I Am Superwholocked

The next morning started with Butcher’s boot hitting the side of the van. You’d just managed to drift into that fragile layer of sleep where your brain stopped replaying warehouse gunfire. The impact jolted you awake so hard your teeth clicked. “Rise and shine, sunshine”, his muffled voice came through the metal. “Field trip day”.

You groaned into the rolled-up hoodie you’d been using as a pillow, then untangled yourself from the back bench. The van smelled like coffee, sweat and too many people breathing the same air. Kimiko sat cross-legged on the floor, elbows on her knees and eyes half-lidded. You couldn’t tell if she’d slept at all. Her expression didn't change when you stirred, but she slid a thermos over with one foot. You smiled. “Morning to you too”. She dipped her chin in a tiny nod.

Annie sat opposite you with her back against the van wall. “You look like death warmed over”, she said softly.

“Compliment taken”, you muttered, rubbing at your eyes. “You okay?”.

She blew out a humorless little puff. “Just love starting my day with the words ‘Vought lab’ and ‘unregulated experiments’. Really puts the pep in my step”.

Hughie’s head popped into view from the open side door. “Hey, uh, Butcher says five minutes. So… you know. Don’t… take ten”. He smiled at you. Awkward but sincere, the way he always did, like he was checking you were still alive and intact. You liked Hughie. It was hard not to. He was one of the only people in this whole mess who ever asked how you were and actually wanted an answer.

“How many coffees have you had?”, you asked, squinting at him.

He glanced down at the cup in his hand. “Define ‘had’”.

Kimiko held up three fingers without looking. Hughie made a face. “Okay”, he muttered. “It’s fine. I’m fine. This is fine”.

“It would be more convincing if your eye wasn’t twitching”, you said.

He slapped a hand over his face. “It’s not—okay, you know what, I’m gonna go… exist somewhere else before Butcher starts in”. He disappeared again.

You tugged your vest into place, feeling the familiar pinch under your arms. Annie’s gaze flicked to your hands. “You sure you’re good with this?”, she asked quietly.

“Window duty?”, You shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve had worse gigs”.

“I know what he said”, she murmured. “I also know what ‘window duty’ turned into the last time Vought got jumpy”.

You swallowed. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got a great view and, you know… an emotional support war criminal down the hall”.

Her mouth twitched. “That’s… one way to put it”. You didn’t miss the way her eyes hardened when you said “war criminal”. She never bothered to hide how she felt about Soldier Boy. About what he’d done. About what he represented. You couldn’t really blame her. You just also couldn’t stop the way your pulse jumped a fraction when his voice drifted in from outside, low and rough through the metal. “…tell your tech guy if he puts one more app on this thing, I’m throwing it in the river”.

Frenchie’s laughter followed, high and delighted. “But how will you play Candy Crush, mon capitaine?”.

Annie stood, brushing dust off her pants. “Come on”, she said, reaching a hand down to haul you up. “Let’s go before Butcher decides ‘plan’ is optional”.

You stepped out into the gray morning. The building sat across the street like an apology. Vought had gone for bland this time. Glass, concrete and clean lines, no big flashy logo. Just another anonymous office block in a city full of them. That was how you knew it was bad.

MM stood by the hood of the van, Hughie hovered nearby, bouncing on his toes. Soldier Boy leaned against a lamppost a few yards away, suit fully on today and his shield strapped in place. The misting rain left tiny dark spots on the faded green. He looked like you’d pulled a movie poster into the real world and then left it outside for a few months. His eyes cut to you as you joined the group. A quick up-down, checking vest, jacket, gear. When he reached your face, his gaze held for half a heartbeat before flicking away.

“Alright, listen up”, MM said, bringing everyone in with a jerk of his chin. “We go in teams. Me, Annie, Kimiko, Frenchie on main floor. Butcher and Hughie take the basement. Soldier Boy plays point, clears whatever barricades they’ve got. Y/N—”. “Fifth floor, stairwell window”, you recited. “Eyes on the front and side street. I see anything that doesn’t look right, I call it”.

“Good”, MM said. “We keep coms light. No chatter. Just calls if something changes”.

“If you see Vought security”, Annie added, “don’t try to count them. Just say ‘party’ so we know to expect trouble”.

“Cute”, Butcher said. “If our girl says ‘party’, we leave the hors d’oeuvres and get the hell out”.

You nodded, fingers worrying the little earpiece before slipping it into place. It crackled faintly in your ear as Frenchie tested channels. Kimiko signed something. Hughie translated without looking, eyes still on the building. “She said if you see anything and your gut says ‘nope’, listen to it”, he murmured. “Don’t wait for us to say it’s bad”.

You glanced at Kimiko. She was watching you with that steady dark gaze. You lifted your hand, mimicking her earlier sign as best you could: okay. She huffed a tiny breath that might’ve been approval.

“Allons-y”, Frenchie said cheerfully. “Before I die of boredom instead of bullets”.

They broke, crossing the street in staggered pairs. You stayed close to Soldier Boy without really meaning to, your steps syncing with his longer stride as you approached the side entrance MM had scoped out.

“Stay behind me”, he said, low enough only you could hear.

“Wasn’t planning on using you as a human shield”, you muttered.

He glanced down at you. “You think you’d make a better one?”.

“Depends who’s shooting”. One corner of his mouth twitched.

The side door looked locked. It was, for normal people. For Kimiko, it took three seconds and a twist of her wrist to convince it otherwise. You followed the others into the dim hallway. It smelled like cleaning fluid and something chemical.

Fifth floor, you reminded yourself as they peeled off in different directions at MM’s hand signals. Stairs. Window. Quiet. Your boots rang on the concrete steps as you climbed, breath puffing and vest shifting against your ribs. You could hear the murmur of voices in your earpiece, MM counting doors, Frenchie humming under his breath, Hughie’s nervous chuckle cut short by Butcher’s sharp “focus”.

At the third-floor landing, another set of footsteps joined yours. You glanced back. Soldier Boy was a few steps behind, taking the stairs like they were an afterthought. He barely seemed out of breath.

“I thought you were going to clear the way”, you whispered.

“I am”, he said. “Top down. You’re on the way”.

“Don’t you usually, I don’t know, blow through walls or something?”.

“You want me to blow through walls in a building you’re in?”, he asked. You opened your mouth, shut it again. Point to him.

