and rehearsing that one note for his entire life, but sometimes he lets it just pour out of him. Both ways are beautiful to watch, both ways show that music is important to him, that it fuels him, helps him live.

“Yeah?” he says. He sounds young and small, like whatever it is she’s telling him will determine his worth.

“Yeah.”

His fingers squeeze her hand and she squeezes back.

“Did you train?” Ben asks.

“No, not realy.”

“Wow.”

Leslie turns onto her side, their hands smashed between their stomachs.

“How long were you listening to me?”

“A long time,” Ben admits. “And maybe I’ve heard you sing ‘18’ to your binders.”

“Oh my God--”

“And a lot of Sarah McLachlan in your sleep.”

Leslie buries her face into her pillow and Ben lets her hand go so he can poke her side. She springs off the mattress, wiggling away from him. He keeps tickling her and singing ‘I Will Remember You’ way too well while he’s also laughing.

He stops and their laughter dies, their heads poking out of the covers now. She shoves him away and he rolls onto his back, trying to catch his breath, his eyelids falling slowly as he does. She lays on her side, facing him, watching his chest rise and fall slower and slower.

“I meant it,” Ben says, “your voice is really pretty.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll be fine,” he whispers. “Music will be your life, no matter what.”

She almost denies him. Instead, she chooses to believe him.

--

“Elsie,” Cindy says, tapping Leslie’s shoulder, “can I talk to you?”

Leslie looks up from her binder on supplies for the crew. Her stomach sinks a little, but she nods, following Cindy to her tour bus that’s parked outside an arena in Texas.

She follows her into the empty bus. Cindy tells Tom to go get her some water and he doesn’t even look up from his phone as he leaves. Leslie shoves her hands into her jean pockets, looking at her shoes as Cindy closes the door, locking it. Is she going to be murdered?

Okay so Leslie and Ben are always together, and maybe Ben wanted to cut the song during last night’s show, and they do keep sleeping in the same bed, even his small bunk on the bus has become their place to sleep when they are without a hotel.

She’s been getting an hour longer of sleep lately.

But Cindy and Ben’s relationship isn’t real, anyway. At least that’s what Leslie ties to remember.

“Can you tell me why Ben wants to start staging our break up?”

Leslie’s eyes widen.

“I hadn’t heard anything about that.”

She really hasn’t, if there’s some sort of break up happening soon, Leslie has no knowledge of it.

“Really?” Cindy crosses her arms, sucking in her glossed bottom lip. “This has nothing to do with you two always hanging out or that weird high five you do?”

Leslie laughs, clearing her throat to stop herself. They didn’t mean to make up a high five, but it just happened a couple days ago.

“Really. I don’t know anything.”

Cindy’s dark eyes roam over Leslie, her mouth pinched. She’s evaluating her, maybe, and it makes Leslie’s insides crawl and makes her feel like she’s two inches tall. She doesn’t miss the halls of her high school, she never fit in there, and Cindy is drawing that back into her life one stare down at a time.

“Do you like him or something?” Cindy asks.

Leslie’s voice catches in her throat, unable to tell her, “No.” Instead she looks back down at her shoes, away from Cindy’s awful stare, and tries to get herself to say it.

“This is ridiculous, do you like him or not?” Cindy throws her hands up, the sound of them slapping against her jeans almost too loud.

“Yes.”

No, no, wrong answer.

“Yes, I like him. I like him a lot.”

Stop, Leslie, stop! Stop talking.

“He-he-he is so talented, and his hair is always a mess and his eyes look like brownies.”

Leslie’s nails dig into her palms. Leslie’s stomach churns, she’s afraid she’s going to vomit, but she doesn’t, she just keeps talking.

She talks about how Ben played guitar just last night, trying to work through a song he was going to play for the produces for the next album. He kept swearing and messing up and Leslie should’ve been paying more attention to the words, but she was mesmerized by his long, calloused fingers and the soothing sound of his voice. She tells her how he’s kind and conceited and scared and the combination is wonderful. She talks about how the last week -- has it already been a week? -- has been good, revitalizing.

