Fic: The Community Center Course Catalog

Title: The Community Center Course Catalog
Author:

saucydiva
Illustrator:

craponaspatula
Word count: 3K
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Clearly I don’t own it or I would buy you "Chair" for your very own
Timeline: 3x10 AU timeline
Summary: As prompted by the birthday girl- Secret dating through taking all the community center rec classes. It’s totally sneaky and not at all suspicious, because Leslie takes all the classes anyway and Ben, as a new permanent resident of Pawnee, obviously needs to meet people. Bonus points for going heavy on the cooking classes.
Author’s Note: Happy (super belated) birthday

stillscape! As

craponaspatula said, let's not point fingers as to why this is so late. Though, for the record, for once, something in the fandom is not diaphenia's fault.

Also not at fault is the ever-lovely

lizinstereo , who betad this a million years ago.

saucydiva/

craponaspatula Collusion

When Leslie Knope goes on trial in March, she says, perfectly honestly, that she wasn’t dating Ben Wyatt. And it’s true; entirely true.

“And yet,” Chris Traeger says, popping a handful of non-FDA approved tablets in his mouth, and glancing at Allanbach, who was presiding over the trial. “And yet, Ms. Knope, when I entered the kitchens of the Pawnee community center on March 25th at approximately 9:23 pm, I saw evidence of your-- involvement all over Mr. Wyatt’s pants, didn’t I?”

Leslie blushes and stifles a groan. “You make it sound so much worse than it is, Chr-- Mr. Traeger.” She looks at her hands and blushes again. It had all started so innocently…

***

Revamping the community center course catalogue was one of Leslie’s favorite post-Harvest Fest projects. There was a budget for the classes, but it was minuscule for what she and Chris wanted to do. He’d asked Ben to work with Leslie, allocating those minuscule funds into a reasonable number of classes. Chris had anticipated that the budget allocation would take about a week.

It took three weeks.

Ben and Leslie started on day one with noble intentions and binders, but fifteen business days later, they had to make decisions. The book had to go to the printers, Someday My Prints Will Come, in two weeks if Pawnee’s residents were going to get it in their homes by December 15th. These were the facts, and the two of them were in complete agreement.

But within an hour, she had him backed up against a wall, pushing her finger into his chest. The accusations flew fast and furious, but suffice it to say, she might have implied he had malevolent intentions. Specifically, she might have accused him of “attempting to destroy the very foundation of my town with your ludicrous budgetary demands” as she listed all the departments with budgets that could easily be cut to provide her with more funds for the community center classes.

She’d expected him to give in, but he’d pointed out, on four fingers, that he was a resident of Pawnee, now, that the budget for the revamp was set in stone, that she needed his signature on the final paperwork, and finally that he wasn’t going to cut the library, the sewage department, or weights and measures just so she could double the number of classes. When he’d finished his rant, it occurred to Leslie that she was standing very close to Ben; she could smell his cologne-- a warm, spicy vanilla-- and see the light sheen of sweat on his temple.

He’d run his fingers through his hair several times, especially around the part about how he wasn’t going to sign off on her destroying the budget he’d spent months—more months than he should’ve—carefully crafting. “I can’t,” he’d repeated. “You know I can’t.” And he’d destroyed his hair, the gelled look completely disheveled. There was a chunk of hair that had fallen over his left eyebrow, and it bothered her. She realized, as she zoned in on it, that he’d gone silent, breathing heavily, looking intensely at her like he was trying to—read her, his pupils going back and forth wildly.

She was awfully close to him, breathing just as heavily. She wondered what her pupils were doing, and why she couldn’t stop looking at his pupils.

Her fingers betrayed her. She pushed back that chunk of hair.

She didn’t touch him, just the hair, but his eyes went still. “The only way we could do this is if you got volunteers to teach the classes,” he whispered hoarsely.

“On it!” she’d yelled, turning on her heels and getting the hell out of there.

***

They couldn’t date.

She was clear on that. Crystal clear. Thank you, Chris, for wanting everyone in City Hall to remain forever single, thus having more time to focus on their cardio.