The fifth-floor hallway looked like any office corridor. It had gray carpet, off-white walls and doors with numbers and little plastic nameplates that probably used to matter to someone. MM had marked your window office on the map. Third door on the right. You slipped inside, Soldier Boy following, and shut the door gently behind you.

The room was small. A desk, two chairs, a dead plant in the corner that had given up so hard it was basically dust. The blinds were half-drawn over the long window that overlooked the street. You went straight to the glass, fingers parting the blinds just enough to give you a narrow view of the road below.

“Coms check”, MM’s voice came through your ear. “Ground team in position”.

“Basement, too”, Hughie added. “It’s, uh… dark down here”.

“Don’t piss yourself”, Butcher said. “Y/N, status?”.

You watched a delivery truck crawl past. A woman with a red umbrella paused to check her phone. “Fifth floor, window”, you said quietly. “Street’s normal”.

“Good. Keep it that way”. The line crackled back to a murmur.

Behind you, Soldier Boy tested the door, turning the knob, checking the lock. “You expecting someone to knock?”, you asked without turning.

“Always expect someone to knock”, he said. “Then you’re not surprised when they kick it in instead”.

You let the blinds settle a little more, leaving just enough gap to see without anyone catching your silhouette too clearly from the street.

Meanwhile Soldier Boy moved around the room like he’d done this a thousand times, because he had.

“You usually babysit lookouts?”, you asked after a minute. “Usually my lookouts don’t need babysitting”, he said.

You made a face at the glass. “You know, there’s this thing called a compliment. You might not have heard of it, old people sometimes struggle with new concepts—”. He cut you off by stepping up beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. You jumped, more from surprise than the actual contact. “Guy across the street at the bus stop”, he said. “Gray coat. What do you see?”.

You blinked, refocusing. A man stood under the bus shelter, hands in his pockets. He looked like any salaryman in the city. “Middle-aged”, you murmured. “White. Shoes too nice for this neighborhood. Keeps checking the same spot on his wrist but he’s not wearing a watch”.

“Good”, Soldier Boy said. “What else?”.

You watched. The man shifted his weight, tapping his foot. When a bus rolled up, he didn’t move toward it. Didn’t even glance at the route number. “He’s not waiting for the bus”, you said slowly. “He’s waiting for something else to pull up”.

“Yeah”, Soldier Boy said. “Person? Car? Doesn’t matter. Point is, he’s not background. Your brain tagged him already. Don’t ignore that next time”. The praise was mild. Offhand. You felt it everywhere anyway.

“Next time?”, you asked. “Planning on making this, like, a regular thing?”. “Not if you get shot today”, he said.

You snorted. Down below, the bus pulled away. The man in the gray coat checked his wrist again. Then he turned and walked out of your line of sight. “I lost him”, you reported quietly.

“Clock it”, Soldier Boy said. “You see him again, tell them”. You nodded, forcing details into your memory like you were pinning them to a board.

Behind your ribcage, your heart found a steadier rhythm that wasn’t just fear anymore. Some of it was focus. Some of it was knowing he was right there, close enough that if the door burst open, someone would have to go through him to get to you. It was stupid to find that comforting. You did anyway.

Minutes stretched. You watched the street, the people, the cars. Soldier Boy stayed mostly silent, leaning against the wall near the door. But you could feel his attention. It wasn’t just on the hallway. Every time you shifted, every time your voice changed even a little, his gaze flicked over.

At one point, Annie’s voice cut in, tighter than before. “We found the lab. Kids’ stuff”.

“Get your samples and get out”, MM said. “We’re not here to play hero”.

“We literally are—”. Hughie started. “I will smack you”, MM warned.

You swallowed hard. Your fingers dug into the window frame.

“Y/N?”, Annie’s voice came again. “Any movement out there?”.

You scanned the street. “Still normal. Your creepy normal, but… normal”. You almost relaxed. Then a black SUV turned onto the street. It wasn’t special. You saw a hundred like it every day. But your gut went sharp and cold the second you clocked it. Tinted windows. No plates. The way it slowed as it passed the building, then circled the block instead of pulling over. Your breath shortened. “Contact”, you said quietly. “Black SUV with no plate. Just circled. Didn’t stop”.

“Could be nothing”, Butcher said.

“Could”, Soldier Boy said, voice low behind you. “Probably isn’t”.

“Give us a heads up if it comes round again”, MM said. “We’re almost done”.

It came around again less than a minute later. Same speed. Same slow crawl past the front. This time, it didn’t keep going. It pulled into a spot down the block. Two men got out. You didn’t need powers to feel the shift. The way they moved, the cut of their coats, the bulge at their waists. They screamed security in a way plainclothes never fully hid.

“Party”, you said, pulse spiking. “Two out of the SUV. They’re armed. Heading for your entrance”.

“Copy”, MM said. You could hear his steps pick up. “We’re moving”.

You tracked the men down the street, following the dark shapes until they passed directly under your window and out of view.

“More?”, Soldier Boy asked.

“Not yet”, you whispered. “Just the two”.

“Then there’s more”, he said. “Vought doesn’t send a pair to check on their illegal science project. They’ll send a squad once these two don’t call in”.

“So we… what, tell them to run?”, you asked.

He studied you for a beat. “What’s your gut say?”.

Your gut screamed.

“Run”, you said. “Now”. You didn’t wait for permission. “Everyone, bail—”, you started into the com.

Just then, the building shook. It wasn’t a big shake. Not at first. Just a low, heavy thump that rattled the glass and sent a fine dusting of plaster from the ceiling.

“Report”, MM snapped. “What was that?”.

“Not us”, Frenchie said. “We didn’t touch anything yet, I swear on all that explodes—”. A second impact hit, higher up this time. You staggered, hand slapping against the window to steady yourself.

“Upstairs”, Annie said, breathing harder now. “They’ve got someone on the roof—”.

“We’re leaving”, Butcher cut in. “Now. Everyone to the—”. The com exploded with static, a high-pitched squeal that made you flinch, ripping the earpiece out on instinct.

“Shit”, you hissed, rubbing at your ear. “Shit, shit—”.

“Coms are jammed”, Soldier Boy said. He pushed off the wall, all of the lazy slouch gone in an instant. “They know we’re here”.

Your heart hammered so hard it felt like it was trying to punch through your ribs. “They don’t know I’m here”, you blurted. “I could maybe get down the stairs and around and—”. He was at your side in two strides, fingers closing around your forearm. Not hard. Firm. “Hey”, he snapped. “Stairs, remember?”.