Cindy stares at her for a long time, her expression unreadable. Leslie wants to run, but she feels like she is going to throw up. She does neither, only stands there, waiting for whatever storm is about to pour down on her. She’s going to be fired, surely. This can’t be allowed.

Then, Cindy starts to cry.

Leslie freezes. She’s never seen Cindy cry, ever. She wasn’t sure Cindy could cry. But here she is, covering her face with her perfectly manicured hands, sobbing.

Cindy takes in a deep breath and coughs, continuing to cry. Leslie jumps toward her, finally out of some weird, guilty fog. She helps Cindy sit down and rubs her back, trying to get her to take deep breaths.

“I’m sorry, Cindy, I didn’t know you loved him.”

Cindy cries harder and Leslie is overcome with heartbreak and guilt all at once. It was easier to think this wasn’t real and that she really didn’t want to be with someone’s boyfriend.

“Don’t worry, I will never do anything with Ben, not ever. Hoes before bros. Uteruses before duderuses. Ovaries before brovaries. Ladies before --”

Cindy somehow cries harder and Leslie wraps her arms around her, asking her if she needs anything, if she can get her some water, anything to get her to stop crying. To get her to stop making Leslie feel so horrible.

Cindy’s arms wrap around Leslie and they squeeze each other, Leslie trying to beg her to forgive her, to let her know she’s sorry. Cindy only shakes her head, trying to talk but the hiccups coming on too strong.

It takes Cindy a long time to be able to sit up and take deep breaths. Her cheeks are streaked with mascara tears and she rubs at her cheeks, making them red and black.

“I’m so sorry, Cindy--”

“You’re so nice.”

Leslie blinks.

“What?”

Cindy sniffs, tugging at her hair.

“You’re so nice. And honest. No one is ever honest with me, or even nice to me. Not really.” Cindy wipes away her tears again, rubbing her hands on her jeans. “You were not going to be with a guy you like for me.”

“Guys shouldn’t come between gals.”

Cindy laughs, sniffing.

“I like that.”

Leslie grabs a box of tissues sitting by the driver’s seat and hands the box to Cindy.

“I’m sorry, Cindy, I always thought--”

“No, no, it’s fake. All of it.” She shakes her head with a sad grin. “They were trying to brush up my image, date the nerdy boy from NICE who can’t talk to the media to boost my niceness or something.” Cindy fumbles with a tissue in her hand. “It worked a little, or so my manager tells me.”

Leslie puts her hand on Cindy’s leg and Cindy leans her head down on her shoulder.

“I always thought it’d be nice if we really did like each other, but it never happened. ” Cindy laughs and Leslie feels a little jealous knot form in her stomach. “We used to make out a lot. We were bored.” She waves her hand. “Then you came and Ben was never bored enough to make out anymore.”

Leslie bites her lips closed, refusing to smile in the wake of Cindy’s disappointment.

“But,” Cindy says, sitting up straight, rolling her shoulders back, “you do like him. And he likes you.”

“Oh, I don’t know if he likes me.”

“Okay, well,” Cindy says, standing, “that’s fucking insane.”

“Oh--”

“He obviously likes you.” Cindy walks into the bathroom, returning with a wet washcloth. She wipes her face as she talks. “He’s planning our break up. You just told me he likes you to sing him to sleep. You guys have slept in the same bed for days. It’s okay to admit that he likes you. Own it.”

“Wait, you knew we were sleeping together?”

“Duh, everyone knew.” Cindy looks at her. “You guys aren’t that sneaky.”

“We haven’t had sex,” Leslie blurts out.

“Are you serious, then what the hell are you doing here? Go! Tell him you love him or whatever.”

“Now, love is a strong word--”

“Oh my God,” Cindy says, laughing. She grabs Leslie’s shoulders, bringing her closer. “Go find the cute, nerdy guy from NICE and tell him you like him. Kiss him! Have sex with him!”

“Yeah,” Leslie whispers.

“You deserve it.”

Leslie stands up straighter, lifting her chin. “Yeah.”

Cindy squeezes Leslie’s shoulders and shoves her toward the door.

“Good luck,” she says, winking.