She hoped he choked on his stupid turkey burger.

But as Ann had pointed out—beautiful Amish baby Ann—Leslie and Ben could hang out. And it was their duty, really, to go to those community center classes.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

Besides, Leslie always signed up for at least a dozen of those a quarter anyway. And Ben needed to see how great the classes were, so that he would increase their budget, ideally by—how much of the budget went to the library, anyway?

Which is why on January 5th, they sat next to each other, pasting photos onto card stock. Ben had never taken a scrapbooking class; he didn’t even own a camera, saying the camera on his phone was “enough.”

She’d brought a thick stack of Harvest Festival photos, and they were spread out on the table.

She scrapbooked regularly—she hated the idea of forgetting anything, which meant she had a lot of scrapbooks—and she was doing what she could to help Ben. He looked lost among the die cutting machines and the vellum. Leslie, meanwhile, was in her element, pressing out letters with her Dymo labeler.

The teacher was talking about chipboard—amateur, Leslie thought—and she tuned the woman out to whisper to Ben. “It’s all about the photo.”

“The photo?” he said, picking up a glue stick gingerly.

She pulled the glue from his hands. That wasn’t his game; he was better off sticking with less permanent methods for the time being. Maybe some nice photo corners. “Yeah. What’s the picture you want to showcase? What picture represents the festival for you?”

He grabbed the photos, flipping through them quickly. His face lit up when he found the one he’d clearly been searching for. He reached over her, and his shoulder brushed up against her, and she was so distracted by him she didn’t have time to stop his from pressing that picture right into the center of the page, attached forever.

***

“And I’m now entering into evidence this wall hanging,” Chris says, looking pained , massaging his temple as he held up a large Ziploc. Inside the plastic bag is a yellow page, covered with fall-themed stickers, surrounding a photo. It was a picture of Ben and Leslie, arms full of pumpkins. Their faces were flushed, and they were both laughing. It was framed, and had spent the past three months on the wall of Leslie’s office.

“We’d taken a scrapbooking class,” Leslie says. “As friends. And as a friend, Ben gave me his page.”

“I have been friends with Ben Wyatt for a dozen years,” Chris says. “He has never given me a scrapbook page with our picture on it.”

Leslie sighs.

***

“Your body is God’s temple,” Jerry said. “Remember there are many things you can do that are more fun than sex. We’re going to make a list of things young people can do on dates that are alternatives to sexual intercourse.” He uncapped a dry erase marker and stood in front of the white board.

“Fingering,” a teenager shouted out lazily, not looking up from his phone. Leslie blushed. She shouldn’t look at Ben. Shouldn’t even breathe. Shouldn’t let him think she was thinking about the things she was thinking about.

“Dry humping,” another shouted over a cry of “blowjobs.”

Leslie risked a peek over at Ben, only to see him peeking at her, just out of the corner of her eye. She turned away.

“Guys, I meant more like ‘Frisbee,’” Jerry said.

“Jerry, go call your wife,” April said. “Sarah called.”

“My wife’s named Gail,” Jerry said.

“Whatever. Go!” April said, shoving him out the door.

“My phone’s in the—“ Jerry said as the door shut in his face.

“Ok, teens, this abstinence workshop is terrible, that’s why I brought you all real information,” April said. She reached into a gym bag at her feet and pulled out several large bunches of bananas, which she started tossing at the people in the room.

“April,” Ben said, his mouth wide open. “You can’t have people—you know what the laws in Pawnee are regarding—“

“Chill, Ben,” she said, her tone mocking. “I brought people a snack.”

Leslie tried not to look over at Ben as she started in on her banana, but she did anyway, and he was looking at her unabashedly. She pulled the banana away and broke a chunk off, popping it into her mouth. She could’ve sworn she saw him flinch. April crossed her arms and leaned against the desk at the front of the room. “Now, I need everyone to pull out their phones and go to my tumblr—“she wrote the url across the board. “There’s a video three posts down called April and Andy teach condoms that I made with my husband."

