Hi I’m Gabriela. As you may notice I have a lot of supernatural post on my dash. But It doesn’t matter. Because my soul belongs to Doctor Who, Merlin, The flash, Arrow, The Big Bang Theory etc. btw I'm too lazy to change the avatar and the header image. I'll keep them even though it's mainly a SPN blog
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Women stick thin and malnourished on the red carpet, and people are saying you can't point out that these women are dying because that's body shaming. Girl.
Hiiiii 💕 I've noticed that my tag list is quite outdated, so I wanted to check who still wants to be on the list or wants to be added!!!
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Summary: Russell gets a call asking for Colter's help on a case. Their father's case. That's not unusual for the duo as the reader's come to realize. But this time is different. This time Russell's hurt and he's scared and a single phone call leaves reader spinning about what the hell her husband has gotten himself into and what kind of deal with the devil he's just made to keep them all alive...
A/N: Just scratching the itch with this after the end of S3 of Tracker! 😉
A heavy rain drizzled down, the sky dark while you sat with your computer on the covered back deck, flames dancing in the outdoor fireplace. Russell was off helping Colter on some case involving their father. You knew enough about their relationship that their decades long avoidance had to do with his death.
Russ hid it well behind jokes and that smile of his but you knew it still hurt him deep down that his little brother thought he could have killed their dad. That his own mother let Colter believe it and nearly destroyed that relationship for good. The black sheep of the family that was never actually a black sheep.
So instead of joining them on their case, you let them get in their bonding time, Russell texting you yesterday asking if you’d double check payroll for him this week. The brewery was up and running and had been a success so far. They weren’t open to the public quite yet. Russell wanted to focus on the products first. Currently they were working with local restaurants and grocery stores and the operation was slowly expanding.
Much to Russell’s chagrin, owning a brewery was a lot more hands off than he’d expected. The brewmaster was seasoned and a good worker. The operations manager was a former corporate lawyer who doubled as your head of distribution. Your marketing manager and lawyer dealt with a lot of the paperwork and expansion deals and the finance guy worked in Seattle and took care of any of the rare messes there ever were. Russell had built a solid team and it showed.
Your phone buzzed from the coffee table where it lay, Russell’s name popping up.
“Hey, babe,” you answered, sliding down on the outdoor couch, closing your laptop.
“Hey, quark.” You frowned at how breathy it sounded, pursing your lips. “Don’t make that face. I’m f-fine.”
“Russell.” You sat upright, legs tucked up under you as a thread of worry coiled in your gut. “You sound hurt. What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” he hissed, your eyes narrowing.
“Did you get shot? Because I recall distinctly telling you not to get shot when you left.”
“Yeah but you were joking. This is like calling your bluff,” he laughed dryly, wincing into the phone. “I’m only a little bit shot.”
“Oh, only a little. Right, I remember in med school when we covered the whole ‘little bit shot’ section.”
“God, it’s so hot you went to med school.” You growled, Russell chuckling again but you could hear the whimper under it.
“Where is Colter? If you’re bad and don’t get your ass to a hospital-”
“It’s fine. Colter gave me a patch job. I…some guy might have…dug his fingers into it-”
You shot up to your feet, eyes wild. “Someone tortured you? What the fuck-”
“First off, it wasn’t torture. This was too quick and dirty for that-”
“Did you almost die today Russell Shaw? I want the damn truth.” The line was quiet, quieter than it needed to be. You slowly sank back down to the couch, Russell sighing. “But…you’re you. T-That sort of thing doesn’t happen to someone like you.”
“It can when the bastard on the other side is someone like me. Colter saved my hide. I’m okay. I swear. Just going to hurt for a bit.”
“Well make him give you a ride home. I can patch you up better-”
“I swear on your life quark, I have been thoroughly patched and bandaged and even got a little bottle of antibiotics. I’ll live.”
“Colter’s good but he’s not that good, Russell. Something else is going on.” His heavy sigh tickled your ear, Russell wincing quietly. “Russ. Talk to me.”
“Colter and I figured out why my dad was killed. I can’t talk about it right now but long story short, we poked at something we shouldn’t have. I found the man responsible. I was going to kill him, otherwise there’d be a target on our backs, including yours eventually.”
“But.” You just knew deep down that wasn’t the end of it. If it was Russell would be telling you this story in person.
“I can’t tell you for your safety. Trust me.”
“Always.” His breath hitched, your hand squeezing your thigh. “Russell? What did you do?”
“I found out something…and made a deal. One job and Colter and I are off the hook. No looking over our shoulders. No you looking over yours. I promise you are safe, quark. I promise. But I have to do this job before I can come home.”
