Fic: Unity (5/?)
Title: Unity (5/?)
Pairing: Ben/Leslie
Word Count: 2700 (this part)
Rating: PG (this part)
Setting: Post-The Comeback Kid
Summary: Loosely, this is series of moments that make up Leslie’s ideas for the unity quilt. Somewhere along the way it’s morphed into a lot more.
A/n: Well, it's been six months, but I finally wrote the next part of this story. I would like to say we're nearing the end, but I swear at one point this story was supposed to five short, fluffy moments, and that plan veered entirely off course. Apparently this thing has a life of its own. A million thank yous to shornt for both general encouragement and specific reminders that I shouldn't abandon this fic, and to everyone who has read and left feedback because it means a lot. You're all wonderful.
Part One || Part Two || Part Three A || Part Three B || Part Four
Leslie comes back from the bathroom to find Ben sitting up in the bed, one hand thrown behind his head as he stares at his laptop. It's the sort of normalcy that they've settled into over the past month or so, not unlike the last night she spent here or any of the nights before that, but tonight it feels different. She feels different. And she knows it's because of the man sitting five feet away from her, scrolling through polling data like it's an everyday occurrence. This man who wants her to win this election as much as she does.
Or nearly as much. Probably a very close second.
Ben's bedside clock reads 10:33, but it feels well past midnight. Here in the dark, winter pressing in around the house so tightly that it feels snug, it feels like the evening has slipped away from them. The disastrous campaign relaunch feels far behind her already, and even now, staring at her brilliant boyfriend and thinking about how much she wants to make out with his dumb face, it's hard not to ignore the present and leap ahead to the days to come.
She kisses him as she climbs into his bed, pushing aside his laptop so she can settle into his lap, and smiling against his lips. She can feel the eagerness buzzing in her like sugar through her veins. The earlier hours of the evening had been dedicated to the campaign-strategizing and planning, looking ahead to the next few days and even weeks. But now everyone else is gone, and she and Ben are alone for the first time since she asked him to manage her campaign, and despite her near desperate need not to lose any momentum, she forces herself to stay in this moment.
They deserve to celebrate.
"Hi," she says, pressing her lips to his again and shifting on his lap. Ben has one hand in her hair, the other resting against her lower back, and she feels nearly giddy with excitement. This decision feels right; the kind of choice that she won't regret, win or lose, and for the first time in a while, she feels genuinely hopeful about this campaign.
"I know we just got started," she says, pausing to kiss him again. And one more time, because she can't stop herself. "But maybe we should take a little break."
Ben doesn't hide his emotions well. His face is too expressive, his eyes too vulnerable, and Leslie knows him too well. And this afternoon, she would have sworn she saw a sharp spark of passion in his eyes that she hasn't seen in too long. But the second she pulls back and looks at him, face illuminated by the soft bluish glow of the computer, her euphoria fades into something wary.
She knows in that moment, in the tense set of his jaw and the weariness in his eyes, that something had settled over him while she'd been in the bathroom. However much they'd seemed on the same page earlier, it feels different now, and Leslie feels her heart sink.
She wants this. So much.
But she wants him to want it too.
And so even though she wants to ignore it, wants to tell herself that he's just tired and that tomorrow he'll be energized and ready to go, she can't.
It's too important. He's too important.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" She runs a hand through his hair, lets her thumb graze the shell of his ear: tiny reassurances that he doesn't owe it to her to manage her campaign. Not when he's already done so much for her-more than she'd even think to ask. "You don't have to. You know that right?"
Despite her sincerity, she still feels anxiety hitch in her chest when he doesn't immediately rush to assure her that this is what he wants. Her mind leaps to conclusions with its usual acrobatic grace: the worry that she has pressured him into this or that he feels guilty or maybe both, and she was too eager for him to agree to notice any of it earlier. His thumb plays with the waistband of her pajama pants, slipping underneath and stroking her hip, but the soothing gesture does little to alleviate the guilt and fear. She wants him to do this more than anything, but only on his terms.