You stared at his hand on your arm, then up at his face. His eyes were sharp, clear, no confusion at all about what he was about to do.

“You move when it feels wrong”, he said. “You said it feels wrong”.

Your throat bobbed. “Yeah”.

“Then we move”.

The building shuddered again, this time with a rising hum beneath it that made the hairs on your arms stand up. For a heartbeat, your panic wasn’t about guns or labs or Vought. It was about the man in front of you and the glow building somewhere deep in his chest. His grip loosened for a fraction of a second as he sucked in a breath, jaw clenching. The air went hot. Not enough to burn, just enough that you felt sweat prick your spine.

“Hey”, you said quickly, without thinking. Your free hand came up, fingers brushing his wrist. “Ben”. The name slipped out before you could drag it back.

His eyes snapped to yours. The humming stuttered. The heat ebbed, just a little.

“You good?”, you asked, voice low, words trembling but steady enough to hold.

He stared at you like he was trying to figure out how you’d just pulled a pin out of a grenade and not blown your hand off. “Yeah”, he said finally. “Yeah. Let’s go, kid”.

-

You stumbled inside with the others, the world narrowed to the ringing in your ears and the weird, floaty feeling that came after adrenaline dipped but before the pain caught up.

“Shoes off the couch”, MM said automatically, even though the couch in question looked like tetanus on springs. Frenchie collapsed onto it anyway, boots and all, one hand clamped to the side of his head where a cut oozed slowly through his fingers. “Mon Dieu, I have seen death”, he groaned. “He was very ugly and wearing a suit”.

Kimiko climbed up onto the back of the couch instead, balancing there like a cat, eyes scanning everyone. Hughie hovered by the door, one eye already purpling, hair sticking up in ten different directions. “Well”, he said, voice too high. “That was… that was something”.

“That was Vought”, Annie said flatly, shrugging out of her jacket. Her hoodie underneath had scorch marks and one sleeve ripped open, but her skin beneath it was mostly untouched. “They knew we were coming”.

“No shit”, Butcher grunted, tossing his gun onto the table with a clatter. “Question is, how”.

You heard them. You understood the words. But they floated around you instead of landing, like you were underwater and everyone else was on the other side of the glass. Your side hurt. It had been a distant ache on the way out of the building, shoved to the back of the line behind don’t get shot, don’t fall, don’t lose sight of him, keep moving. Now that you’d stopped, it moved up. You felt the sticky warmth first, the way your t-shirt clung to your skin on the right side, just above your hip. Every step pulled at it, a wet, gluey drag. You kept your jacket tucked close, fingers gripping the hem like you could hold the bleeding in.

“Y/N”. Annie’s voice cut through the ringing a little. “You okay?”. You nodded too fast. “Yeah. I’m—yeah”. She gave you the kind of look people gave toddlers who said they didn’t need a nap while yawning. But she didn’t push.

MM dropped the med kit onto the table with a thump. “Alright”, he said. “Line up. Worst bleeding gets first dibs”.

“That would be me”, Frenchie announced, holding up his bloody hand like a student with the right answer. “I am a fountain of the red, it is very dramatic—”. Kimiko reached down from her perch and smacked the back of his head lightly. Then she pointed at you.

You froze. “I’m good”, you said quickly. “It’s just bruises. You should—Frenchie’s actually leaking, and Hughie looks like he got in a fight with a raccoon—”.

Kimiko’s gaze dropped pointedly to your side. You followed it. The dark patch on your jacket had bloomed while you weren’t paying attention, creeping down toward your thigh. It wasn’t a lot. Not that much. But it was enough to make your stomach drop. “Shit”, you muttered.

Hughie stepped closer, worry crumpling his already battered face. “Hey. Hey, you’re bleeding”.

“Wow”, you said weakly. “Love the observational skills, thank you, very helpful—”. Butcher’s head snapped up. “What?”.

“I’m fine”, you said automatically.

Soldier Boy had been standing by the window, looking out through the grimy glass like he expected Vought to send a welcoming committee. At the word “bleeding”, his shoulders tensed. He turned. His eyes dropped to the stain on your jacket. The air in the room went weirdly still for you, everyone else blurring at the edges.

“Jacket off”, MM said, already snapping on gloves.

You hesitated. It wasn’t modesty, not really. You’d never had the luxury. Getting patched up in front of people was normal in this life. Skin was skin; everybody had it. But the cut was right along the curve of your hip bone where your jeans sat low and your shirt rode up when you lifted your arms. You knew, with that horrible premonition your brain liked to give you, that whatever clothing was between the wound and the world was about to get pulled out of the way.

And there was a supe in the room with eyes like a spotlight and a jaw that clenched when you said “seventeen”. You swallowed.

“You heard the man”, Butcher said, too sharp. “Don’t bleed all over the carpet, the landlord’ll have my deposit”.

“There is no deposit”, Frenchie mumbled into the couch cushion.

“Figure of speech”, Butcher snapped.

“Y/N”, Annie said softer. “Let him look. Please”.

You shrugged your jacket off, fingers clumsy. The t-shirt underneath had gone from gray to almost black on one side. The fabric clung when you tried to lift it, the dried edge of the blood sticking to your skin. MM hissed. “That’s more than ‘just bruises’. Sit”.

The nearest seat was the rickety chair by the table. You went for it, but someone moved faster. Soldier Boy pulled the chair out with his boot, turning it so the back faced the room instead of the window. He jerked his chin at it. “Sit”, he echoed. You sat. He stepped back immediately, giving MM room. You saw the conscious choice in it, the way he put himself on the other side of the table, hands on the back of the spare chair, grip white-knuckled on wood instead of you.

MM knelt, peeling your shirt up carefully to expose the wound. The cut wasn’t huge. Maybe five inches, jagged, like something sharp had skimmed across rather than gone in. You remembered, distantly, clipped by the edge of broken metal as you’d thrown yourself through a doorway. It looked worse than it was. Most things did when they were painted red.

“Clean slice”, MM muttered. “Could’ve been a lot uglier”. “Story of my life”, you said through your teeth.

He cleaned it with something that burned like liquid fire, then pressed gauze down. You hissed, fingers digging into the edge of the seat.

“Don’t be a baby”, Butcher said. “You want to trade?”, you shot back, sweat prickling your neck. He didn’t answer.