Your gut clenched, heart racing as the words settled in.
“You’re not talking about your private contractor jobs, are you.”
“No.”
“Black ops. You’re doing black ops again. The thing that you said nearly destroyed you.”
“...S’okay. My wife knows how to fix broken things.” Your eyes closed, one hand going to the top of your head, gripping your hair tight.
“R-Russell…they’ll let you go after this job?”
“They will. The man in charge is a bastard but I know how to play the game and he respects that. I know secrets they’d rather stay buried and they’re smart enough to know I’ve got fail safes out there. It’s one job and then we’re all safe and I will be home. That’s it.”
“What do you have to-”
“Y/N.” He cut you off. “The less you know-”
“The better,” you mumbled, releasing your hair, taking a deep breath. “W-When will you be back? A few days?” All you heard on the other end was silence followed by a sharp inhale of pained air. “A week?”
“...A while.”
“How long is-”
“I don’t know. But if it’s…you don’t have to wait for me.”
“What the hell does-”
“I’ll be in touch when it’s safe, quark. Don’t say anything about this to Colter. Love you, sweetheart.”
“Russ-”
“J-Just say it back. Please. Ah, god dammit,” he breathed out, cursing to himself, voice laced with pain and worry. “Please, Y/N.”
“Are you scared?” you whispered. His answering pained whimper brought tears to your eyes. “Russell, you’re not okay. Tell me where you are, I’ll come-”
“I’ll come home,” he forced out. “I promise. Now just…just say it to me. Don’t make me beg, sweetheart.”
You closed your eyes, chest tight with a panic that was growing faster by the second. “I love you, Russell.”
“I love you. I’ll call you when I can.”
The phone beeped in your ear, the call gone when you pulled the phone back. You stared at it, nothing there except for a picture of a sleepy Russell burrowed in the blankets of your bed, a cheeky smile on his face.
“Russell, what the fuck did you do?”
One Month Later
You waited a day. Then another. Then it was a week and then another. Nothing. No word from your husband. You hadn’t gone this long without speaking to him…ever. You had no idea how badly hurt he’d been or if he was getting the proper care to heal. You doubted they prioritized those sorts of things when you were forced to join a black ops team.
You weren’t stupid. You knew Russell was only doing this to protect you and Colter. But another black ops mission…hell, you’d never known that version of Russell. Sure, the contract jobs you’d seen a bit of but those were quick, didn’t seem as harsh on his soul. His time in the military though…that was why he had nightmares. Why every so often he’d look at you with sorrow on his face and ask why you loved him. He’d barely told you much about those scars that marked his soul but you knew they ran deep. Kill because he was ordered to and don’t ask questions. It was easy when it was a bad guy with a gun against him he’d said.
Most of the time though, it wasn’t so cut and dry and Russell had admitted to killing people in more than questionable circumstances in the name of national security. It’s what led him and his squad to quit in the first place. You never asked for details. The haunted look in his eye was enough to know he thought he was going to hell for it.
“Sometimes I wonder what I would have done if my dad hadn’t moved us to Echo Ridge,” Russell mused from your lap in the living room one winter evening, the fireplace roaring as you both warmed in front of it.
“Do you think you would have tried college instead?” you asked. You ran your fingers through his hair, humming to yourself. “I could see you doing a trade too. Like a general contractor.”
“I wonder if I still would have wound up a killer.” Your head turned down in a flash, Russell eyeing the dark window where snow pelted down outside. “I’m sure you think about what you would have done different if your life hadn’t gone sideways too.”
“No, no.” You wrapped your legs around his waist, pinning his arms to his chest, Russell chuckling beneath you.
“What are you doing, crazy lady?”
“Being mean to Russell means you’re in bad thought jail.”
“Yes, I’m so helpless,” he deadpanned, flapping his hands in your hold for dramatic effect. “Maybe a hot chick will rescue me?”
“The hot chick is your jailer.”
“Oh, a dark captivity romance.” He spun in your hold, resting his chin on your stomach and glancing up at you. “Please tell me more about what you plan on doing with your prisoner. Or better yet, let’s demonstrate.”
“I’m not kidding, Russell,” you grumbled.
“Neither am I. I know what kind of filthy smut you read.”
“You read it too,” you scoffed.
“I rest my case,” he said, blinking up at you. “So. Should I be on my knees for this-”
You yanked his hair, Russell leaning up into it. “I’m serious.”
