Oh god, he's not sure what's in it. But it burns. It burns until it doesn't. The burning gives way to this sweetly sour, pleasant taste that isn't awful at all. Tom says it's exactly like a snake bite, it snaps, and then it incapacitates slowly.

By numbing.

Not that Ben's really numbed. Not really.

He's not numbed until after his first is more to the point. It doesn't much matter that he's on his third though, since the drinks are free and since everyone else has had far more to drink than he has. He is driving tonight after all. (He is not getting behind a wheel.)

When April shoves a second into his hand (and she's on her third, that doesn't seem right; then again, she is twenty-one, and that's... that's something) he just blinks and sips at it. Because Ben deserves it; he went to the edge today.

He mediated a fight.

Between Leslie Knope and Ann Perkins. But really, he mediated a fight with someone and Leslie Knope. And he succeeded. Being someone who has seen first hand the temerity and conviction with which she can fight, well, he feels pretty accomplished. That he made her see reason at all, especially when she'd asserted more than once (twelve times, not like he was counting) that she was right.

Reasonable, boring, plaid Ben Wyatt mediated a dispute, and he's damned proud of it. Damned. Proud. He's pretty happy that he'd gotten to comfort her, too, there is that. Hand on the shoulder, reassuring her at her lower back, almost brushing hands, all of that... comforting sort of touching. Ben had managed to perform up to standard, too, comfort-wise.

She'd even thanked him. For the... comforting.

(There had been the heat from her skin when he'd touched her upper arm, and that had nearly wiped the thought of comfort off of his mind, but he managed to remain on-task.)

And Ann had managed a thanks of her own, grabbing onto his shoulder (and she'd only had one and a half) with a, "You're so great Ben, you're so... so great. I like you. We all likes you. Like you, we all like you."

"You all likes me?"

Ann had giggled and punched herself off of him. "We all like you. Leslie likes you." Her face had morphed into a mask of personal confusion, horror but she'd managed a fake, plastic smile before she made a hasty getaway after realizing what she had said.

Everyone liked him. Leslie liked him, and if Ann's reaction had meant anything (and please, it really had) she like-liked him.

Awesome.

It is awesome.

Pretty much everything is awesome, because his head is a little swimmy, and once you get past the initial gag-factor, the Snake Juice isn't so bad. It actually goes down really easily; it goes down much easier when she begins making her way over to him on rubbery legs. Not that he knows they're rubbery, he's never felt them (he needs to stop thinking about feeling her legs but his mind is super fuzzy and thinking about her legs is a really great point to just focus on) but they look pretty unsteady.

Leslie is sort of dancing her way over with Ron. Ron isn't so much dancing, as moving his head robotically form side to side, and that's enough for him to know that Ron's had a few, too.

So, that just about does it. Everyone from the Parks Department is on their way to being three sheets to the wind.

Not that he's drunk, no, he's not even tipsy, really.

But yeah, no, he can't really feel his legs. Or his arms. Or his head really, even when he shakes it around really fast, all that serves to do is blur his vision and dizzy him up a bit. "So," he says to whoever is listening, "I can't really feel... my legs."

Tom is positively beaming, "S'good, right?"

"Are you... did you roofie me?" Ben asks, smacking his lips together a few times, just to make sure he still has them. This is probably the fastest he's gone from sober to shaky in his life, so it's not a strange question to be asking.

Tom's chest expands, and what does he-he winks. Yes, Tom winks at him. "I roofied you all... with an amazing, intoxicating beverage of vodka, triple sec and something special."

"Special?" Donna asks as she dances up onto Tom. "What do you mean by special?"

"Can't reveal my secret ingredient Donna or that would be-ABSINTHE!" It's like a boo-yah, the way he says it, the way he smacks the air around, as though making it his bitch. Really, Tom has made them all his bitch.

Ben shakes off some of the fogginess and realizes that Tom himself hasn't imbibed any. Okay, well that's just... that's just...