Annie hovered behind MM, watching his hands like she wanted to help but knew better than to interfere with his system. Kimiko had gone back to scanning the room, but her eyes kept sliding back to you every few seconds, as if to check you were still upright.

Across the table, Soldier Boy watched. He was careful about where he looked, you noticed that, even through the pain. His gaze stayed on MM’s hands, on the wound itself, never dropping lower, never lingering on the strip of skin exposed at your waist.

When MM shifted, tugging your waistband down half an inch to check the bottom edge of the cut, Soldier Boy’s jaw clenched. His eyes snapped up, fixing on your face instead. “Deep?”, he asked.

“Not deep”, MM said. “Missed anything important. Just… messy”.

“Hey”, you protested weakly. “My hip is very important to me”.

“We’ll get you a new one”, Butcher said. “Put it on Vought’s tab”.

MM taped the last bit of bandage in place, the white already blooming through with pink. He sat back on his heels with a sigh. “You’re gonna be sore”, he said. “No running marathons. No lifts. No bending if you can help it”.

You saluted halfheartedly. “Yes, dad”.

“Don’t call me that”, he said automatically, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Then he stood with a small groan. “Alright, Hughie, you’re next". The room’s attention shifted. The pressure eased off you a little.

Your side throbbed in time with your heartbeat. You let your shirt fall back down carefully over the bandage. When you looked up, Soldier Boy was still watching you.

The others had moved on. MM poking at Hughie’s face, Frenchie whining as Kimiko disinfected his cut with a little too much enthusiasm and Annie rummaging in the kit.

He hadn’t.

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of the sweat plastering your hair to your forehead, the smudge of something.. soot? blood? on your wrist, the way your legs trembled just a little every time you shifted. “What?”, you asked, defensive out of habit more than anything. “You’ve never seen someone spring a leak before?”.

His eyes flicked to the side of your shirt, then back up. “You should’ve said something sooner”.

You snorted. “We were kind of busy not dying”.

“Doesn’t take long to say ‘I’m hit’”, he said. “Less breath than half the crap you were mouthing off”.

Heat rose in your cheeks. “Sorry I didn’t prioritize my commentary to your standards”.

“You don’t have to impress anyone”, he said flat. “Least of all these idiots”.

Butcher made an offended noise from the couch. “Oi”. Soldier Boy didn’t look at him. Didn’t look away from you.

You clenched your jaw. “I wasn’t trying to impress anyone”. He raised a brow, like he didn’t believe you but wasn’t going to argue it now. Your fingers picked at the frayed edge of the bandage under your shirt. “Besides”, you muttered quieter. “It’s not like I could’ve done anything about it in there. I get shot, I keep moving. That’s the rule, right?”.

“That’s a rule”, he said. “Doesn’t mean it’s a smart one”.

You rolled your eyes. “Right. And you’re the poster boy for smart choices”.

He huffed. “No. I’m the poster boy for still being alive after making a lot of dumb ones”. You didn’t have an answer for that so you shut up until: “You didn’t get hit at all?”, you asked, half accusation, half genuine curiosity.

“Benefits package”, he said. “You get one if you sign up in the ‘40s”.

“Wow”, you murmured. “Way to flex your senior discount”. That almost-smile ghosted across his face again, there and gone.

“Ben”, Annie said suddenly. You and he both looked over. She stood by the table, a hand braced on the wood. Her eyes were on him, narrowed and her jaw tight. “You were glowing”, she said. “Back there”. She had felt it, even through layers of concrete and steel.

The room shifted. Kimiko’s gaze snapped to his chest. Hughie’s mouth pressed into a thin line and MM stilled.

You remembered the hum under your skin, the heat in the air, the way his fingers had clenched around your arm. You also remembered the way it had stopped when you’d said his name.

He rolled his shoulders, as if shaking off the memory. “We were under attack. That tends to happen”.

“You almost went nuclear in a building with all of us in it”, Annie said. “Again”.

“Didn’t, though”, he said.

“Because she stopped you”, she snapped, pointing at you with the gauze.

All eyes swung your way. You wanted to sink through the chair and become part of the questionable carpet. “I didn’t—”, you started. “I just… spoke to him. That’s not—”.

“It worked”, Hughie said quietly.

“Doesn’t matter”, Annie said. “It shouldn’t have to work. We shouldn’t have to worry if you’re going to fry us along with them every time things get hot”.

Ben’s jaw clenched. The air got heavier, not from power this time, just from the way his presence filled the room when he pulled in on himself like that. “I kept your asses alive”, he said. No brag, just fact. “You want to pick a fight about what might’ve happened, go ahead. But you do it after you admit you’d be in that fucking lab’s basement right now without me”.

“We’ve survived plenty without you”.

“Yeah?”, he said. “How’s that been working out for you?”.

“Enough”, Butcher cut in sharply. “We’re all in one piece. That’s a win today. We take it, we figure out the rest later”.

Silence hung heavy for a few seconds. Kimiko dropped lightly to the floor from the back of the couch. She tapped Annie’s arm once, then signed something. Annie’s shoulders eased a fraction. She huffed out a breath and turned away, muttering, “Fine. Later”.

The moment stretched. Then it broke, conversation splintering off into new arguments and gallows humor.

Ben looked at you one more time. Just a brief, measured glance, like checking an old injury. “You should change that dressin’ in a couple hours”, he said. “Don’t wait till it soaks through”.

“I know”, you muttered.

“Do you?”.

You met his eyes, irritation sparking through the dull ache. “Yes".

Ben pushed off the chair and headed back toward the window, toward the shitty view of the alley and the brick wall across from it. You watched his back for a second. The curve of his shoulders. The way he checked the street again, out of habit, like he couldn’t stand having his eyes off potential threats for more than a few minutes.

“Hey”, you called softly.

He paused, half-turned.

“…thanks”, you said. The word tasted weird on your tongue, like something you hadn’t practiced enough. “For… you know. For helping me and for not… exploding”.

His gaze flicked over your face, searching for sarcasm. Finding none. “Don’t thank me for doing the bare minimum”, he said. “You’re not dead. I’m not dead. That’s just Tuesday”.

“Wednesday”, you corrected automatically.

He huffed. Then, softer, so soft you almost missed it under the hum of the room: “Three weeks, huh?”.

Your stomach did that stupid little flip again. “Yeah”.

His eyes darkened a shade. “Try not to get yourself killed before then”, he said.

