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Non-Essential

Pairing: Ben Wyatt x OC

Summary: 25-year-old Marisol Alvarez's world gets drastically changed when two state auditors come to Pawnee.

Warnings: Age Gap,

A/N: just a slowwwwwww burn fic started for fun, please bear with me.

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- one -

word count: 2233

MARI’S DESK sat exactly where Ron preferred it: close enough to the entrance that problems never traveled farther than necessary. As Pawnee’s Community Outreach Coordinator, she was the lobby’s soft landing, and had been for years.

The desk itself wasn’t large, just one of the standard municipal slabs with rounded corners and a drawer that stuck on humid days. A slim cream notebook rested beside her keyboard, its edges softened from use. A pen with gold trim was clipped carefully to the cover instead of tossed into the communal cup of chewed caps and dying highlighters. Tucked partially beneath the keyboard sat a sun-faded postcard from Orlando, handwritten in looping Spanish, visible only when she nudged the monitor aside during long afternoons.

Clipped to that monitor was a single photograph: a beach washed gold at sunset, horizon blurred by motion.

Mari tapped her pink manicured fingers lightly against the notebook as she listened patiently while a resident explained, for the third time, why the zoning permit he had filled out incorrectly was, in fact, the city’s fault.

“Sir,” she interjected gently, tucking a dark curl behind her ear, “I understand this is confusing. This wording is bad. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He blinked, startled, then laughed softly as the tension drained from his shoulders. Mari was already writing with her good pen.

“Thank you,” he exhaled, glancing at her nameplate. “Marisol. I feel like I’ve been bounced around all morning.”

“That happens,” she said warmly, turning the paper toward him and circling a line. “But you’re in the right place now.”

She pointed him toward the correct department, offering directions in both English and Spanish without thinking about it. By the time he left, shoulders relaxed, she had already reset her notebook and straightened the edge of her keyboard again.

She barely had a moment before April Ludgate dropped into the chair across from her desk like she’d been teleported there by disinterest.

“Hey, birthday girl,” Mari beamed.

April rolled her eyes. “Are you coming to my party?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Does Lucía need a babysitter? My sister can watch Mateo.”

The offer made Mari smile a little softer.

Lucía Santiago and Mari had come to Pawnee together after college, chasing stability instead of dreams that had already taken their toll. Dance had once been the plan for both of them. Life, as it tended to do, had rewritten the choreography.

“I’m sure she has it covered,” Mari said. “But I’ll ask.”

April nodded once, satisfied enough, and lingered exactly long enough to imply she cared before standing again.

Mari watched her go, then reached for her notebook, already hearing the front doors open again.

Leslie and Ron walked into the bullpen muttering briefly about counting back from 1,000 and warm brownies.

“Alright everybody!” Leslie clapped her hands together briefly. “Some state auditors are coming to Pawnee and it’s not ideal but….”

“Oh God, they’re going to fire people aren’t they?” Tom gasped, panic flitting his features.

“I am two years away from my pension!” Jerry exclaimed.

Mari didn’t look up from her notes.

“Everything will be alright,” she said calmly, voice soft but steady enough that both men quieted a fraction.

Leslie chimed in once more, “Maybe these people

are very helpful and pleasant-”

She was cut off by a very chipper, “Hello!”

Two men walked in, dressed too formally to belong. One smiled like a sunrise and the other looked like he had swallowed a lime.

Mari noticed his hair first, a fluffy, precise brown and then his jaw, then his eyes, sharp and measuring.

He's a handsome man, her brain supplied unhelpfully.

“Chris Traeger!” The chipper man greeted the bullpen by pointing at himself. “And this is Ben.”

Ron stepped forward to shake his hand. “Hello, gents. Ron Swanson.”

“I'm deputy director, Leslie Knope.”

“Wonderful,” Chris beamed, already moving with buoyant efficiency toward Leslie’s office. “Why don’t we step inside and discuss the current financial landscape of your department?”

The room exhaled once the four of them were safely tucked away in Leslie’s office with a shut door.

“This is nice,” Jerry said, breaking the silence. “They seem chipper!”

“Shut up, Jerry!” April snapped.

