![]() ![]() "Hey." He glances up to see the talented, passionate Leslie Knope standing in front of him with her hands shoved in her jacket pockets. He bounces his heel into the concrete and tries to steady his rapid breathing. Ben can't will himself to move from this park bench he's occupied for nearly two hours. He cradles his head in his left hand, using the fingers of his right to trace unknown patterns on his khaki covered leg. And he recalls her late night motel visit a few days ago, and he feels weak at the knees even though he's sitting down. He saw how much this Freddy Spaghetti concert meant to her, and he picked up the phone, and he did something about it. He stepped outside of himself and his job for her. He's never done anything like that for anyone, but he did it for her. ![]() So when Leslie tells him he should just clam up and realize he did a good thing for Pawnee, he knows he's in way too deep already. And he remembers the nurses who hated him and the doctor who nearly refused to mend the cut closed, and he shivers even more. He shudders and grimaces and rubs the year old healed laceration beneath his hair that required over twenty stitches. Once, he strolled out of a local grocery store only for a beer bottle to be chucked at his head. The inhabitants of the places he's been during his career are brutal, harsh, unforgiving. He wants to walk around whatever town he's cutting to bits and eat at restaurants or go to the movies or shop at fucking Walmart without the word spreading like wildfire. Seriously, he wants the luxury to make decisions without harsh, radical judgment.
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