Leslie smiles. She smiles the entire way to their tour bus. She knows Ben is there, he’s the only one who doesn’t go on the daytime runs led by Chris. He’s usually watching some weird movie or Star Wars or playing video games. She rehearses a few variations of declarations of her feelings for him and they play out in her head with John Williams scores in the background. She’s weightless, flying really, as if nothing could touch her at all. Ben likes her. Ben Wyatt, who tells her, her voice is pretty and kisses her forehead before falling asleep, likes her.

She walks through the bus, past the small kitchen and the bathroom, past the bunks, and into the back. She stops, seeing him. He hasn’t noticed her yet, but he stands abruptly from the couch, jaw clenched, shoulders tight. He takes a step forward and stops, finally seeing her.

She blinks, taking a step back. His gaze is hard, narrowed with determination. His eyes roam over her face, down her body, and up again. Doubt trickles in her chest, bubbles in her gut. Now that she’s here, she doesn’t know what to do, what to say. It’s as if her mind has fogged over.

Ben’s shoulders fall, his head tilting to the side as his lips lift in an easy smile. She can’t help her own smile from forming, but she tries to bite it away. He tilts his chin down, licking his lips, his voice low and desperate when he speaks.

“Come here.”

Leslie doesn’t think, she just runs.

She runs right into him. His arms wrap around her waist and he lifts her, their mouths smashing together. The kiss is hard and a little clumsy, making them both smile into it. She laughs and he sighs, one hand sliding up the back of her neck and into her hair, pressing their lips together. His tongue slides across her bottom lip and the laughter dies, but her happiness only spreads farther and farther across the planes of her body.

Leslie pushes their lips apart, hungry for the taste of him. He’s sweet and spicy, that perfect Big Red taste finally along her tongue. She had no idea she was craving it until now. Craving him.

Ben lowers Leslie to the ground, careful to keep their lips connected, sliding, pressing, exploring each other. She pulls on his shirt to bring him closer, but it only makes him pull away, tugging the fabric over his head.

“Leslie,” he whispers, then pulls her back to him.

They stumble, Ben moving backward, Leslie moving forward, until Ben falls back on the couch. Leslie climbs into his lap, breaking their kiss to steady herself above him. He takes this opportunity to push his lips along her neck, tilting her head back with his nose so he can gain access to more skin. He sucks and licks his way around her flesh, making her hips buck and back arch.

When Ben gets her plaid shirt unbuttoned, his lips travel down, and Leslie pushes herself up until his lips are kissing the top of her breasts, nudging the lining of her bra, desperate to get more. Leslie slips her fingers into his hair, gripping and pulling, and he answers her with growls and moans, lips and tongue perfect against her skin. His hands slide from her ass to her chest, tugging on her bra, exposing her chest to him.

“Is this okay?” he asks, running his tongue flat against her nipple.

“Yes,” she moans.

He growls, tugging on her bra even more, the fabric straining against the straps, but she doesn’t care if he might break her bra right now. She only cares about getting him as close to her as possible, about his mouth touching every inch of her, about finally being with him.

It’s only been a week since he thanked her for helping him get through an interview and it feels like she’s been waiting her entire life for this. For him.

“Ben,” she whispers.

He puckers his lips around her nipple, sucking, biting, rolling his tongue in a perfect, flat circle. Leslie’s hips roll and she feels his length along his jeans. She moans, rolling her hips again. And again. She tests the friction, revels in the sound of his moans, the tug of his teeth. She grinds down harder and Ben pulls away from her chest, searching out her lips again. He’s desperate, his tongue flat and strong in her mouth, commanding their kiss in a new way, a way that sends Leslie’s senses into overdrive and her blood boiling in the most delicious simmer.

Their hips move, their bodies pushing together. Leslie likes the warm friction of their bare chests rubbing together, the grind of their hips. He pulls her hair to get her closer, and her mouth widens to accept him, but they’re still pulling for more, as if their tongues aren’t enough, as if hair between fingers will guide them closer.

“Fuck,” Ben growls.