The urge to blurt this out, to break this silence and take back the question she asked, is hard to squelch, but she overcomes the need with tremendous effort. However agonizing, she knows that Ben needs these pauses sometimes. And what follows them is not necessarily something she doesn't want to hear.
Of course, prompting isn't the same as steamrolling. Even Ann would agree with that.
"Ben?"
He leans in and kisses her again, soft and sweet. "I know, Leslie. I do. And I didn't say yes because I felt obligated to."
"Okay." She frowns; there's a hesitance behind his words that gives her pause, even though she takes what he said at face value. He wouldn't lie to her. "Then what's wrong?"
"I don't know." He leans back, head resting against the headboard of the bed; his hand begins to move absentmindedly along her thigh, a gesture meant to sooth his tension more than hers. "It's just that… You know how you think you never want to end up like your parents?"
"No." His eyebrow quirks at the immediacy of her response, and she shrugs. "I always wanted to be like my mom. Well, maybe not exactly like my mom. But I always wanted to be the best parts of my parents."
It's an innocent admission on her part, but perhaps that is the dagger in the heart of the matter. She can tell by the emotions that flicker across Ben's face that she's inadvertently struck a nerve, but there is no way to pinpoint the exact nature of wound. Even without understanding the nuances or dynamics, she knows his relationship with his parents is strained, and maybe this-the pressure to be different or better, whether or not he needs to be-is part of the reason why.
She has no idea why it's on his mind tonight, though. No idea what prompted this non sequitur when this afternoon, he'd seemed genuinely happy.
Ben's hands slip around her back and he pulls her closer to him; his pajama pants bunch as she slides down his lap, but he doesn't seem to care. When she's settled, he cups her face with both hands, looking at her with an intensity that steals her breath. "Sometimes I think you're too good for me."
"Ben-"
"No, Les. I need to say this. I need…" He takes a deep breath, and she stills, waiting for something she both does and doesn't want to hear. She knows he loves her, so much, and she never wants him to doubt that she doesn't, or shouldn't, feel the same way about him. "I just worry a little bit," he says. "You have this innate way of looking at the world, and it's beautiful, Leslie. It's beautiful and attractive, and it's one of the things I admire most about you. But I'm not like that." He offers her a small smile, heartbreakingly self-deprecating, and then shrugs. "I'm not. And I wish I could be. I wish I could be better than my parents."
Ben's hands drop to her lap, and she reaches for them without thought, gripping them too tightly. The world around them seems to freeze; every thought of the campaign has left her mind in midst this seemingly-out-of-left-field conversation. Beyond an occasional mumbled complaint, Ben doesn't really talk about his parents, and she's never really pushed him to. She can feel that they're on a precipice, one he could retreat from as easily as he could leap over, and, for once, she doesn't have to fight the instinct to speak; she simply holds his hands and waits.
"When I was a kid," he says, more carefully that she's used to hearing him speak, "before my parents got divorced, they just fought all the time. My dad-He's just-He can be really mean, you know? It's like this anger is just inside of him all the time, and he can't get rid of it, so he has to take it out on everyone around him. And my mom couldn't deal with it, not directly, and so she'd do all this stupid little crap to get back at him, always avoiding the real problem. They just hated each other. Still hate each other. And I can't remember a time in my life when it was different.
"I never wanted to be like that."
He looks at her, begging her to both refute and confirm his fear; expecting her to end this confession because she can. So easily. But however much she wants to acquiesce, she can't. The moment is too fragile, a chance they may not get again, and she suspects Ben needs to say this, much as he doesn't want to.
After a long moment, he drops his head; silent recognition that she wants him to go on.
"When we broke up…" He squeezes her hands, letting out a shuddery breath that she swears she can feel stuck in her own chest. "…I hated who I was. I felt miserable all the time. And I didn't handle it well, Leslie. I was mad at you and I pushed you away because it was easier than dealing with what I was feeling, and there were times…You would look at me and I felt cruel. I was at this low point, and instinctively, I became just like my dad. When we got back together, I thought I was past that-Like I could just pretend none of it ever happened, and that everything was okay, and that it didn't matter that I lost my job and had absolutely no idea what I was doing anymore. And it's no better, Leslie. No better than how I was when we weren't together. Now I'm acting like my mom, and I didn't even realize it until Chris pointed it out today, and god, I just worry. If these are my instincts, if this is how I deal with adversity…You don't deserve that. Ever."