He forgets what that is, because it's fairly late, and he's had one, no two, three? glasses of Snake Juice and Leslie is walking towards him and she thanked him today for all of his help and all he ever wants to do is keep helping her.

Helping her away from Chris, away from Chris's purview. Away from Chris in general. He wants to be involved with Leslie somewhere that is distinctly and utterly away from anywhere that is near Chris.

Beneath the lights her hair looks shiny purple but somehow her cheeks are still brilliant pink, and she's changed from her heeled shoes to Converse sneakers, and she's lost her blazer and she looks relaxed. Leslie looks really relaxed, and it makes him sigh in this really weird way.

And okay, so yeah, maybe he's a little drunk.

Two sheets to the wind at most.

"Ben!" she nearly squeals, throwing her arms up in the air; it's a wonder that none of her drink sloshes out of her glass. It's probably one of the nicest sounds he's ever heard, because she seems so thrilled to see him, genuinely happy and excited and it's so wonderful; his arms nearly sweep out in front of him to scoop her up.

Because right now, she is entirely everything that he wants. That and he's not so sure he can stop himself if he... starts something... with her. "Leslie... Knope. Leslie Knope!" Instead of sweeping in for a hug, he goes for a high five, because no matter how inebriated he is, he knows better than to show any sort of affection in a public setting such as this.

Except she throws him for a loop when she connects with his hand and then goes for the hug, her arms tight around his waste, the lip of her glass poking at his spine. It's weird.

It's nice. But it's weird. He can smell her hair, but that's kind of because her hair is right in his face, and he can feel her skin, but that's because her shirt has ridden up, so it's a little weird. "Heeeeey," he begins and tries to extricate himself, but she holds tight.

"Thanks, thank you," she mumbles into his chest and he hopes against all hope that she can't feel his heart thundering against his ribcage. Because it is, to the point that for about thirty seconds he actually believe he may be having a coronary episode. Ben can feel the moist puffs of breath through his shirt because her lips are so close.

His voice cracks, and he tilts his eyes towards the ceiling to avoid looking at her and he can feel everyone watching him, so he pats her shoulders harder than he should. "You're... you are welcome, buddy."

Finally, after what feel like a chaste, chaste (oh, he wants to touch her, everywhere, badly) eternity, she steps away, brushes the hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand in a very dignified manner. "Have you seen Ann? My... my beautiful Ann?"

"I..." Ben begins and spins around in search of the woman who just moments ago was literally hanging all over him. "She was just..." And his head lurches violently and for just a moment the room spins, thank god she's got her fingers on his wrist (on his wrist, oh dear god) and is steadying him. "I don't know where she went," he admits.

Leslie beams up at him, and finishes the last of her drink. "Okay." She says it like it's a secret. Like she doesn't want to find Ann at all, that she'd rather stay here with him.

"Okay..."

The lights dim exponentially at that moment, and Tom's voice cuts over the music. "Welcome friends and strangers and hopefully the more-than-friends," he points out several attractive women and returns to his welcoming speech. "Welcome to the Snakehole Lounge I'm part-owner Tom Haverford and would like to cordially invite you to try the new, official drink of the Snakehole, Snake Juice!" With that he holds up a cup, as though to toast the audience. "Tip your bartenders well, they're the ones mixing these babies, and they're complicated," he trails off and leaves the mic.

With that they notch up the music, change the lighting, and the beat becomes nearly deafening. One of those mindless dance songs that's on the radio every hour, on the hour. Ben feels it in his bones, the bass is so loud, and it drowns out most of his higher thoughts.

Like how to extricate from this situation, because she looks very pretty and very unguarded.

Like how to get his own guard back up.

Like the fact that maybe staring at her openly amongst coworkers isn't the best idea. Really openly. Super, duper openly.

Or letting her hold his wrist, like she's doing, moving her thumb along the sensitive underside. Or letting himself shiver from it.

Jesus freaking christ.

No, the bass is loud, so he doesn't think about any of that, instead, gives himself over. Because it seems like the thing to do. Because Ron's eyes are rolling back in his head and Chris is grinding on (or his best attempt at grinding on) a woman from the Starbucks and Ann is giggling and jumping around and Leslie's is touching him.