It only took a few more seconds until they heard Leslie’s voice.

“Redundancies?” Leslie’s volume climbed. “You think Jerry is redundant?”

Jerry froze mid-staple. Tom mouthed oh my God.

Mari kept her eyes on her notebook but her pen stopped moving.

“You can’t just come in here and start cutting people’s jobs!” Leslie snapped.

The bullpen erupted in whispers.

“People’s jobs,” Tom hissed. “Plural.”

“I take back everything I said,” Jerry muttered, pale.

Ben’s voice cut through, steady and unimpressed. “Deputy Director Knope, emotional arguments are ineffective.”

“They are not emotional!” Leslie shot back. “They are factual! These are real people!”

Ben’s reply was softer but firm. “We’re looking at numbers.”

“And I am looking at faces!”

The door opened and Leslie stood there, cheeks flushed, jaw set. Ben stepped out behind her.

The audience in the bullpen snapped upright.

Ben cleared his throat lightly. “I’m going to ask a few questions about departmental responsibilities.”

Tom raised his hand immediately. “Before we begin, I would like to state that I am a cultural asset.”

Ben blinked. “Okay… that’s not a position.”

He moved down the row, clipboard ready.

“What are your primary duties? How many hours are you here? Who signs off on these expenses?”

Each answer felt like a trial.

Leslie stood in her doorway, arms crossed so tightly they could’ve been structural support.

Ben stopped at Mari’s desk. She sat still, hands folded over her cream notebook, posture relaxed but alert.

“Marisol Alvarez, Community Outreach Coordinator,” he read again.

She nodded once. “That’s me.”

“Walk me through your daily responsibilities.”

“I handle resident intake, permit clarification and provide multilingual support at public forums.”

“How many complaints do you process in a week?”

“Forty to sixty,” she replied evenly.

Tom made a faint strangled sound.

“And how many escalate beyond your desk?”

“Very few.”

Ben paused.

That answer shifted something.

“And the cost justification for these outreach events?” he asked.

Mari’s eyes lifted to his.

“It’s preventative,” she said calmly. “People who feel heard tend not to sue.”

Leslie’s glare intensified from her office and Ben made another note.

“If you need data,” Mari added, voice still smooth, “I have records.”

He didn’t look up. “I’m sure you do.”

It wasn’t dismissive, just… measured.

Mari’s mouth curved slightly and she couldn’t tell if he was being an ass or efficient.

“Oh, I don’t just have them,” she said lightly. “They’re color-coded and cross-referenced.”

Ben’s pen froze mid sentence and he fully glanced up at Mari. An expression flickered across his face for an instant, bemused.

“I’ll need copies then,” He said.

“You’ll have them. I’ll ensure they’re alphabetized.” Mari replied, dropping her gaze back to the task on her desk like she didn’t just challenge a state auditor.

Internally, she was thanking Leslie for every late night they’d spent building those spreadsheets together.

Ben lingered a for a moment longer than necessary before moving on.

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The front door shut behind Mari with a familiar creak, immediately swallowed by music.

Reggaeton pulsed through the house, bass bouncing off the walls, something upbeat and unapologetic rolling out of the kitchen like an invitation. Mari smiled before she even set her bag down. Of course Lucía had music on. Silence was suspicious in this house.

The entryway opened into a living room washed in soft Mediterranean tones: cream walls, terracotta accents, a woven rug that Mateo had once spilled juice on and Lucía had declared “character.” A small wooden cross hung near the hallway, tucked beside a framed photo of Old San Juan in watercolor pastels. A low console held a dish of seashells Mateo insisted were “treasures,” and above it, a collage of photos consisting of beaches, birthdays, sunburned smiles, and one candid of Mari asleep on the couch with Mateo sprawled across her chest.

She dropped her bag onto the bench by the door, keys clinking into the ceramic dish Lucía had bought after losing them three times in one week and declaring it never again. The dish was hand-painted, cobalt and yellow, chipped at the edge.

"Mari!"

Mateo came flying down the narrow hallway, curls bouncing, mismatched socks sliding against the hardwood. Four years old and made entirely of enthusiasm, he crashed into her legs with the confidence of someone who had never known a world where she didn't catch him.