She feels shattered, broken into a thousand little pieces on behalf of this man she loves, because she loves him. It's inevitable that the hurt he feels is her pain, too, and that knowledge is both foreign and familiar to her. This breakdown, whatever prompted it tonight, is clearly the result of a wound he's been nursing for too long, and she's been too wrapped up in the campaign, too cautious not to push him, to even notice.
"I don't want to screw this up," he says, voice shaking. "Not the campaign. And not us. Especially not us."
She wraps her arms around him, letting him bury his face in the curve of her neck and cling to her; she's not even sure he realizes that he's started to cry.
"You're not the only one who didn't handle things well," she murmurs. She kisses the side of his head, hands still rubbing along his back. "And you're not the only one who runs away to avoid your problems."
Ben is still against her, but she can feel his fingers where they're curled into her tank top, and she knows he's listening. The weight and grief of everything that's happened over the last six months has caught up to him, coalescing with old scars that she's only beginning to see. But he needs to understand that he's not repeating past mistakes; no matter what he says, he's better than that. Right now he may only see the poor qualities he inherited, but she has to believe he's made up of the best as well. And that more often than not, when he has the choice, he chooses to be the best.
And that is the distinction.
"I know I don't know your parents," she says. "But they can't be all bad, Ben. I mean, from the outside, someone might look at my mom and think she's cold and judgmental. And she is sometimes. But she also taught me to be independent and she always encouraged me to try things and she loves me. And I'm sure your parents were the same. They just sucked together."
He lets out a short snort of agreement. "Totally sucked," he mumbles, his lips grazing her skin.
“Totally sucked," she agrees. "But you know, I read once that hate is just love disappointed.”
“Yeah? Where’d you read that?”
“A Harry Potter fan fic. But that doesn’t make it any less true!”
He pulls back, chuckling, only to lay his forehead against hers, one hand coming up to rest against her neck. "Okay. Maybe that's true, Leslie. But I want to be better than that. We need to be better than that."
There's relief in the statement-a release from something she didn't consciously realize still existed. They've never acknowledged this openly; any discussion about the breakup has been through kisses and caresses, through their actions and the way they look at one another, and she didn't realize how much either of them needed to actually say something about what happened.
How much he needed to say something.
She leans back so she can see his face, smiling at him because it's impossible not to in this moment. He looks emotionally drained, but the worry seems to have faded, and he manages to return a small smile. "We're going to be okay," she says. "I chose you, Ben. Good and bad. All of you. And that's not going to change when one of us has a bad day or when we fight or if I lose this election."
"I know." He raises her right hand to his lips, kissing the back of it, and then nods. "I do know that, Leslie."
"We're going to figure this out, you know. How to deal with this stuff. I mean, technically we've only been a couple for about two months."
"It feels a lot longer."
It does. It feels like she's loved him a whole lifetime.
She thinks someday it will be.
"I just don't ever want to hurt you, Leslie. Not at all, but especially not like that."
"You won't." It's belief as natural as breathing. Maybe it's a little naïve or too trusting; maybe it's born in her optimism or absolute belief in what a good person he is, but Leslie can't look into the future anymore without seeing Ben by her side, and that counts for a lot.
They haven't said it yet, not in those terms, but she suspects Ben feels the same way.
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
"And you deserve me."
He nods. "I deserve you." He pauses, the tiniest hesitation before he adds, "And you deserve me."
She grins, and his face lights up for the first time since she came into the room, the last of his worry fading, at least for tonight. "I do," she agrees, squirming in his lap. "I deserve the hottest campaign manager in the history of politics."
"Huh," he teases, one hand wrapping around her neck and tugging her forward. "I knew there was a reason you hired me."