You tried to make a joke. Tried to say something like, Wow, you must really be looking forward to not worrying about child labor laws, or What, you got me a cake or something? But the words died on your tongue. “Yeah”, you said instead, quiet. “I’ll try”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

You heard him before you saw him. He was the kind of noise that didn’t fit the shitty dockside warehouse you were crouched in.

“Stay down, munchkin”, Butcher barked over his shoulder, voice rough with impatience.

You were already down, pressed behind a stack of damp cardboard boxes that smelled like mold and old fish. Bullets chewed through the metal shipping container opposite you, sparks spitting off like fireworks. Your heart hammered in your ears, a too-fast drum that almost drowned out everything else. Almost. Because then came the second sound. Not a gunshot. Not an explosion. Something heavier. A man screamed, then cut off halfway through like someone had hit a mute button, followed by the wet crunch of bone and the screech of twisting metal.

Frenchie swore in French from somewhere to your left. MM’s voice came controlled, calling positions and counting heads. You only caught pieces of it because your brain was too busy cataloguing how your hands were shaking and how the gun in your grip suddenly felt like a toy. You hadn’t signed up for this level of chaos. Okay, technically you had. But you thought “simple handoff” meant… less bullets. More walking away alive.

“Oi!”, Butcher shouted, loud enough to slice through the chaos. “Took your sweet fuckin’ time, didn’t ya?”.

Another clank, closer now, and something big moved just out of your line of sight.

You risked a quick peek around the edge of the boxes and the first thing you saw was the shield. It wasn’t shiny like in the old footage, the propaganda reels you’d grown up seeing on cheap cable reruns. It used to gleam, back when they color-corrected everything to make America look golden. Now, under the warehouse’s stuttering lights, the thing looked battered. Dented at the rim. Scratched to hell.

The second thing you saw was the man carrying it. He wore green, thick fabric and armor plates, the kind of suit designed by someone who didn’t care if you could breathe as long as you looked like a poster. Broad shoulders, heavy boots, the star on his chest dulled and scuffed but still unmistakable.

Soldier Boy.

For half a second your brain refused to believe it. He was a history meme. An old Vought relic. That one guy your generation used as a joke whenever someone said “real men don’t complain”.

And yet there he was, in the middle of the warehouse, standing like the gunfire was background noise and the dead guy at his feet was an inconvenience. The corpse twitched once, arm bent the wrong way around a metal support pole. The pole itself was bent too, like it had been hit by something very fast and very heavy.

Soldier Boy rolled his shoulder, adjusting his grip on the shield. “Thought you said this was a quick in-and-out”, he called to Butcher without turning around.

“Was, till these tossers brought party favors”, Butcher called back. “You’re welcome”.

Another burst of bullets crackled from the catwalk above. You flinched instinctively. Soldier Boy didn’t. The rounds pinged off the shield and the metal pillar behind him, dropping uselessly to the floor.

He sighed. Actually sighed. Like someone had made him get up during the best part of a movie. Then he moved.

You’d watched supes fight before, mostly through screens, the curated Vought clips and shaky phone footage. It never felt real. Too edited and too clean. Even the messy stuff had jump cuts. This was not clean. He launched himself forward with that shield up, boots pounding concrete and suddenly the guy on the catwalk was flailing, firing wildly. Soldier Boy flicked his arm, not even a full throw, just a lazy snap of his wrist. The shield flew. It hit the railing first, snapping it like a twig, then rebounded into the gunman’s chest with a sickening crack. The guy’s body folded over the edge, half his weight dangling. You heard him choking on his own breath as Soldier Boy caught the returning shield one-handed without looking, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

You realized your mouth was a little open. You closed it quickly. “Are we just gonna let him do all the work?”, you muttered, more to yourself than anyone.

MM answered anyway from behind a stack of pallets. “If he wants it, he can have it. Less paperwork for us”.

Another gunman popped up from behind a crate, aiming not at Soldier Boy but at where you knew Butcher was pinned down. Before you could think, your body moved. You leaned out, bringing your pistol up with both hands, thumb brushing the safety you’d triple-checked a dozen times before leaving the van. One breath in. You squeezed the trigger. The recoil jumped up your arms, familiar and still jarring. The guy dropped, bullet catching his shoulder and spinning him sideways. He slammed into the crate and didn’t get back up.

“(Y/N)!”, MM snapped. “Cover!”.

You yanked yourself back behind the boxes, shoulders colliding with soggy cardboard, adrenaline fizzing in your veins. Your palms were slick, your fingers tingling.

“Nice shot, ma petite”, Frenchie called over. “But maybe we do not stick our heads out like… how do you say… whack-a-mole, yes?”.

“Couldn’t see you doing anything from here”, you shot back, because your mouth always worked fine when you were scared.

Butcher’s laugh came from somewhere across the floor, sharp and vicious. “She’s pulling more weight than you, Frenchie. Try not to let the kid show you up”.

“Do not call her—”.

The word “kid” hung in the air, unfinished and oddly heavy, because Soldier Boy had turned. He was closer now, maybe twenty feet away, chest heaving just a little, hair a mess of sweat and dust. Up close, he didn’t look like the airbrushed posters. His beard was a day or two past “intentional” and there were deep lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there in the vintage footage. His gaze slid across the warehouse, taking in bodies, the Boys’ positions, exits, the still-open loading bay where the weapons deal had gone to shit. Then, for the first time, his eyes landed on you.

You had been looked at by dangerous people before. Dealers, mid-level supes, creeps in alleys who measured your wallet against the chance of witnesses. You recognized that weight. The evaluation. The quick, cold math.

This was different. Not softer. Not kinder. Just… different.

His gaze dragged over your too-large jacket, your scuffed boots, the gun in your hands. It flicked to the stack of boxes you were using as cover, the terrible choice of it, really, and you saw his jaw tighten by a fraction. “Christ”, he muttered. “This what passes for a crew now?”.

“Nice to see you too, grandpa”, Butcher said as he stepped out from behind a forklift, shotgun resting on his shoulder. Blood spatter dotted his coat. None of it looked like his. “Deal’s buggered, but we got what we came for. Mostly”.

You did a quick mental inventory, fingers patting down the inside of your jacket. The flash drive was still there, tucked against your ribs, warm from your skin.

“Oi, short stack”, Butcher called to you without looking. “You still got our little present?”.

You nodded before remembering he couldn’t see that from his angle. “Yeah”, you said, voice steadier than you felt. “Safe and unperforated”.