Mari laughed and scooped him up without thinking, settling him on her hip as the beat thumped steadily through her chest. She shifted her weight automatically onto her stronger leg, the adjustment subtle enough it looked like rhythm.

"¡Eso!" she said, already swaying. "¿Esta es tu canción?"

Mateo giggled, loud and breathless, arms flinging around her neck as she danced them both down the hallway. Her steps were instinctive, careful without being stiff, hips rolling just enough to match the rhythm. The movement lived in her muscle memory, even now.

They entered the kitchen together, sunlight slanting through gauzy curtains that fluttered in the warm evening air. The kitchen felt like Puerto Rico and Indiana had made peace with each other. The open shelves were stacked with white dishes, clay planters with herbs in the window, a bright patterned tile backsplash Lucía had convinced the landlord to approve after a persuasive presentation involving pie.

Mari spun once for Mateo’s delight before setting him down.

Lucía stood at the stove in leggings and an oversized tee, wooden spoon in hand, gold chain resting against her collarbone. Her hair was pulled into a high puff, edges laid with precision. She nodded to the music like it belonged to her.

“Before you ask,” she said without turning around, amused, “I have a sitter.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” Mari replied, dancing past her to peek into the pot. “Always dramatic.”

Lucía smirked and nudged her with a hip.

Mateo darted between them, bouncing to the music, convinced this was a group performance. Mari tapped his nose with a flour-dusted finger, then leaned in to press a quick kiss to Lucía’s cheek.

The motion was easy and familiar.

They moved around each other like they’d been practicing it for years - which they had. One reached for plates while the other grabbed napkins without colliding. One turned the stove down while the other opened the fridge. College had only made it official; life had already made them sisters.

Lucía reached out and tugged lightly at Mari’s sleeve.

“Go. Start getting ready. I’ll finish this. We’ll switch when you’re done so I don’t look like I work twelve-hour shifts.”

“You do work twelve-hour shifts.”

Lucia swatted at her as Mari laughed and handed Mateo a small plastic bowl to stir nothing in particular. She squeezed Lucía’s hand briefly before slipping down the hallway toward her room.

Behind her, Lucía called out, “And wear the leather jacket!”

“I was going to!”

“Liar!”

Mari grinned to herself as she shut her bedroom door, already reaching for the zipper.

She stood in front of the mirror for a moment without moving.

The girl in the reflection looked composed. Glossy dark curls spilling down her back. Gold hoops catching the light. Bare face except for the faint sweep of mascara she’d applied in the bathroom earlier.

She reached down slowly and lifted the hem of her skirt just above her knee.

The scar wasn’t dramatic. Just a thin pale crescent along the outside of her kneecap, faint against her skin unless you knew to look. She pressed her thumb gently along the edge, muscle memory mapping the old tenderness. It didn’t hurt any more, just an occasional ache with weather changes.

She stepped into a pair of dark high-waisted shorts, the fabric structured but soft, hugging her hips without clinging. Long legs, steady and sure, disappearing into black high-top sneakers she trusted more than heels. She laced them tight, tugging once to test the hold.

A fitted long-sleeved cropped sweater followed; a deep rust, the color of clay roofs at dusk. The knit was thin enough to move with her, thick enough to skim her waist without revealing too much. When she lifted her arms to adjust her curls, a narrow band of warm skin showed above the waistband.

Over it, she shrugged into her cropped leather jacket, worn soft at the elbows. The leather creased naturally when she bent her arms, molding to her like it had memorized her shape. She zipped it halfway, then reconsidered and left it open.

Her hands moved automatically to her hair, her curls loose and glossy. She ran her fingers through them once, fluffing at the roots, then leaned closer to the mirror to smooth a faint shine across her lips.

For a moment, she shifted her weight experimentally, hips swaying once in an absent-minded rhythm. The movement still lived there and her knee was steady.

From the kitchen, Lucía’s voice floated down the hallway.

“Are you admiring yourself or are you coming back to switch?”

Mari rolled her eyes at her reflection, but a small smile pulled at her mouth.

“Coming!” she called.

Mari turned off the bedroom light and stepped back into the music.