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Ben parked near the café, shutting the engine down as he tried to focus on the little things to keep his brain calm after a long day at work: the pattern of sunlight across the dashboard, the hum of the heater, the way his coffee cup fit in his hands as he took it from the counter... Leslie was chattering away, filled with excitement about her latest Parks initiative, her words spilling over the quiet hum of the street and sprinkling gently over the buzz in Ben's brain.
Then he saw Officer Danvers approaching. Ben knew him—met him at a Parks Department ribbon-cutting once or twice. He was the kind of officer who remembered faces and, apparently, remembered quirks too. Danvers had a half-smile on his face, and that calm familiarity should have been comforting, but for Ben it was a rude awakening from the calm he'd been seeking.
“Hey, Ben!” Danvers called, holding a small pad. “Parking ticket. You know the drill.”
Ben’s stomach dropped. His fingers gripped the coffee cup so tightly the lid came off. “Uh… oh… okay,” he stammered, thoughts faltering. He couldn’t make his voice any steadier than it already was.
Leslie noticed immediately. “Ben? Are you… okay?” She knew his anxieties surrounding cops, but instead of classic awkward Ben, he was shaky, panicky Ben, ready to sprint out the nearest exit. Her eyes searched his face, but she didn’t push, just waited.
Danvers leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. “Hey, no rush. I know you get… a little tense around us. So let's just take it slow.”
Ben’s chest tightened. The casual, even kind acknowledgment of his anxiety didn’t soothe him—it reminded him. Reminded him of the first time a cop had noticed him, but not really seen him. Of the yelling at home. Of the officer at the door calling him names. Even now, decades later, those words echoed louder than sirens or the city bustle.
He nodded faintly, trying to keep his panic from spilling over as his hands shook. “Thanks, I...I'm sorry."
What he was sorry about though, Ben wasn't sure.
Leslie frowned, concern softening her former excitement. “Thank you, officer Danvers," she said, smoothly taking over the conversation. "We'll get this taken care of."
Danvers nodded, giving a small salute along with another boyish grin in farewell.
Leslie rubbed Ben's arm. "Do you wanna talk about it?"
Ben shook his head, voice barely above a whisper. “Not here… I just… need to get home.”
Leslie took his hand and Ben let himself lean into it just a little as they walked to the car. The world outside felt loud, judgmental and sharp...but with Leslie there, it was just slightly less so.
Once they were home, Ben and Leslie got into comfortable clothes in unpressured silence and settled down for a night in.
...
Ben Wyatt was ten years old, and the kitchen clock ticked louder than anything else in the house—except his parents.
They were arguing again. His mom’s voice was sharp, his dad’s low but heavy, like thunder rumbling against the walls. Ben sat on the living room carpet with his D&D dice spread out, lined up by number of sides, their plastic edges clicking against one another as he tried to focus on patterns instead of words. Numbers were safe. Yelling wasn’t.
He pulled his hoodie tight over his head and rocked forward a little, whispering the dice rolls under his breath like a spell that might make the noise stop.
Then—knocking. No, pounding.
The door opened without his mom even answering. Two police officers stepped inside, voices booming, carrying authority like a weight they expected everyone else to hold.
Ben froze. His stomach dropped. Sirens and bright lights always made him feel wrong, like the world had tilted sideways but everyone else kept walking straight.
“Evenin’ folks,” one officer said, trying to sound calm but clearly annoyed. “We got another call about a domestic disturbance.”
His mom flushed red, his dad crossed his arms, both of them tripping over their excuses. The argument shifted tones but didn’t quiet—it just became louder in a new way.
Ben couldn’t move. The dice slipped from his fingers and scattered. His chest felt tight. One officer glanced down at him, at the way Ben’s hands fluttered nervously against his knees, the way he avoided eye contact, the way he rocked ever so slightly.
“This the kid?” the cop muttered to the other, but not quietly enough. “Weird little guy, huh?”
The words dropped heavily. Weird.
Weird was the word kids at school said when he didn’t know how to join their games. Weird was what teachers sighed when he couldn’t explain why overhead lights hurt his head. Weird was what everyone seemed to decide before he even had a chance to speak.
He pressed his hands over his ears, not just to block the noise, but to keep the word from sinking in.
His mom snapped at the officer--something about not talking about her son like that—but the word was already there, echoing louder than the yelling, louder than the clock. Weird-weird. Weird-weird. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
The police eventually left, leaving the front door ajar and the night air spilling in. His parents kept arguing but softer now, as if the weight of the uniforms had left a residue in the room.
Ben sat very still, his dice scattered all around him like tiny planets knocked out of orbit. He wished he could collect them, line them back up, fix the pattern. But his hands shook too much.
And so he sat, ten years old, staring at the doorway where the officers had been, and he promised something—though he couldn’t put the feeling into words yet.
He promised he’d always remember the sound of sirens, the way authority could turn its gaze on you and decide what you were without asking who you were. He promised he’d be careful, even when he grew up. Especially then.
And he promised he’d never, ever trust cops. Because once, when he was a kid, a cop had called him weird. And the worst part was: no one seemed surprised.
...
It was late at night in the Wyatt-Knope household, papers stacked on the kitchen table (Leslie’s, of course), a half-drunk glass of milk with cookies beside a half-played Catan board (Ben’s, of course).
Leslie had been going on for a while now about a new Pawnee city initiative—something about a parade, a waffle truck and possibly a live marching band that would play exclusively songs from Mamma Mia!—when she noticed Ben hadn’t laughed at her “Dancing Queen” pun.
Instead, he was staring at nothing, twirling one of his dice between his fingers.