“Alright, alright,” he said, your grip easing. He burrowed back down, angling his face slightly away from you. “I’m just…I’m really good at that sort of thing. Covert missions. Doing the impossible jobs. Most of the people I’ve killed weren’t good but some of them…it’s like there’s something wrong with me that I could blindly follow orders and just kill.”
“You don’t focus on the ones you killed, Russ. You focus on the ones you saved. As long as that outweighs the bad and we both know it does, then you just carry the burden and know in the long run, you’re making a difference in the right ways. But what do I know about it. Not like I was forced to work for the mob and had a psychotic boyfriend you saved me from.”
He tilted his head up, pursing his lips, his features carrying a bit less weight than they had a moment prior. “You’re alright.”
“Is that anyway to speak to your captor?” you teased, his brows raising before he was turning in your lap, biting his lip. “What are-Russell!”
He sat up, roughly kissed you, and was off the couch in a flash, darting towards the kitchen. He flashed you a wink and a cheeky grin as you spun in your seat, Russell shrugging. “I can’t fail my prison break if you don’t chase after me.”
“You really want to do this, Shaw?” you asked, standing slowly, stretching yourself out. “Because you know what happens when I do catch you.”
“Why do you think I let you catch me?” he shot back, stretching out his legs behind the kitchen island. You simply took off your shirt, revealing your semi-sheer maroon bra, Russell’s brain breaking in real time as he just blinked and blinked.
“You let me catch you?” You shimmied out of your sweatpants, kicking them up on the couch, Russell’s eyes drifting down to your matching cheeky bikinis. “You like the new set? Early Christmas present to myself. From that french boutique the blue strappy one came from.”
You spun around in a circle, Russell groaning when he saw the fully sheer back. “Your affinity for fancy lingerie is cruel, you know?”
“Is it?” you asked, stalking over to him with a smile, cupping your breasts to run your finger over the soft material. “I think I’m worth it.”
“Of course you’re worth…” He froze when you rushed him, your hand catching his wrist, Russell grunting. “Every damn time I fall for it!”
“Come along now,” you said, tugging him after you. He pulled back after a few feet, your eyes narrowing. “You want to do this the hard way?”
“Absolutely,” he teased, retching his arm out of your grasp and taking off for the stairs, dashing up them. You shook your head, hearing a thud above you after a beat. “I’m good!”
“You sure? Cause last time you said you were and then your knee swelled up like a grapefruit,” you called.
“Just get that perky ass up here and come catch me!”
“What do I get in return?”
“Page 379.” You blinked, staring up at the ceiling. “We have a deal?”
“...You better hide well, Shaw. By the time I’m through, you’ll wish you’d never been caught.”
“Fuck it.” You got up from your spot on the couch, swiping your phone off the table and heading to pack.
You swore on your life you’d never seen Colter Shaw more confused than when you showed up at his house unannounced. It was late, Colter sat under a patio in front of a firepit, nursing a beer. You hopped out of your truck, Colter just staring at you with wide eyes as you trounced over and took a beer from his cooler, sitting down in the open adirondack chair beside him.
“When were you planning on telling me Russell got shot, Colter?” You didn’t look at him but oh lord, could you feel the nerves radiating off him. Colter was always so cool and controlled. The mellow to Russell’s energy. The guy was spinning out over the fact you knew he had an actual home address.
“Shaw, do not make me ask again.” He swallowed beside you, shifting out of the corner of your eye.
“Reenie said Russell told her he had to disappear for awhile. I didn’t want to worry you. He told Reenie he’d talked to you already.”
“Telling me he was hurt and going off on a secret mission is one thing. You knowing the whole time is another. Real classy of you to ignore all my texts. If it weren’t for Reenie and Randy, I’d think you were dead.”
“I’m sor-”
“Shut your mouth before I remind you I used to work for the mob.” Colter was still, not lifting his head when you finally stared over at him. “You’re supposed to be my best friend.”
“And you’re my sister now.” There was guilt in his eyes when he looked at you but no regret.
“I don’t need protection-”
“Well you’re getting it whether you want it or not,” he shot back. You glared at one another, your fists clenching the arm rests. “Whatever deal my brother made is so bad he didn’t even tell me himself. So no, I’m not running off looking for him and neither are you. We both know what happens if Russell doesn’t finish the job.”
You got up and headed back for your truck, a strong hand catching your arm before you could make it off the cement patio. “You’ve got about five seconds before I break your wrist in a way it never heals right.”
Colter’s chest pressed against your back, his grip tightening even further. “Then go ahead and do it.”
You ignored him, trying to shrug him off once, twice, finally spinning around and attempting to shove at him but it was fruitless. He stared down while you looked right back up. The only way he’d let go was if you hurt him in the process.