Soldier Boy’s brows ticked up, just a little. “You brought a kid as your courier?”.

“She’s cheap”, Butcher said with a shrug. “And she bites”.

His eyes stayed on you a beat too long. You felt your shoulders square up on instinct. You hated that the word “kid” still stung, even when you knew, objectively, that’s what you were to people like them. You were the errand runner. The one who fit through ventilation shafts. The one nobody really noticed until you made them.

“I’m right here, you know”, you said. “And I can hear you. Old age hitting the ears already or…?”.

Frenchie made a soft choking noise. MM muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “oh, hell no”. Butcher grinned, wide and wolfish. “Told you. Bites”.

Soldier Boy’s gaze sharpened. Not angry, exactly. More… curious. Like you’d just done something unexpected in a game where he already thought he knew all the moves. He took a few steps closer, boots echoing in the sudden quiet. Most of the gunfire had died out, either the remaining goons had run, or they were in pieces on the floor somewhere behind him.

Up close, you could see scrapes along the side of his face, a smear of someone else’s blood just beneath his ear. His eyes were greener than they looked on screen. You’d always thought they were blue.

He stopped a few feet from your makeshift cardboard bunker, looking down at you. You resisted the urge to stand up just so you weren’t craning your neck. Pride and survival had always fought a stupid little war inside you. “Name?”, he asked.

You opened your mouth, paused, and then gave him your name. “Y/N”.

He hummed, like he was filing that away somewhere he might need later. “How old are you, Y/N?”. The question had teeth. You felt them.

Butcher stepped in before you could answer. “Old enough to hold a gun and not piss herself, that’s all you need to know”. Soldier Boy didn’t look at him. Didn’t move his eyes from you. “Didn’t ask you”.

The air around you seemed to shrink, like the whole warehouse had taken a breath and was waiting to see what you’d do. You swallowed. “Seventeen”, you said. You didn’t add the “and three-quarters”, because that sounded pathetic even in your own head. “For now”.

His eyes cooled a degree. Not in a way anyone else would’ve caught, maybe. But you were close enough, watching close enough, that you saw it.

“Fuckin’ hell”, he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone. He straightened, rolling his shoulder again, shield shifting on his arm. “You drag me out here, tell me it’s a clean job, and you’ve got a teenager running point?”.

“Relax, grandpa”, you snapped before you could stop yourself. “I’m not made of glass”.

“Could’ve fooled me, hiding behind fucking cardboard”, he shot back.

Heat crawled up your neck. You glanced at the boxes, at the pathetic damp corners, and forced yourself not to squirm. "It worked, didn’t it? I’m not dead”.

“Yet”, he said. “Give it time. Stupid gets you there faster than bullets”.

“Alright, you two”, MM cut in, voice carrying that tired edge he got when everyone around him was being especially stupid. “Save the bonding for later. We need to move before more of these idiots show up, or Vought decides to send someone who can actually shoot”.

Butcher jerked his chin toward the far exit. “Frenchie, clear the way. Shortstack, you’re glued to my hip. If you wander off, I’m not wasting gas money coming back for you”.

You rolled your eyes but pushed yourself to your feet, legs shaky but functional. The room tilted for a second, then settled. You holstered your pistol with fingers that finally started to remember what not shaking felt like.

As the group moved, you found yourself falling in beside Soldier Boy without meaning to. It was just where the path naturally funneled you, the space between pallets and overturned crates narrowing into a corridor.

He was taller than you’d thought from the old videos. Or maybe you were just shorter than you liked to imagine. Up close, you could hear the faint jangle of gear on his belt, the creak of worn leather under the armor.

“He always bring children to gunfights?”, he asked, voice low enough that Butcher up ahead probably wouldn’t catch it.

You stared straight ahead, boots crunching over broken glass. “You always show up late enough that the ‘children’ have to do all the work?”.

His mouth twitched in something close to a smile for a man who probably didn’t remember how to do the real thing without cameras on him. “You get that mouth from him or is that original material?”, he asked.

“Who, Butcher?”, you snorted. “Please. He wishes he was this funny”.

Soldier Boy huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. It sounded rusty, like it hadn’t been used in a while. You didn’t know then that you’d remember that sound years later, in kitchens and warm living rooms and hospital corridors, in spaces where there were no gunshots and no moldy cardboard boxes, just worn-out blankets and girls with his eyes.

Right then, it was just a strange, short noise from a stranger who’d stepped out of your childhood TV and into your very fucked up night.

As you reached the side door, Butcher threw it open and the thick warehouse air gave way to the cold bite of the docks. Rain misted down from a heavy sky, turning everything slick and reflective.

“You”, Butcher jerked his chin at you, “van. Now. Don’t touch anything that looks important”. You rolled your eyes again for good measure and started toward the parked vehicle, the drive in your pocket feeling heavier with every step.

Behind you, Soldier Boy said, “You got her running jobs regular?”.

“Why, you planning on filing a complaint with child services?”, Butcher sneered. “What’s it to you?”.

You didn’t hear his answer. The wind swallowed it as you jogged across the cracked asphalt, jacket flapping, rain needling your face. You didn’t know what he’d said later either, back in the warehouse after you were shut away in the van, fingers worrying at the drive in your pocket while Frenchie argued about playlists and MM grumbled about gas. You only knew this: When the side door slid open again and they all climbed in, Soldier Boy paused for half a second before stepping up. His eyes flicked to you, one quick, assessing glance. And whatever he’d decided in that moment, you felt it like a line being drawn somewhere you couldn’t quite see yet.

You were seventeen. You’d just watched a man bend steel with his shoulder and kill three people with a shield like it was nothing. You told yourself the way your chest felt tight, the way your skin buzzed, was just adrenaline. You were wrong. But you wouldn’t realize that for a well, a while.

-

Two weeks later, you were late. Not “the mission’s blown, we’re all going to die” late. More “Butcher’s going to call you something creative and you’re going to have to pretend it doesn’t get under your skin” late.

The stairwell reeked of piss and cheap cleaner as you took the steps two at a time, breath puffing in short bursts. Your boots slapped concrete, the sound echoing up the narrow shaft, too loud in your own ears. Fourth floor, left, end of the hallway. That’s what Frenchie had texted back then… after eight spelling errors and one picture of a cat for no reason. The door at the end of the hall looked like all the others: flaking paint, crooked numbers, someone’s attempt at graffiti half scrubbed off. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was just another apartment where someone yelled at reality TV at three in the morning. You knew better.