Fuck it.

When Ron starts bopping to the music, he feels like he has no choice, and so he clutches her arm and swings her in front of him.

Ben has never been able to dance. He's never been able to pull off anything remotely regarding dancing, but he doesn't so much care. Perhaps it's the company (more likely it's the mystery alcohol swirling it's way through his veins, whatever) but he doesn't care how ridiculous he looks hopping to and fro to the beat.

It makes it all the better when she does the same. She's only half as awful as he is, but it's still pretty bad. Ann makes her way back over to them and secured her arm around Leslie's waist and suddenly, they're a mass of movement. Ben, Leslie, Ann, Ron, Donna, they've all melded together in a mosh-pit.

Ben kind of loses himself for a moment, giving himself over to the feeling, allowing his body to be moved this way and that by the other people around him. It feels oddly freeing, having friends, spending a night out with them, even if the evening is going in a direction he hadn't really planned for. But dancing isn't the worst thing in the world, in fact, it's kind of fun, kind of great.

He kind of loves it, and so he doesn't feel entirely goofy when he cracks a smile.

"Son, I am... wasted," Ron sidles up next to him, reaches up onto his head and plucks the mini top hat he's acquired and moves it to Ben's head. "I am good and drunk and even I can see you making eyes at Leslie."

Ben stops moving, stops breathing, considers finishing the rest of the drink in his hand and avoiding Ron's eyes, but he's locked in. When you lock gazes with Ron Swanson, you're there for the duration. "I don't, uhm... what are you...?"

Ron levels him, his eyebrows inching up, daring Ben to challenge him. "I'm just saying, she's a good girl. And she's got a good heart. And... Chris left ten minutes ago with the Frappuchino girl." He does this weird thing with his hands which might be dancing, might be sign language for some sort of code, but Ben doesn't try too hard to decipher it.

He's pretty well confused, and, well, mortified, of course.

"The Frappuchino girl?" Ben asks, as a means to divert Ron's attention. He's got his periphs on Leslie, her hand in her hair, singing along to the song. It's one of those sights he never thought he would see, never even thought to fantasize about.

Ron shakes his head, explaining, "The girl at the Starbucks that makes those drinks Leslie loves so much." He's not thrown off the scent though, continues, "With the whipped cream and the domed cups-no, nevermind. I just-Chris left with her; what I mean to say is, you're in the clear."

Ron winks (he's being winked at by Ron Swanson; none of this happening, it's a dream, it's not reality, that's for damn sure) at him and drains the contents of his glass for what seems like effect.

"Uhm- what, okay..." No, this isn't happening. He's back in high school and his father is giving him tips on how to ask Cindy Eckert to junior prom. This is, after everything that has happened to him in his life, after all of the embarrassing moments, this is by far the worst. Having an intoxicated Ron Swanson school him on how to "get with someone."

Also, not for nothing, but it's also kind of creepy. Ben refrains from voicing that particular thought and remains silent.

"Don't tell her I had any hand in any of this. Because I don't care," with that, he snatches the hat back and perches it on his head and does a pretty convincing robot off to the right of the group. Ben's stunned for a moment, watching as Ron does a spot-on dead hang with his arms, but then the older man's words sink in.

The thought that Chris would be onto him was the only thing tethering Ben to his last shred of rational thought. It had been the only thing keep him from turning himself over to the buzz that was tingling along his spine and in his brain.

Ann had said that Leslie like-liked him; why not just not question it? Why not go on blind faith, take a page from Leslie herself and just... go for it? Lowered inhibitions led him to a resolution faster than he was normally accustomed to.

This time, he was indeed, just going to go for it. Just the knowledge that he was seizing the moment, embarking on something that he'd wanted to do for, oh, months now, made him feel like he was walking on air. He maneuvers around Andy and spins between April and Tom and is about to sidle up behind her when she spins around, her hair nearly whipping him in the face.