Images of Colter beaten and nearly dying of hypothermia flashed through your mind, your eyes squeezing shut while your head jammed itself in his chest.
“You would have died if I hadn’t looked for you,” you breathed out shakily. “What if he needs me? What if he’s already…” You couldn’t say it, couldn’t even think it. Russell was out there somewhere. He had to be.
Colter pulled you into a rare hug, holding you tight as you fought back the urge to cry and failed. You let the tears you’d been keeping in for the past month finally fall, let the fear that Russell wasn’t coming back wash over you like a dark wave you couldn’t escape. What were they making him do? Was he safe? Had he rested from his injuries? Was he injured now? Why wasn’t he home yet? And if he came back, what kind of man would he come back as?
“It’s alright, baby brother.” Your whole body turned in Colter’s hold at that voice. Spinning around, you saw Russell before you in a pair of sweats and a t shirt, feet in a pair of freakin’ slides. Where the hell-
As he approached and the flames illuminated his face, you saw the bruising on his jaw, the sling his left arm was in, the way one of those feet was in a soft cast boot.
Judging by the guilty look in his eyes, Russell hadn’t miraculously just walked out of the nearby forest.
“I should say I’m impressed he was about to break for you and spill the beans but you’re pretty convincing,” Russell tried to joke, losing the chuckle when you stormed in front of him. “If you want to slap me, right cheek please.”
“Are you alright?” He nodded. “How long have you been here?”
“‘Bout a week and before you rip into me because I see that look on your face and believe me, I deserve it…the job isn’t done yet. That’s why I didn’t contact you or come home. I needed to heal up before I go finish what I started.”
You hummed, stopping right in front of him, making your face blank. You quickly grabbed his shirt and clean jerked it, the cotton tearing, both Russell and Colter quietly gasping. With a quick push, you removed the material out of view and saw the stitch job on an old bullet hole, right over his heart.
“Tell me where I can find the man that ordered this job and ordered that bullet hole in your chest right now, Russell.” He sighed, your hand reaching out, grabbing the back of his neck as hard as you dared, pulling him right into your face. A flicker of fear crossed his, a thick swallow audible in the night air. “I’m sorry. You mistook that as a question it seems. Where, Russell. Or I swear to god, I’ll go poking and get the man’s attention all on my own.”
“I have to finish the job, Y/N,” Russell grumbled, jerking away, running a hand through his hair. “The only reason I’m here right now is because I needed a place to recover a few weeks and I thought Colter wouldn’t be here cause he never fuckin’ is.”
Russell scowled behind you at his brother, sure Colter was giving it back even if you couldn’t see.
“Russell, you’re hurt. Let me-”
“NO!” Russell bellowed. You faltered back a step, Russell’s shoulder heaving, the guilt back on his face. “I’m sorry for yelling and I’m sorry for leaving like I did but Y/N, there is no scenario in which I get you involved in this even more than you already are. I do the job and we all get a pass for stealing those kids. That’s the deal.”
“How do you know there won’t be another job and another and another?” Russell lifted his chin. “You can’t know that and you-”
“Yes, I can.” Russell breathed deeply, brow furrowing. “I need you to go back home.”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re out of your damn mind if you think-”
“I am begging you, quark,” his voice cracked. Some of your anger slipped, worry filling it’s place. “This is not the kind of job you can help with. Same thing I told Colter. If anyone, anyone, so much as attempts to, somebody I care about winds up dead. Maybe you. Maybe him. Dory. Mom. I made a deal with the devil and I made peace with that. So let me finish the job so we can be done with this.”
You closed your eyes, feeling a presence surround you. “At least let me give you a once over.”
A gentle hand took yours, your eyes opening after a moment. Russell slowly walked with you into Colter’s “house”. It was for the most part, a pole barn workshop with a dedicated back third for his living arrangements.
Russell shuffled past the garage area and into the back, going to the lone bed, sitting along the edge. Green eyes flicked upwards, a look there you’d only seen once before. The same look Russell had given you a very long time ago when he’d dropped you and shipped you off back to Virginia, as if you were better off without him. Without him and his secrets.
“What’s the job?” you asked as you checked his healing bullet wound. Russell’s lips stayed sealed tight. “Any muscle weakness?”
“Just aches sometimes,” he mumbled as you checked over his shoulder. “Dislocated that.”
“You icing it?”
“I’ve been doing everything you would have wanted,” he said quietly.
“Could have fooled me.” You squatted down and looked at his ankle, pursing your lips. “This a sprain?”
