(no subject)
A silly bit of Ben/Leslie for meredyd. Loooove you, friend!
When Ben was a kid, his parents would stuff him and his younger brother Steven into the back of the family station wagon and drive long hours to reach faraway state parks that were exactly like local state parks (except, of course, these state parks built character or something). In hindsight, Ben believed that his computer science major father and librarian mother hated camping as much as Ben did, and only forced those yearly roadtrips onto the family in some act of conformity to the All-American Family.
Sometimes Ben's father would bring along the Lemon branch of their family, and they all hated it as much as Ben did. He and his cousin Liz would spend a lot of time throwing things out the window as they sped by roadside diners and the World's Tallest Robot Dinosaur, and then would sit on the picnic benches at the campsite watching their fathers struggle with the eight-person tent. And the drives were even worse: cramped spaces, motion sickness and nausea that never followed through, and far too much Neil Diamond.
Steven, of course, actually liked the roadtrips and consecutive weekends spent in an ancient, uncomfortable, eternally damp tent, but Steven was the black sheep of the Wyatt family in more ways than one.
All things considered, it was an absolute mystery, then, why Ben had decided to surprise Leslie with a mini-roadtrip into Indianapolis to see the premier of The Muppets on the big screen. Because, actually, that was another thing Ben hated: Muppets.
Puppets that speak and sing and are apparently otherwise sentient? With all those terrible puns that might tickle the accountants at any accounting firm in the area, but mostly made Ben squirm with the heavy forced playfulness of abstract stupidity?
Truly, this entire plan was a sign of how much Ben loved Leslie.
Leslie, of course, was beside herself as she climbed into the passenger's seat of Ben's car. "I made this extra special mix CD just for the occasion!" she announced as Ben backed out of the driveway.
Ben glanced sidelong at her as she inserted the CD into the player. "I hope there isn't any banjo music on that," he said, remembering a different roadtrip all too well.
Leslie smiled. "Well, if Chris were coming with us, then of course I'd put that! But, no, this is much better." She pressed play, and it began: It's time to play the music! It's time to light the lights!
It was an active effort to suppress the groan that arose in his throat. It came out as a suspicious cough instead.
"I thought we'd get ourselves into the mood!" Leslie exclaimed happily over the music, bouncing along to the beat.
Ben nodded tersely. "It's great!" he said, using every reserve of his self-control.
The mix CD was an hour and a half long, but it lasted two hours just because every so often Leslie would pause it to share her thoughts or to tell a joke or just to talk--and it was those moments that made Ben remember why, after three hours on the road (and hearing four different versions of "The Rainbow Connection") he was doing this as he pulled up to the giant theater.
Leslie gasped audibly. "I haven't been here since I was a little girl!"
"I forgot how big it was," Ben agreed.
At the ticket booth, the apathetic teenage employee raised an eyebrow at Leslie's enthusiastic smile as she ordered "two for The Muppets, please" and Ben narrowed his eyes just a tiny bit. He and Leslie shuffled into line to get inside and after buying two large buckets of popcorn--"I love you, Ben, but I'm not sharing"--and two sodas, found their seats. The theater was nearly full, and most of the audience were toddlers. Ben shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but as the previews began, Leslie flashed him an excited smile and he found himself smiling back just as hugely.
In the end, the movie wasn't bad. It just barely smacked of charming and the puns weren't so terrible and even Ben had to admit he couldn't help but root for the Muppets to win against the villain--and anyway, Leslie's excited chatter about it as they both got into the car was worth it all.
"And Miss Piggy!" she said. "I mean, Miss Piggy was my hero when I was a kid, she was up there with Margaret Thatcher, I had a little stuffed Miss Piggy that I slept with--and I just love her and Kermit's romance, is it weird to think a pig and frog's love is romantic?"
Ben shook his head. "No," he assured her. "There are probably weirder things." He turned the key in the ignition but instead of backing out of the parking space, he turned to Leslie. He took a deep breath and said, "Like this."
Leslie frowned and asked "Like what?" but Ben held up a finger, pushed play on the CD player, and began to sing along. "Why are there so many songs about rainbows, and what's on the other side? Rainbows are visions, but also illusions, and rainbows have nothing to hide..."
When he finished singing--the whole song! minus a few forgotten lyrics that he hoped the audio track had covered up--Leslie's smile grew wider and she nearly catapulted herself over her armrest to throw her arms around Ben's neck.
"I thought you hated the Muppets!" she said against his shoulder.
"It was that obvious?" He tried not to sound guilty.
Leslie pulled back and shook her head. "Only to a true Muppets fan." She reached for his face and kissed him. As she pulled back, Ben could see that smile again--did anyone smile as much or as sincerely as Leslie Knope?
"Thank you," she said. "This meant a lot to me." After a pause, she added, "But don't think this means I'm going to sit through Star Trek: Insurrection again."