Her laughter is lost in his kiss.
Pairing: Ben/Leslie
Word Count: 2700 (this part)
Rating: PG (this part)
Setting: Post-The Comeback Kid
Summary: Loosely, this is series of moments that make up Leslie’s ideas for the unity quilt. Somewhere along the way it’s morphed into a lot more.
A/n: Well, it's been six months, but I finally wrote the next part of this story. I would like to say we're nearing the end, but I swear at one point this story was supposed to five short, fluffy moments, and that plan veered entirely off course. Apparently this thing has a life of its own. A million thank yous to shornt for both general encouragement and specific reminders that I shouldn't abandon this fic, and to everyone who has read and left feedback because it means a lot. You're all wonderful.
Part One || Part Two || Part Three A || Part Three B || Part Four
Leslie comes back from the bathroom to find Ben sitting up in the bed, one hand thrown behind his head as he stares at his laptop. It's the sort of normalcy that they've settled into over the past month or so, not unlike the last night she spent here or any of the nights before that, but tonight it feels different. She feels different. And she knows it's because of the man sitting five feet away from her, scrolling through polling data like it's an everyday occurrence. This man who wants her to win this election as much as she does.
Or nearly as much. Probably a very close second.
Ben's bedside clock reads 10:33, but it feels well past midnight. Here in the dark, winter pressing in around the house so tightly that it feels snug, it feels like the evening has slipped away from them. The disastrous campaign relaunch feels far behind her already, and even now, staring at her brilliant boyfriend and thinking about how much she wants to make out with his dumb face, it's hard not to ignore the present and leap ahead to the days to come.
She kisses him as she climbs into his bed, pushing aside his laptop so she can settle into his lap, and smiling against his lips. She can feel the eagerness buzzing in her like sugar through her veins. The earlier hours of the evening had been dedicated to the campaign-strategizing and planning, looking ahead to the next few days and even weeks. But now everyone else is gone, and she and Ben are alone for the first time since she asked him to manage her campaign, and despite her near desperate need not to lose any momentum, she forces herself to stay in this moment.
They deserve to celebrate.
"Hi," she says, pressing her lips to his again and shifting on his lap. Ben has one hand in her hair, the other resting against her lower back, and she feels nearly giddy with excitement. This decision feels right; the kind of choice that she won't regret, win or lose, and for the first time in a while, she feels genuinely hopeful about this campaign.
"I know we just got started," she says, pausing to kiss him again. And one more time, because she can't stop herself. "But maybe we should take a little break."
Ben doesn't hide his emotions well. His face is too expressive, his eyes too vulnerable, and Leslie knows him too well. And this afternoon, she would have sworn she saw a sharp spark of passion in his eyes that she hasn't seen in too long. But the second she pulls back and looks at him, face illuminated by the soft bluish glow of the computer, her euphoria fades into something wary.
She knows in that moment, in the tense set of his jaw and the weariness in his eyes, that something had settled over him while she'd been in the bathroom. However much they'd seemed on the same page earlier, it feels different now, and Leslie feels her heart sink.
She wants this. So much.
But she wants him to want it too.
And so even though she wants to ignore it, wants to tell herself that he's just tired and that tomorrow he'll be energized and ready to go, she can't.
It's too important. He's too important.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" She runs a hand through his hair, lets her thumb graze the shell of his ear: tiny reassurances that he doesn't owe it to her to manage her campaign. Not when he's already done so much for her-more than she'd even think to ask. "You don't have to. You know that right?"
Despite her sincerity, she still feels anxiety hitch in her chest when he doesn't immediately rush to assure her that this is what he wants. Her mind leaps to conclusions with its usual acrobatic grace: the worry that she has pressured him into this or that he feels guilty or maybe both, and she was too eager for him to agree to notice any of it earlier. His thumb plays with the waistband of her pajama pants, slipping underneath and stroking her hip, but the soothing gesture does little to alleviate the guilt and fear. She wants him to do this more than anything, but only on his terms.