Leslie practically dropped her phone, she was so nervous. Everyone had better have their pants on in this video or they’d be sued into—

And thank god, the video only showed them demonstrating on bananas.

“These aren’t the same bananas, right?” Ben asked, his mouth full.

“Everyone has clean bananas,” April said with a smirk. “Except yours had the condom on it.”

Ben choked.

***

“Ms. April Ludgate,” Chris says, pausing to drink something from his thermos. “We’ve been over this several times. I’m going to ask you again to refrain from the yelling.”

April sends Chris a wicked grin, and then passes out cold, slumping over her table.

It takes everyone a moment to react, except Chris, who’s got her laid on the table practically before anyone else can leap up from their seat.

“She isn’t breathing. But don’t worry, I know CPR,” he announces, before leaning in, opening her mouth and blowing into it.

Leslie’s texting Ann frantically, typing the words too fast and making all the mistakes she can. Ap tnconsciovs doesn’t actually mean anything, damn it. Just as Leslie was sending a message anyway and hoping Ann could use the power of friendship to decode it, April sits up, breathing just fine.

“April!” Chris says with a smile. “You’re alive!”

“This man—“ she yells, pointing at Chris. “Just put his mouth on mine. In a courtroom. You all saw that!”

Leslie freezes, and so does the rest of the room.

“That’s much worse than making out in some stupid classroom,” April says, sliding off the table with a bounce.

“You were faking not breathing?” Chris asks, blanching.

“I can hold my breath for six minutes,” April says with a smirk. Leslie’s sure that isn’t true, but it had seemed like April was out forever.

“Why would you…” Chris sputters, looking stressed. His eyes keep flitting from April to his bag full of pills.

“Your honor—“ she says in general direction of Allenbach, who is not actually a judge. “I rest my case.” She bows, then strides out of the chambers before anyone can stop her.

***

Making out in this classroom is the only thing Leslie can think about.

After all, she learned to French kiss after a class here, in this very room, the kitchen room of the community center. She’d taken a biscuit-making class with Mrs. Kleypas, and afterwards, she and Billy Gibson had sat on the swings in the park right behind the community center, talking about student government until she decided she wanted to kiss him, and she had. Her first kiss had been glorious, and she always remembered it fondly whenever she was in this room.

Oh, and Ben was standing next to her. He was the real reason she kept thinking about kissing. Ben, who puckered his lips when he had to concentrate on measuring out the flour. He’d insisted on sifting it first even though Ann—beautiful snow owl Ann—said it wasn’t necessary. She was the class leader because she was perfect and willing to work for free. Ann'd rolled her eyes at him, but she told him to knock himself out.

He’d found a sifter in the cabinets, and had squeezed that handle so many times. Leslie couldn’t help but be lured in by the rhythmic repetitive motion, watching his arm muscles flex. He was wearing a button up in a ridiculous red and blue plaid, but he’d rolled up the sleeves. They had their own kitchen set, as the class size was small, so she’d had no one to stop her from staring.

Except Chris, who was working with Andy the next mini-kitchen over. Luckily, they were separated from their friends by the cheap plywood cabinets.

But she could still hear Chris, and Andy too. While she wanted to knock the bowl of dry ingredients out of his arms and grab ahold of Ben and shove her tongue down his throat, she could hear the reason she couldn’t talking to the blabbermouth who might tell—

“Andy, that’s a very creative way to mix the flour with the salt and sugar, but don’t you think it might be better to use a spoon?”

“Whoa, that’s a great idea. But what if instead we use this—shit, I think I broke the bowl.”

It’s a lady-boner killer, or at least it would be, if Ann hadn’t instructed them to cut the flour with the shortening using their fingers.

Because Ben told her she was doing it incorrectly, and just as she started to think up all the things she was going to say about that, he jerked his head in Chris and Andy’s direction. Then, he came around behind her—she could smell that spicy vanilla, and feel his chest on her back, and it was all she could do not to turn around and grab him.