When Ben was a kid, his parents would stuff him and his younger brother Steven into the back of the family station wagon and drive long hours to reach faraway state parks that were exactly like local state parks (except, of course, these state parks built character or something). In hindsight, Ben believed that his computer science major father and librarian mother hated camping as much as Ben did, and only forced those yearly roadtrips onto the family in some act of conformity to the All-American Family.
Sometimes Ben's father would bring along the Lemon branch of their family, and they all hated it as much as Ben did. He and his cousin Liz would spend a lot of time throwing things out the window as they sped by roadside diners and the World's Tallest Robot Dinosaur, and then would sit on the picnic benches at the campsite watching their fathers struggle with the eight-person tent. And the drives were even worse: cramped spaces, motion sickness and nausea that never followed through, and far too much Neil Diamond.
Steven, of course, actually liked the roadtrips and consecutive weekends spent in an ancient, uncomfortable, eternally damp tent, but Steven was the black sheep of the Wyatt family in more ways than one.
All things considered, it was an absolute mystery, then, why Ben had decided to surprise Leslie with a mini-roadtrip into Indianapolis to see the premier of The Muppets on the big screen. Because, actually, that was another thing Ben hated: Muppets.
Puppets that speak and sing and are apparently otherwise sentient? With all those terrible puns that might tickle the accountants at any accounting firm in the area, but mostly made Ben squirm with the heavy forced playfulness of abstract stupidity?
Truly, this entire plan was a sign of how much Ben loved Leslie.
Leslie, of course, was beside herself as she climbed into the passenger's seat of Ben's car. "I made this extra special mix CD just for the occasion!" she announced as Ben backed out of the driveway.
Ben glanced sidelong at her as she inserted the CD into the player. "I hope there isn't any banjo music on that," he said, remembering a different roadtrip all too well.
Leslie smiled. "Well, if Chris were coming with us, then of course I'd put that! But, no, this is much better." She pressed play, and it began: It's time to play the music! It's time to light the lights!
It was an active effort to suppress the groan that arose in his throat. It came out as a suspicious cough instead.
"I thought we'd get ourselves into the mood!" Leslie exclaimed happily over the music, bouncing along to the beat.
Ben nodded tersely. "It's great!" he said, using every reserve of his self-control.
The mix CD was an hour and a half long, but it lasted two hours just because every so often Leslie would pause it to share her thoughts or to tell a joke or just to talk--and it was those moments that made Ben remember why, after three hours on the road (and hearing four different versions of "The Rainbow Connection") he was doing this as he pulled up to the giant theater.
Leslie gasped audibly. "I haven't been here since I was a little girl!"
"I forgot how big it was," Ben agreed.
At the ticket booth, the apathetic teenage employee raised an eyebrow at Leslie's enthusiastic smile as she ordered "two for The Muppets, please" and Ben narrowed his eyes just a tiny bit. He and Leslie shuffled into line to get inside and after buying two large buckets of popcorn--"I love you, Ben, but I'm not sharing"--and two sodas, found their seats. The theater was nearly full, and most of the audience were toddlers. Ben shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but as the previews began, Leslie flashed him an excited smile and he found himself smiling back just as hugely.
In the end, the movie wasn't bad. It just barely smacked of charming and the puns weren't so terrible and even Ben had to admit he couldn't help but root for the Muppets to win against the villain--and anyway, Leslie's excited chatter about it as they both got into the car was worth it all.
"And Miss Piggy!" she said. "I mean, Miss Piggy was my hero when I was a kid, she was up there with Margaret Thatcher, I had a little stuffed Miss Piggy that I slept with--and I just love her and Kermit's romance, is it weird to think a pig and frog's love is romantic?"
Ben shook his head. "No," he assured her. "There are probably weirder things." He turned the key in the ignition but instead of backing out of the parking space, he turned to Leslie. He took a deep breath and said, "Like this."
Leslie frowned and asked "Like what?" but Ben held up a finger, pushed play on the CD player, and began to sing along. "Why are there so many songs about rainbows, and what's on the other side? Rainbows are visions, but also illusions, and rainbows have nothing to hide..."
When he finished singing--the whole song! minus a few forgotten lyrics that he hoped the audio track had covered up--Leslie's smile grew wider and she nearly catapulted herself over her armrest to throw her arms around Ben's neck.
"I thought you hated the Muppets!" she said against his shoulder.
"It was that obvious?" He tried not to sound guilty.
Leslie pulled back and shook her head. "Only to a true Muppets fan." She reached for his face and kissed him. As she pulled back, Ben could see that smile again--did anyone smile as much or as sincerely as Leslie Knope?
"Thank you," she said. "This meant a lot to me." After a pause, she added, "But don't think this means I'm going to sit through Star Trek: Insurrection again."