The urge to blurt this out, to break this silence and take back the question she asked, is hard to squelch, but she overcomes the need with tremendous effort. However agonizing, she knows that Ben needs these pauses sometimes. And what follows them is not necessarily something she doesn't want to hear.
Of course, prompting isn't the same as steamrolling. Even Ann would agree with that.
"Ben?"
He leans in and kisses her again, soft and sweet. "I know, Leslie. I do. And I didn't say yes because I felt obligated to."
"Okay." She frowns; there's a hesitance behind his words that gives her pause, even though she takes what he said at face value. He wouldn't lie to her. "Then what's wrong?"
"I don't know." He leans back, head resting against the headboard of the bed; his hand begins to move absentmindedly along her thigh, a gesture meant to sooth his tension more than hers. "It's just that… You know how you think you never want to end up like your parents?"
"No." His eyebrow quirks at the immediacy of her response, and she shrugs. "I always wanted to be like my mom. Well, maybe not exactly like my mom. But I always wanted to be the best parts of my parents."
It's an innocent admission on her part, but perhaps that is the dagger in the heart of the matter. She can tell by the emotions that flicker across Ben's face that she's inadvertently struck a nerve, but there is no way to pinpoint the exact nature of wound. Even without understanding the nuances or dynamics, she knows his relationship with his parents is strained, and maybe this-the pressure to be different or better, whether or not he needs to be-is part of the reason why.
She has no idea why it's on his mind tonight, though. No idea what prompted this non sequitur when this afternoon, he'd seemed genuinely happy.
Ben's hands slip around her back and he pulls her closer to him; his pajama pants bunch as she slides down his lap, but he doesn't seem to care. When she's settled, he cups her face with both hands, looking at her with an intensity that steals her breath. "Sometimes I think you're too good for me."
"Ben-"
"No, Les. I need to say this. I need…" He takes a deep breath, and she stills, waiting for something she both does and doesn't want to hear. She knows he loves her, so much, and she never wants him to doubt that she doesn't, or shouldn't, feel the same way about him. "I just worry a little bit," he says. "You have this innate way of looking at the world, and it's beautiful, Leslie. It's beautiful and attractive, and it's one of the things I admire most about you. But I'm not like that." He offers her a small smile, heartbreakingly self-deprecating, and then shrugs. "I'm not. And I wish I could be. I wish I could be better than my parents."
Ben's hands drop to her lap, and she reaches for them without thought, gripping them too tightly. The world around them seems to freeze; every thought of the campaign has left her mind in midst this seemingly-out-of-left-field conversation. Beyond an occasional mumbled complaint, Ben doesn't really talk about his parents, and she's never really pushed him to. She can feel that they're on a precipice, one he could retreat from as easily as he could leap over, and, for once, she doesn't have to fight the instinct to speak; she simply holds his hands and waits.
"When I was a kid," he says, more carefully that she's used to hearing him speak, "before my parents got divorced, they just fought all the time. My dad-He's just-He can be really mean, you know? It's like this anger is just inside of him all the time, and he can't get rid of it, so he has to take it out on everyone around him. And my mom couldn't deal with it, not directly, and so she'd do all this stupid little crap to get back at him, always avoiding the real problem. They just hated each other. Still hate each other. And I can't remember a time in my life when it was different.
"I never wanted to be like that."
He looks at her, begging her to both refute and confirm his fear; expecting her to end this confession because she can. So easily. But however much she wants to acquiesce, she can't. The moment is too fragile, a chance they may not get again, and she suspects Ben needs to say this, much as he doesn't want to.
After a long moment, he drops his head; silent recognition that she wants him to go on.
"When we broke up…" He squeezes her hands, letting out a shuddery breath that she swears she can feel stuck in her own chest. "…I hated who I was. I felt miserable all the time. And I didn't handle it well, Leslie. I was mad at you and I pushed you away because it was easier than dealing with what I was feeling, and there were times…You would look at me and I felt cruel. I was at this low point, and instinctively, I became just like my dad. When we got back together, I thought I was past that-Like I could just pretend none of it ever happened, and that everything was okay, and that it didn't matter that I lost my job and had absolutely no idea what I was doing anymore. And it's no better, Leslie. No better than how I was when we weren't together. Now I'm acting like my mom, and I didn't even realize it until Chris pointed it out today, and god, I just worry. If these are my instincts, if this is how I deal with adversity…You don't deserve that. Ever."