"Whoa, hey!" he stills her with hands on her shoulders. It takes her a moment for her eyes to focus, and when they do, she grins up at him.

There goes his heart, thudding away again.

"So-" he begins, but is cut off by her perky, drunk babble.

"Ben. Ben Wyatt. Ben Wyatt, I am drunk," she tells him with a judicious nod of her head. "I need you," she's very prim and proper as she reaches into her pocket and retrieves her keys, "To take these."

Leslie purses her lips and pushes them into his palm with all of her might. He can't help it, he laughs, reaches into his own pocket, produces his own keys and hands them to her. "Trade you."

Leslie's brow crinkles in thought, but she accepts them, "Good thinking." She assures him and slips him into her back pocket and all he can think in his state is how much he wishes he was those damned keys. She begins dancing again, tentatively, but stops after a moment and glances over at him.

She blinks.

She frowns.

Her hands at her side, as though she's pushing the floor away, Leslie steadies herself. "Yeah, maybe, maybe enough snake venom for me," she decides, as Tom corrects her in obvious exasperation.

"Juice," he calls over his shoulder, but is busy handing a fresh beverage to a pretty blond he's managed to corner.

Leslie ignores him and licks her lips. "Okay. Alright. I need to..." She takes a look around the club, squinting her eyes in search of something. "Find Ann and we..." Leslie blinks again, and straightens, puts a hand on Ben's arm. "Better yet, can you... can you help me get a cab? I am not..."

She doesn't finish her sentence and instead sways on her feet. "I'll... text Ann for you," Ben offers and moves his other hand to make sure she's secure on his arm. "Let's just," his voice is almost hurt, but he isn't surprised that this isn't the moment for them, that this isn't his big chance. "Get you into a cab, okay?"

His chivalry kicks in, and he bids his coworkers good night, informs April that if she happens upon Ann to let her know that he's put her in a cab and sent her home for the evening.

Ben manages to gather up her bag and her coat and steer her out of the club with minor stumbling, but with an abundance of Leslie Knope giggling. Yeah, it nearly does him in (for about the tenth time this evening) but chivalry wins over and he manages to walk her out to the curb, her hand warm and wrapped around his bicep. It feels like such a couple thing to do, like the way two people in a relationship might walk together. But they're not in a relationship, they haven't even managed to tread the waters.

And for a moment, Ben is unbelievably sad.

Until Leslie moves her hand to dig in his pocket for her keys.

Ben freezes and his eyes go saucer-wide and threaten to roll back into his head. "Just, my keys," she explains and oh dear god if she shifts her fingers slightly to the left, he's a goner.

Ben croaks out a strangled, "Yeah," and lets his hands fall to his sides.

Once she's extricated her keys, Leslie takes a little step back, looks at him. Really looks at him. She's staring at him from under her eyelashes, just like that day in his office when she'd frightened him (in more ways than one) and it's almost instantaneous, how quickly he forgets how to breathe.

Or blink.

Or move.

"Hey," she begins, as though she's just seeing him for the first time that day, and then she's leaning into him on tiptoes, and he has to meet her halfway because she's just a hair too short to make it all the way.

And so that's what he does, he meets her halfway (they meet in the middle, really) and feels a breeze on the back of his neck that he muses is both of their cautions being thrown to the wind.

Leslie is kissing him, and he's kissing her and there's a sigh in his chest that's so big, waiting to escape. Because this is just what he's been waiting on. This is just what he's needed, all of this time, without even knowing it.

It feels like relief and euphoria and he allows his hands to slide around her hips as Ben takes a step towards her, into her. It's a quiet kiss, full of trepidation and promise and it feels tentative, like a first kiss should.

It's lazy, the way it ends, with them smiling against one another's lips and Leslie's eyes are still closed when she whispers against his mouth, "If you'd like, we can blame this on the Snake Juice."

Ben's eyes slide open and he cups the side of her cheek with a delicate hand when he says, "Oh Leslie, there's no way in hell we're giving Tom credit for this."