* 𝐁𝐎𝐌𝐁𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

they would talk about years ago one day. ben has so many memories about the time they shared together. how it evolved. devolved. how and why he became what he did. who he did. what it did to them. to him. there will be a time for that to be discussed. even as he slips into the form of soldier boy with the mentality that is drawn off the pages of comic books written in his name. of inner self loathing and ideas and beliefs cemented in his thick skull ages ago? ones that he twists and amplifies to a degree of shock value that hits like an atom bomb?

there's always going to be a piece of who he was sticking in his chest like a jagged shard of glass, reflecting back to him the self that he destroyed. both by his own hands and at the mercy of something far, far greater than he could ever make robbie understand. or believe in.

that reflection? the sliver of it? is who stands in the doorway. wondering if he should enter the room and approach the man who made the mistake of saving him without a thorough plan of what to do once he had him next to him. beat his face in? leave him? or--end up with their mouths pressed together and desperately holding onto him until his common sense kicked in and he was turned away from..

..does he close any distance? keep himself put? stuffing that sliver down deeper letting it cut and bleed out soldier boy from the wound would be better for them both. give robbie the person who he hates rather than the one he loves and hates. better he keep right where he is and let robbie be the one to bring out their destruction should he choose to do that than to step forward and intiate the ticking time bomb all over again.

"you look good.." robbie says, looking way as if he might be blinded if he stares too long. ben's head tilts.

"thanks," he murmurs lacking the way he tossed the first thing he could think to say as he opened the door. robbie shifts, stands. inches closer and ben hesitates and watches. no inch moved as the pilot's hand reaches twoards his. green eyes drop their gaze to watch fingertips trace over the back of his palm. robbie, what the fuck are you doing?? indeed. lips part and ben's lengths flinch and move along robbie's touch. tracing it but not connecting... slowly, his gaze lifts again and watches the other's expression. too close. judging, cauging as his breath hitches.

He knows it's a mistake. All of it. Going after him, hunting him down, letting him loose, bringing him to safety -- - and now? Staying with him, kissing him, standing there trying to satiate his thirst by the faintest brush of his fingers against the back of Ben's hand. It's so careful, tentative, like trying to pet a wild animal, terrified that it might turn at any second, like another side will be triggered and bite off his hand. Not literally, of course, Robbie's skin was too tough for that, but metaphorically, he knows how dangerous this is. Not just for himself, but for the both of them.

There's a part of him that swears it's Ben who's standing there. Would Soldier Boy have even let him get close? Let him graze his skin without some nasty colourful comment surely involving some vile and foul mouthed descriptions of dicks somewhere in between. A jab at every low point he could find in the man he used to know, strike him time and time again, twist a metaphorical knife in his side until the pilot just can't take it anymore. Maybe he's still expecting it, to be met with the man he couldn't take anymore, the man he's spent all of this time trying to run from, trying to avoid, even inside his own head.

Fuck, his voice, his name on the tip of his lips, so quiet, so gentle that it breaks Robbie's heart and sends every time piece plummeting into the pit of his stomach.

He has to look up at him then, blue eyes sparkling with tears, such emotion, such weakness, the perfect sight for Soldier Boy to tear into, to ruthlessly ridicule until he's blue in the face. Fuck it. If this is all he can get of Ben, he'll take it, doesn't matter how long or how little it lasts, he just needs that tiny sliver that remains for a single second. Please. I just need to know you're still in there somewhere.

Strength of will slips away from him entirely as he suddenly lifts both of his hands and grasps the taller man by the face, pulling him close, planting his lips tight against his. He wants the taste of his lips, he needs it, even if it's one last time. He doesn't care that the tears are streaming down his cheeks, all that's stopping his lips from quaking is that they're pressed against Ben's, moving against them, savouring him, devouring as a breath hitches in the back of his throat and he pulls away just to take in some air that he almost forgets he needs.

"Ben..." He whispers, fingers trace the brunette's jaw line, taking him in, the beard, his more unkept appearance compared to their old days. They haven't changed much, not with the passage of times, but there's differences. Robbie hasn't shaved, stubble lining his face, hair not combed off his forehead, just casual, doing whatever it wants. His eyes? They're not old, but they look -- - tired. Of everything.

relief. dean looks relieved. triggering a horrid memory is shit to do to anyone. he's been down that road before. wishes he could do anything to not be the source of it for someone else. the guy looks harmless. a good guy. someone who doesn't deserve to have a face turn around that made him look at dean the way he did. or how his body language reads that there's so much more to the story that dean knows he probably shouldn't ask.

maybe it'll come out on a bender. liquor and loose lips? can't say that's an uncommon thing. people talk when they're lit. only the pros know how to steer their brains towards harmless chatter. while others? cough up secrets they wouldn't tell their therapist. unfortunately for dean? sometimes he lapses in being the first option and falls right into the blabber-mouthed second one.

not wanting to do any more damage than his face did, he doesn't offer a hand or a touch to guide him like he might if it were sam. (maybe he just let him down. maybe robbie was hoping he was someone else. maybe he's reading too much into this. bad habits die hard. who knows?)

A new start. Maybe a reason to be able to look at that face and not just see Ben. No, not Ben, Soldier Boy -- - fuck, he can't even keep his own thoughts straight at times. With his face so young? So fresh? It's hard to see anything but Ben. But that's not him, it's Dean, Dean Winchester, and he has to keep reminding himself of it, welcome it, let it rewrite his brain, paint something positive into features that send him delving into bottomless pain every since day of his existence.

He walks alongside him, hands swaying by his hips as he spares a few glances up at him from his side, letting him know that he's listening to him, that he can still look at him despite the memories his features cause him. Robbie can't very well admit that it's a pretty face he'd happily smash in if it really was him. No, this one would cave in. Fuck, he'd kill this guy with one punch. Who's the real monster with thoughts like that?

Staring out ahead of him, throat muscles clenching and unclenching a few times, he sighs a little. He knows it's not really his place to ask too many questions, the guy's showing him leniency, being kind, something the blonde hasn't always been used to. Not from that face, at least. Although, of course he has to mention the word 'dick' as if he didn't hear enough of that from those lips.