“Okay, Benjamin Wyatt,” Leslie said gently, shifting in the chair across from him. “What’s going on in that handsome head of yours? And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because you have your dice face on. That’s your ‘I’m thinking about probability but also my feelings’ face.”
Ben gave the tiniest, embarrassed smile. “I have a 'dice face?' And you named it?”
“Of course I did, I’m your wife. Also, I have a chart.” She tapped the air, as if revealing an invisible poster board. “Sad face. Nervous face. Face that means you need to buy more graph paper.”
Ben let out a quiet laugh and sighed, his shoulders curling forward. “I… After what happened earlier, I should probably tell you something. It’s kind of personal. About why I get—why I’m… not great with cops.”
Leslie leaned in, serious now. “Ben, you can tell me anything. Except Game of Thrones spoilers. Still working my way through season three.”
He smiled again but it faded quickly. He looked down at the die in his hand. “When I was a kid, my parents fought a lot. Loudly. The neighbors called the police once. I remember… these two officers came in, and I was sitting on the carpet with my dice. Just trying to block everything out.”
He paused, rolling the die between his palms.
“One of the cops looked at me and called me a ‘weird little guy.’ Just… said it, like it explained me. And I didn’t even know what autism was yet, but—I knew I wasn’t like other kids. I knew people already thought I was weird. And hearing that from a cop—someone who was supposed to be… safe...? It stuck. It scared me. And it never really went away.”
The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. Leslie’s eyes softened, brimming with the kind of deep empathy she reserved for people she loved and small-town parks.
“Ben,” she said, reaching for his hand. “First of all, you’re not weird. You’re brilliant and kind, and your brain is like a supercomputer that also loves calzones. Which is rare and beautiful.”
He huffed out a laugh, squeezing her hand.
“And second,” Leslie went on, “that cop was wrong. He didn’t see you. He didn’t get you. But I do. And so do your friends. You don’t ever have to explain yourself to me, okay? Not about dice, not about cops, not about your tragic mayoral run in Partridge. Nothing.”
Ben chuckled. “You always bring up Partridge.”
“Because you’re adorable when you pout about it.”
They sat there for a moment, just holding hands across the cluttered table.
Then Leslie grinned suddenly. “Also, for the record? If any cop ever calls you weird again, I will filibuster the entire Pawnee Police Department into next week.”
Ben laughed fully now, the heaviness loosening in his chest. “I believe you.”
“You should,” Leslie said, serious again for half a second before breaking into a mischievous smile. “Now. Should we finish this game or are you going to cry on your dice and give me the victory by default?”
“Never,” Ben said, wiping his eyes. “But fair warning: I’m about to absolutely destroy your sheep supply chain.”
And just like that, the kitchen filled with laughter, paper rustling, dice clattering... and not a siren in earshot.
...
Everyone was sat around the conference table, an untouched box of donuts in the middle and an unsure feeling in the air. Ben stared down at his hands while Leslie sat calm and cool, ready to be Ben's voice as he'd already told her he didn't think he'd be able to get through the story on his own.
"Okay, team. We need to address something very important. As we all now, Ben is afraid of cops, and it’s not just a quirky Ben thing, it’s a deep childhood trauma thing."
"Leslie—"
"Nope, not done!" Leslie wouldnt be deterred, knowing Ben would try and undersell the whole thing. "When he was a kid, the police came to his house to break up a bad fight between his parents and one of them called him a weird little guy. His autism was undiagnosed at the time, and it stuck with him. So when you guys thought it would be funny to ask the cops to pretend to arrest him for insider trading—"
Tom laughed. "Classic!"
"—It was not funny," Leslie snapped. "It was mean. And now you all have to apologize. Officially."
April was the first to speak. "Fine. I'm sorry for traumatizing you, Ben. I didn’t know you were already traumatized. If I had, I would’ve chosen a different prank, like… putting bees in your briefcase."
"Um…Thanks?" Ben floundered a bit but his chest loosened when the moment wasn't heavy as he was anticipating.
Andy leaned forward, earnest as ever. "Dude, I’m really sorry. I thought you were afraid of cops because you’re secretly Batman and Batman has to be mysterious. Which, if you are Batman, you don’t have to confirm or deny." Maintaining eye contact, Andy dropped his voice to a whisper. "But blink twice if the Batcave is under JJ’s Diner."
Ben laughed helplessly. "I’m not Batman, Andy."
Ron, gruff as always, spoke up. "I don’t apologize often. But Leslie says I should and frankly, you are one of the only people in this building whom I respect. So…I'm sorry."
"…Thanks, Ron. That actually means a lot."
"I’m sorry too, Benji," Donna smoothly chimed in. "You’re not weird, you’re just… Ben. Which is code for ‘nerdy white boy who somehow makes it work.’ Own it."
Ben laughed and nodded. "Fair enough."
"You know I respect you, man," Tom added, in a rare moment of total sincerity. "We all do, even if you don't always like how we show it. I guess, we could try a little harder to respect you in ways you'd appreciate more, like letting you talk about Star Trek or spreadsheets or that colorful dunce cap game you made."
"The Cones of Dunshire...?"
"I’ve always been afraid of cops too!" Jerry sympathetically cut in. "One time in high school, I—"
"Shut up, Jerry!"
*Later, Ben talking to the camera*
"It’s weird, I spent years assuming people would just… see me as the weird kid forever. But Leslie is right. These people—this whole department—they accept me. Even if they still prank me. A lot."
*cut to April*
"I’m still gonna prank him. But now it’ll be trauma-informed." April grinned deviously.