You didn’t bother knocking. Butcher hated knocking. Said it made people feel like they had a choice about seeing you. The door stuck at first, swollen from humidity, then jerked open with a protesting creak. The smell of stale cigarette smoke, burned coffee and the lingering tang of… frenchies creepy chemicals hit you instantly. The room used to be someone’s living room. The landlord had probably rented it out as “cozy” and “full of character”. Now the only character it had was bullet holes in the plaster and a spiderweb of cracks near the boarded-up window.

Frenchie was perched on the arm of a stained sofa, disassembling a handgun with the kind of care most people reserved for fine jewelry. MM sat at the rickety table with a notebook, pen tapping in a slow, irritated rhythm. And at the far corner of the room, in the only chair that wasn’t falling apart, sat Soldier Boy.

You stopped just inside the doorway, momentum dying all at once.

He had his boots propped on an overturned coke crate, leaning back like a king on a very shitty throne. The green suit was half there. Chest armor off, gloves off, sleeves shoved up forearms corded with muscle and scattered scars. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, ash long and fragile. There was a phone in his other hand. A modern one, sleek and black, looking wrong in fingers that had once wrapped around rotary dials. He held it like it might bite, thumb poking at the screen with exaggerated suspicion.

“You broke it yet?”, MM asked without looking up from his notes.

“Feels broken”, Soldier Boy muttered. “Damn thing doesn’t even have buttons. How’s that an improvement?”.

“That’s what I been telling the kids”, Butcher said dryly. “All this swiping. No respect for a good dial tone”.

You closed the door a little too loudly. A few heads turned. Soldier Boy’s eyes went to you, quick and precise, like they’d been waiting for something to do that wasn’t losing a fight with touchscreens.

“You’re late”, MM said, giving you the dad stare over the top of his notebook.

“Bus broke down”, you lied easily, shrugging out of your jacket. “Also there was a grandma crossing the street with, like, twelve dogs and—”. Butcher snorted. “Save the stand-up routine for open mic night. Get in. Door, shut”.

“It is shut”, you said, then realized it had bounced back open a crack from the warped frame. You kicked it gently with your heel until it clicked. Soldier Boy watched the whole thing, eyes tracking your movements like he was cataloguing them. Not in a hungry way tho. None of the gross, lingering attention you were used to from men who thought your age was an invitation. Just… taking stock. “Where’s your vest?”, he asked.

You blinked. “My.. what?”.

“Vest”, he repeated. “Bulletproof? Looks like shit? Smells worse? That one”.

You glanced at the back of the chair near the table, where your vest hung in a sad, crumpled heap. “There”.

“Not on you”, he said. “Which was the fucking point of it”.

“I walked here”, you argued. “Last I checked, buses don’t usually open fire on passengers”.

“You live in this city”, MM said without looking up. “Give it time”.

Frenchie giggled softly. “Maybe next month we do a field test, eh? See how many rounds it takes to improve the public transit system”.

You rolled your eyes and went to grab the vest, shrugging it on. It was too big in the shoulders, the straps double-folded and taped down so it wouldn’t slide off. It made you feel smaller every time you put it on, like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s apocalypse. “Happy now?”, you asked.

“Marginally”, Soldier Boy said.

“Butcher”, you said, turning to him. “You didn’t say he was going to be here”.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t”, Butcher answered. “That’s how surprises work”.

“You got a problem?”, Soldier Boy asked, flicking ash into an overflowing tray on the crate. “I can wait outside if your playdate rules don’t allow R-rated guests”.

The retort was right there, sharp and stupid, perched on the tip of your tongue. You swallowed it. “I just like to know when history’s going to be in the room”, you said instead. “Could’ve worn something more patriotic”. Frenchie made a soft oooo sound under his breath, like a kid at a playground fight. MM sighed.

Soldier Boy looked at you for a beat, then huffed out that not-quite-laugh again. “Yeah, well. History doesn’t dress up for you, sweetheart”.

You hated the way your stomach did a little flip at the endearment. It wasn’t special. He probably called everyone that. Waitresses. Enemies. The mirror. But he hadn’t called you “kid” today, so…

You took the chair nearest the door, a cheap plastic thing that wobbled if you breathed too hard. You hooked your foot around one of its legs to keep it steady and leaned forward on your elbows, eyes flicking to the map spread out on the table. “You dragged me across town”, you said. “What’s the crisis?”.

Butcher tapped a spot on the map with the end of a pen. “Vought’s running a little side project outta this building. Lab rats, Compound V knockoffs, you know the drill. We’re going for a look-see. Frenchie’s bringing the toys, MM’s babysitting the exits, and our guest star here—”, he jerked his chin at Soldier Boy “—plays battering ram”.

“Typecasting”, Soldier Boy muttered, but he didn’t argue.

“And me?”, you asked.

“You”, Butcher said, “are going to sit your arse in the van, keep the engine running, and be ready to drive like hell if this all goes tits-up”.

You opened your mouth to protest immediately. “I can do recon, you said—”.

“I said you could learn to do recon”, he cut in. “Today, you learn how to keep a vehicle warm and your head down. We clear?”.

It stung more than you wanted it to. Two weeks ago you’d taken a shot in a warehouse and he’d bragged about you showing up Frenchie. Now suddenly you were relegated to car warmer. You forced your voice to stay even. “Clear”.

Soldier Boy watched that whole exchange, smoke curling from his cigarette in lazy spirals. “She got eyes”, he said after a moment. “Use them”.

Butcher’s head snapped toward him. “Pardon?”.

He nodded at you. “Kid saw that gunman at the docks before you did. Took him out. She’s jumpy, but she’s not blind”.

You stared at him. The room went a little quieter around the edges. Even Frenchie paused in his weapon surgery. Butcher squinted. “Wasn’t aware you’d developed a mentoring program”.

“I didn’t”. Soldier Boy shrugged. “Just saying. You want her to stay alive, don’t treat her like luggage. Shit goes sideways, she’s gonna need more than a driver’s ed certificate”.

You should have been insulted. The words “kid” and “jumpy” weren’t exactly compliments. But for some stupid, traitorous reason, warmth fizzed in your chest. He’d noticed you. He’d remembered.

“She’s seventeen”, Butcher said flatly. “Not keen on taking parenting tips from a man whose idea of child care is giving ‘em a grenade and a pat on the back”.

Did they just switched roles??