She feels shattered, broken into a thousand little pieces on behalf of this man she loves, because she loves him. It's inevitable that the hurt he feels is her pain, too, and that knowledge is both foreign and familiar to her. This breakdown, whatever prompted it tonight, is clearly the result of a wound he's been nursing for too long, and she's been too wrapped up in the campaign, too cautious not to push him, to even notice.
"I don't want to screw this up," he says, voice shaking. "Not the campaign. And not us. Especially not us."
She wraps her arms around him, letting him bury his face in the curve of her neck and cling to her; she's not even sure he realizes that he's started to cry.
"You're not the only one who didn't handle things well," she murmurs. She kisses the side of his head, hands still rubbing along his back. "And you're not the only one who runs away to avoid your problems."
Ben is still against her, but she can feel his fingers where they're curled into her tank top, and she knows he's listening. The weight and grief of everything that's happened over the last six months has caught up to him, coalescing with old scars that she's only beginning to see. But he needs to understand that he's not repeating past mistakes; no matter what he says, he's better than that. Right now he may only see the poor qualities he inherited, but she has to believe he's made up of the best as well. And that more often than not, when he has the choice, he chooses to be the best.
And that is the distinction.
"I know I don't know your parents," she says. "But they can't be all bad, Ben. I mean, from the outside, someone might look at my mom and think she's cold and judgmental. And she is sometimes. But she also taught me to be independent and she always encouraged me to try things and she loves me. And I'm sure your parents were the same. They just sucked together."
He lets out a short snort of agreement. "Totally sucked," he mumbles, his lips grazing her skin.
“Totally sucked," she agrees. "But you know, I read once that hate is just love disappointed.”
“Yeah? Where’d you read that?”
“A Harry Potter fan fic. But that doesn’t make it any less true!”
He pulls back, chuckling, only to lay his forehead against hers, one hand coming up to rest against her neck. "Okay. Maybe that's true, Leslie. But I want to be better than that. We need to be better than that."
There's relief in the statement-a release from something she didn't consciously realize still existed. They've never acknowledged this openly; any discussion about the breakup has been through kisses and caresses, through their actions and the way they look at one another, and she didn't realize how much either of them needed to actually say something about what happened.
How much he needed to say something.
She leans back so she can see his face, smiling at him because it's impossible not to in this moment. He looks emotionally drained, but the worry seems to have faded, and he manages to return a small smile. "We're going to be okay," she says. "I chose you, Ben. Good and bad. All of you. And that's not going to change when one of us has a bad day or when we fight or if I lose this election."
"I know." He raises her right hand to his lips, kissing the back of it, and then nods. "I do know that, Leslie."
"We're going to figure this out, you know. How to deal with this stuff. I mean, technically we've only been a couple for about two months."
"It feels a lot longer."
It does. It feels like she's loved him a whole lifetime.
She thinks someday it will be.
"I just don't ever want to hurt you, Leslie. Not at all, but especially not like that."
"You won't." It's belief as natural as breathing. Maybe it's a little naïve or too trusting; maybe it's born in her optimism or absolute belief in what a good person he is, but Leslie can't look into the future anymore without seeing Ben by her side, and that counts for a lot.
They haven't said it yet, not in those terms, but she suspects Ben feels the same way.
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
"And you deserve me."
He nods. "I deserve you." He pauses, the tiniest hesitation before he adds, "And you deserve me."
She grins, and his face lights up for the first time since she came into the room, the last of his worry fading, at least for tonight. "I do," she agrees, squirming in his lap. "I deserve the hottest campaign manager in the history of politics."
"Huh," he teases, one hand wrapping around her neck and tugging her forward. "I knew there was a reason you hired me."
Her laughter is lost in his kiss.