He pushes on Leslie’s hips until she’s standing in in front of him. He doesn’t look up at her as he undoes the button and zipper of her jeans. He yanks them down her hips, helping them fall all the way to her ankles. Leslie watches him kiss her knee before he moves back, sitting up on the couch again. His finger slides into the waistband of her panties and he smirks, shaking his head.

“I.. these are cute.”

Leslie blushes.

“I didn’t know this would be happening.”

“I think rainbow hearts are appropriate for the occasion.”

He pulls and slips his finger out, the material snapping against Leslie’s hip. She yelps and then giggles, stepping out of her jeans. Leslie turns and walks toward the drawer beneath the TV, opening it. She stands, closing the curtain separating the rest of the bus from the small back room, turning back to Ben.

“You’re pretty,” he says, just as sweetly and simply as he compliments her voice.

Her chest, her cheeks, everything heats up inside her. She looks down at her hands, turning the foil packet between her fingers. She walks back to him and she notices that while she was gone, he’s moved his pants and his boxers down, now resting beneath his knees.

He’s just as lithe and pale as she imagined from the glimpse she got at the pool. He’s sexy, all lean muscle and veins and hair, sharp angles and long fingers. Her breath catches in her throat at the sight of his cock, hard and pink and perfect. When her knees touch his, he leans forward and takes the condom from her, unwrapping it and rolling it on.

“You okay?” he asks, grabbing her hand. He pulls.

“Yes.”

She climbs onto his lap again and Ben slides his hands up her arms, over her shoulders, until her shirt is on the ground. He leaves her bra, tracing the straps with his fingers, following them to her breasts and along her back. Leslie arches into his touch, following the rhythm and trail of his fingers. It’s intoxicating, it makes her whole body rumble, as if each push of his fingers is lighting off fireworks beneath her skin.

They both stop and gasp when her hips align just right and he’s there, one push away from their bodies connecting. Leslie’s forehead falls onto his and she closes her eyes, rocking her hips just a little. He sighs and they both whisper each other’s names at the same time, making them laugh.

Ben’s hands slide down to her hips and he pulls her down, his hips moving up just enough. Their laughter stops, turning into surprised moans. He’s stretching and filling her completely. They’re not going slow, he’s buried inside her pussy to the hilt so fast, she can already feel him deep in her chest, her throat.

“Good Lord,” he growls.

“Ben,” she says. Her voice is practically unrecognizable, so small and desperate and needy.

He seems to understand because his fingers dig into the flesh of her hips and he pulls her up and smashes her back down onto him, causing them both to groan. He does it again, his hips angling this time and Leslie can’t help the loud whimper from spilling out of her mouth.

She says his name again, grabbing onto his shoulders and arching her back, finally moving along with him. He watches her bounce, his eyes all over her chest, her face, his hands following the trail of his gaze. Leslie rides him, her fingers pressing into his shoulders and moving into his hair when his lips can’t help but find her breasts again. She grips, pulling him closer and she leans back, so far back that Ben can hardly continue kissing her, but puts his dick at a new angle that is making her see galaxies.

“Fuck -- Leslie.”

Ben wraps his arms around her, pulling her back to his body and then slamming her down on the couch. He spreads her legs, eyes focused on her pussy as his fingers line her lips and spread her apart. She holds her breath, waiting, unsure of what he had in mind, what he’s seeing really, what he’s thinking. Should she have waxed before this?

Ben takes his dick in his hand and guides himself back to her, pushing in again. They inhale together, Leslie’s eyes rolling back at the stretch of him. He’s even deeper now, somehow. He’s holding her ass, lifting her as he thrusts into her again. And again.

Leslie grasps at pillows and cushions as he fucks her. He lifts her hips even higher, gripping her body even tighter, fucking her even faster. She wants to tell him that he feels good, that he’s perfection, that she never wants this to end, but she can’t say much of anything. Instead, she’s a mess of moans and curses, half thoughts and incoherent babbling. She wants to hate the way he smirks at her, and the easy way he says her name.

Instead, she makes his eyes roll with the push of her hips or makes him curse when she grabs her breasts.

When her fingers touch her clit, he growls her name and lifts her leg onto his shoulder to fuck her deeper.