“Relax”, Soldier Boy said, flicking his ash again. “I’m not asking you to give her a gun”.

“I already have one”, you pointed out.

He gave you a once-over. “Yeah. I noticed”.

The air in your lungs suddenly felt too thin. You looked down at the map to avoid that green gaze, tracing the black lines of streets you half recognized.

“So what do you suggest?”, MM asked, like he was indulging a bad idea. “Since you suddenly care so much”.

“Window duty”, Soldier Boy said. “She stays upstairs, outta the main mess. She spots anything weird, cops, extra muscle, capes, we hear about it before it’s too late”.

Butcher stared at him for a long second, jaw grinding like there was something he wanted to say and was swallowing instead. “Fine”, he said eventually. “She stays high, no heroics, no wandering. You see her anywhere near the main entrance, you drag her back by the scruff. Clear?”. He said it to Soldier Boy, but his eyes were on you.

“Clear”, you echoed.

Soldier Boy leaned back, the cheap chair creaking under his weight. “You hear that, kid? Congratulations. You get to be a security camera”.

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. My dreams. My ambitions”.

His lips quirked. “Don’t say we never gave you anything”.

The meeting dissolved then into the usual noise. Frenchie listing explosives like he was reciting a love poem, MM going over exit strategies, Butcher poking holes in everything just to see what held. You listened, chin propped on your hand, trying to ink the plan into your brain. The building was an old office block repurposed into something uglier: lab floors, security stations, a basement they didn’t have blueprints for. Your perch would be on the fifth floor, in an empty office facing the street.

“Gets you line of sight on both roads”, MM said, tapping the window icon with his pen. “And one staircase down if we have to bolt”. You nodded. “Got it”.

Across the room, Soldier Boy had gone back to his phone. He frowned at it like it had personally insulted him, thumb smearing across the glass.

“What are you even trying to do?”, you asked finally, unable to help yourself.

“Call somebody”, he said. “What the hell else do you do with a phone?”.

“Plenty”, you muttered. You pushed your chair back and crossed the room before you could decide against it. Standing next to him, you saw what the problem was immediately. The phone was open on the home screen, icons scattered across it. He’d managed to swipe to the second page somehow and looked personally betrayed by the presence of an app labeled “Settings”.

You held out your hand. “Here”.

He arched a brow. “I know how to make a call”.

“Sure”, you said. “And that’s why you’ve been glaring at the calculator for ten minutes”.

Frenchie snorted behind you. “She got you there, mon ami”.

Soldier Boy looked down at the little calculator icon, then back at you. For a heartbeat, stubbornness warred with something else in his expression. But eventually, he put the phone in your palm. It was warm from his hand, the case slightly tacky with wear. You swiped back to the main page, tapped the green phone symbol, and brought up the contacts list. “There”, you said. “Now you just tap the name”.

He leaned in a little, shoulder brushing your arm. His cologne, if you could call it that, was faint under layers of smoke and sweat and boring soap. Something woodsy. Something that tried very hard to cover up the fact that he’d probably been fighting in that outfit for twelve hours at a time.

“You got, like, four contacts”, you said, scrolling. “MM, French bitch, and… ‘Fuckface’. Which one is that supposed to be?”. He grunted. “Butcher". You blinked, then laughed before you could stop yourself. It slipped out, quick and bright. His mouth twitched like he’d just scored a point.

“You never had a smartphone before?”, you asked.

He gave you a look. “Last time I checked, phones were attached to walls and had cords you could strangle a man with. This thing feels like it oughta be illegal”.

“So you were there when people used pigeons”, you said. “That explains a lot”.

He snorted. “You’re not old enough to be this mouthy”.

“You’re not young enough to be this bad at technology”.

His eyes met yours, direct and unflinching. “How old are you now?”.

The question dropped between you like a stone. Nothing in his tone had changed. It was almost casual. But you remembered the warehouse, the way his face had gone still when you’d said “seventeen”, the way his gaze had cooled off like someone had turned down a dimmer switch. You swallowed. “Still seventeen”, you said. “Birthday’s in… three weeks”.

His jaw flexed. That was all. No lecture, no comment, no “Jesus Christ” this time. But you felt something shift. Just a small tightening of the distance he kept coiled around himself like a second skin. He took the phone back gently, his fingers brushing yours for a fraction of a second. Your pulse jumped stupidly. “Three weeks”, he said. “Whole lifetime at that age”.

You forced a shrug. “Depends how many gunfights you’re in”.

He huffed under his breath and leaned back, tucking the phone away in a pocket as if the conversation was over.

Later, when the planning was done and Butcher sent everyone home with instructions to “sleep like you’re not all on Vought’s shit list”, you were pulling your jacket on. Your fingers were fumbling with the zipper, when you heard your name.

“Y/N”.

You looked up. Soldier Boy stood by the door, one hand on the knob, the other gripping his shield strap.

“Yeah?”, you asked.

He studied you for a second, eyes flicking from your face to the too-big vest under your jacket, to the scuffed toes of your boots. “Tomorrow”, he said slowly, “you stay near the door. You see anything, and I mean anything, that feels off, you move. You do not wait for orders. You do not wait for us to confirm. You move”.

You frowned. “That’s the plan, isn’t it? MM already said—”.

“I’m not MM”, he cut in. “I’m telling you myself”.

There was something in his voice you hadn’t heard before. Not mockery. Not impatience. Just experience, worn down to something hard and heavy.

You shifted your weight, fingers curling into your sleeves. “Okay”, you said quietly. “I will”.

He held your gaze another second, then nodded once. “Good”.

Butcher whistled from the hallway. “You two done having your little heart-to-heart? Some of us’ve got an early day of mayhem tomorrow”.

“Yeah, yeah”, Soldier Boy muttered, pulling the door open. Cold, wet air washed in. He stepped out first, his bulk filling the doorway for a moment, blocking the weak white light from the hall. You followed, pulling the door shut behind you until it clicked. It was only then, in that dim hallway that smelled like boiled cabbage and dust, that you realized something simple and stupid and terrifying. Two weeks ago, he’d been a living piece of propaganda on a cracked TV in your head. Tonight, he knew your name. And tomorrow, he’d be the one between you and whatever waited in that Vought building.

You told yourself that tightness in your chest was just nerves. You were good at lying to yourself. You’d have plenty of practice.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 2

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Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @waynes-multiverse @lamentationsofalonelypotato @chevroletdean @deans-spinster-witch

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