“Here, let me,” he said, his whisper tickling her ear. He cupped her hand into his and pressed once, twice into the dough. Then he lifted his hand and started running his fingertips over the back of her fingers deliberately.

She shivered.

He could tell.

This wasn’t the first time they’d touched in class. They would high-five in Magic class or brush up against each other in Macramé or even once crashed into each other in Ultimate Frisbee.

But this was different. This was Ben surrounding her, and touching her, and even though she could hear Andy and Chris talking about something called Call of Duty, but she didn’t care, because Ben was breathing on her neck.

It wasn’t until Ann glared at her—Ann had decided to walk around, and apparently they had missed a few steps in the meantime, because Ann hissed at her and told to focus, and Ben let her go—that Leslie realized how foolish she was being.

She threw in a giant glug of milk without measuring, and when the biscuits came out of the oven maybe a little dense, she wasn’t surprised.

She and Ben resorted to snacking on Andy’s biscuits. As it would turn out, he had a really light touch, and his biscuits were light and fluffy. Chris looked proud enough to burst, but not proud enough to eat them, of course.

"Gluten is a slow poison for your body," he said, and Leslie scoffed.

As people wrapped up their extras, washed their dishes, and shuffled out when Andy said, “You guys should stay and redo yours.”

“No,” Ann said, her eyes widening as she looked over at Leslie. “I have to lock up.”

“Oh, I think we can trust these two,” Chris said, putting his hands on both their shoulders. He was, as ever, completely oblivious to the looks Ben was shooting her, which had nothing to do with baking.

“Besides, we want them to get an A,” Andy said, starting in on another biscuit.

“This class isn’t graded,” Ann said, looking frustrated. She held on tight to the room key in her hands, looking from the door to Leslie and back again.

“Thanks, Ann,” Leslie said, snatching the key from her.

"These biscuits will be great," Ben said.

"I bet," Ann said, rolling her eyes.

“See you later,” Leslie said, ushering her friends out of the room. Ann gave her a supportive smile—at least, Leslie assumed it was supportive, but her eyes were on Ben, who had remained quiet since they’d pulled out their pan from the oven.

She shut the door after them.

“Did you want to—“ Ben started, but his words were cut off, because Leslie grabbed his face and launched herself on his lips.

His lips were slack with surprise, but he bloomed, kissing her back like his life depended on it. His hands gripped her waist, and she wrapped her hand around the back of his head, pulling him tighter towards her.

He pushed her back, and somehow the entire seven pounds or so left in the flour bag ended up all over the counter (and the floor).

“We should—“ he said, pulling away from her, eyes wild.

“Later,” she said, because she wasn’t sure she could stop this, even if the room was on fire, or she was elected president.

He feathered kisses over her jawline, and she moaned somewhere in the back of her throat. She pressed her palms behind her on the counter, watching as he started to unbutton her blazer. She shrugged it off, and reached around to grope his ass, as she’d been thinking about doing ever since she watched him put away his tuba and realized his ass was probably the best thing about him besides his brain.

No, on reflection, it might be the best, period.

She was unbuttoning his shirt when she heard the worst words in the English language—

“What are you two doing?”

It was Chris.

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

craponaspatula.livejournal.com

Just PRETEND it's close to your birthday, okay?

From:

throwingpens.livejournal.com

oh my sweet baby jesus, you are both beautiful muskrats.

I cannot express how much I love this. Because the SHEER NUMBER OF CLASSES THEY TOOK, the scrapbook pages being ADORABLE, the frisbee uniforms, I can't deal with this.

And you had Ann teach a baking class! I loved that! And Chris is anti-gluten, of course. And you threw in the non-FDA approved pills, which I loved, because my parents take those for 85% of their meals.

And Andie's drawings were SO PERFECT for the scenes you wrote.

Happy belated birthday,

stillscape, for being born so that this was in existence.

From:

craponaspatula.livejournal.com

I really, really wanted to show them taking a class with them doing Ann & Chris's awkward pairs stretching. And one with the accounting guy because I love him. And about a hundred others. But everything was already super late so oh well. :)

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