Her knuckles brush against his pelvic bone as she circles her clit and it’s Ben’s turn to mumble incoherent thoughts and swears. She thinks he’s holding back on something, but she doesn’t worry about it, not now. There will be more times together.

Leslie groans his name and Ben sits up, holding onto her leg on his shoulder, his other hand sliding over hers on her clit. He helps her move, quickening the pace, adding just a little more pressure, like he knew exactly what would make her climb faster.

His name keeps falling from her mouth between rapid breaths. Her hand falls away and Ben touches her alone, allowing her to lay back and watch him fuck her, touch her, and watch her. It’s overwhelming, it’s incredible, it’s everything she never knew she wanted until only hours ago.

It’s terrifying.

Ben presses harder on her clit as he moves, pushing in faster. His breathing and hips are becoming erratic and Leslie enjoys watching him become unhinged, she likes that she does that to him. Focused, overly rehearsed Ben Wyatt becomes unhinged with her.

“Leslie,” he growls, moving even faster.

Leslie arches her back and his dick finds a new spot deep within her and Leslie keeps her hips steady, chasing the feeling, letting it fill her up and make her climb. She can’t help moaning, probably too loud, considering all that is blocking them from anyone else in the bus is a curtain, but she’s so close, she’s going to fall any moment.

Ben’s free hand digs into her thigh, his nails cutting into her flesh. She gasps and rolls her hips once, twice, three times and then she’s fucking gone, away from this world into another where there are only stars the sound of Ben’s voice growling her name.

He cums not that long after, collapsing on top of her. She wraps her arms and legs around him, pressing him closer to her. He presses his lips to hers, nipping at her bottom lip, her chin, her neck. She giggles and he rubs his nose against hers and then kisses her again before pulling back to look at her.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Ben’s gaze trails across her face, drifting down to her chest. He nudges her nose with his again.

“So many freckles.”

Leslie giggles, her cheeks warming.

“How did you get so many?” Ben teases, kissing along her cheeks, right below her eyes. Then he kisses her shoulders, along her collarbone, and back to her cheeks.

She wiggles beneath him, trying to escape his kisses and playful growls. He stands and disposes the condom, pulling up his pants. He throws Leslie her shirt and underwear. She pulls on her clothes, reaching for her jeans, but tells her to leave them, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the bunks. Thankfully, the bus is still empty. He helps her up and into his on the third row and follows her up.

It takes them some time to get comfortable, but finally their limbs are tangled just right and her face is buried in his neck. He’s pulled out a pack of Big Red and is chewing a new stick, his chin nudging her head with each bite.

It’s dark in the bunk with the curtain drawn and Leslie’s thankful for the location change as Chris and Andy walk onto the bus, discussing their run.

“We’re supposed to eat lunch soon. I haven’t ordered anything.”

Ben kisses her head.

“We don’t need food.”

Leslie rolls her eyes, pinching his side. Ben hums, tapping her skin. She tries not to worry about the lunch order or the show tonight or how they’re supposed to make it across two states by tomorrow night. She doesn’t think about the spreadsheet she’s supposed to make for Ron or remembering to call her mom. She just listens to Ben hum and feels his touch across her body.

“I’m going to write a dumb song about your freckles.”

Leslie nudges him. His voice sounds sleepy and the way he’s breathing indicates he should be asleep any minute. Not that they have time for a nap, but she’s not going to tell him that. Not right now. Not when he’s promising to write songs about her.

Who knows, maybe she’ll write a song about his awful hair. Or they’ll write one together about finding love in hotel rooms.

“Oh yeah?” she asks.

“Mmhmm.”

Ben continues to hum, but he’s not singing a new song, only a familiar one that he’s sung with his friends in front of thousands. He’s singing it slower than usual, words sliding into each other in a sleepy haze as he falls asleep.

“...Don't go, it's not the same when you're gone, and it's not good to be all alone. Don't go, it's not the same when you're gone, come on let me change your ticket home.”

Leslie snuggles closer to him and joins him in repeating the chorus as sleep pulls her to darkness and warmth; to music and Ben.