“Yes,” Russell mumbled.
“You shouldn’t be walking on a sprain.” You stood upright, crossing your arms. “You need to sit your ass down and keep this elevated for three weeks.”
Russell looked like he was about to argue that point but kept his mouth shut instead. He scooted back against the headboard,shoving a pillow under his bad ankle and glancing back at you. You shoved another underneath, shaking your head at him.
“You know, Russ, you could have at least given your wife a damn kiss.” You started to leave when a strong hand caught yours, firm but not crushing.
“I wasn’t sure you wanted me to do that anymore. I haven’t been a very good husband.” You sat on the edge of the bed by his side, angling yourself towards him. Russell’s hand still held yours, green eyes full of a sadness you weren’t expecting. “I know I’m hurting you by keeping secrets. I meant what I said, Y/N. You don’t have to wait for me.”
“You made a deal with the devil. That’s what you said.” He nodded, scrunching up his nose. “I get the whole if you don’t do this, people will hunt us down until we’re all dead. I get that part. I get not contacting me while you were on this job. But what I can’t wrap my head around is you not calling me when you were hurt. Because you might be on this job but taking care of my husband when he’s hurt is my freakin’ job, Russell.”
“...There’s nothing more that I wanted than to go home to you. Believe me.” He shook his head. “Y/N, I want to come home. You don’t know what I’d give to just go back.”
“Deal with the devil though.” He sighed, nodding once. “You’re sure the devil will let you go?”
Russell’s lip ticked up, a boyish grin there. “This job is the sort of thing that he doesn’t want out. Mutually assured destruction. It’s why I got medical care when I got hurt instead of a bullet to the head. He knows if I die, what I know leaks. He touches my family, it leaks. He knows he can’t ever find it. So…yeah. One job and it’s done.”
“But if you’ve got the info now, why keep doing the job? Why can’t you just-”
“Because he has a secret too. Something I can’t let…” Russell trailed off, glancing over his shoulder back towards Colter’s patio where he sat in front of the fire. “...something I can’t let a certain someone know.”
“Russ…whatever you did-”
“Not me. Our father. Colter…dad did something to him. Something he can never know.” Your eyebrows shot straight up. Russell held up a hand, sighing deeply. “Not…dad loved us, him. But he did something Colter can never, never, know about. It’d change him and I’m not putting that on my little brother.”
“Did he…you know-”
“No. He didn’t abuse him. He just…” Russell shook his head out, scrunching up his face as he recalled whatever knowledge he held weighed too heavy on him. “Fuck it. It was abuse but not the kinds you’re thinking of. It just…explains some things about why he is how he is? Colter has no memory of this and I’m keeping it that way. So I do the job and this guy doesn’t tell Colter the truth.”
“Okay,” you said quietly. “I’m still pissed at you.”
“I know.” You shifted closer, brushing your lips against his. Russell leaned in, snaking his hand through your hair, pulling you in.
God you’d missed him.
“I’ll tell you someday, I promise,” Russell whispered. “When we’re truly alone.”
“Colter or the job?”
“Both. But for now-”
“I know,” you mumbled, Russell nuzzling your cheek. “Is Colter okay?”
“...Yes. He’s just…different.” That wasn’t new to you but you let it go for now.
“Are you okay? Whatever this job is?” you whispered. He didn’t answer, just kissed you again. Russell didn’t let you pull back to ask more questions, his mouth captivating yours, too needy for your liking. Whatever the hell this job was, you needed it over and fast.
Or else you were afraid whatever Russell was doing would be a ghost that followed him until the day he died.
A/N: Yikes, I really wonder what their dad did that Russell doesn't want Colter knowing about! Don't worry, we'll come back to explore this a bit more and that deal Russell made once S4 starts! 😉
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Summary: Four years after Dean disappeared, he comes back to find the life he left behind… waiting for him in the shape of a little girl with his eyes. Now it’s ghosts in the walls, love that never died and a second chance that might heal everything—or break it for good.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 5353
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The door clicked open softly, the smell of greasy fries sneaking in ahead of Sam. He was balancing a tray of drinks in one hand, a crinkled bag of burgers in the other, looking like the world’s most overqualified delivery guy.
Behind him, Lilah burst in like a firework and her arms full of a bouquet so big she could barely see over the top. “Daddy!”, she whisper-shouted, which defeated the purpose, but at least she tried.
Dean was in the armchair by the window, Henry cradled against his chest in a bee-print onesie you hadn’t even known existed. He looked tiny. Three weeks early had left him all delicate wrists and scrunched-up nose, but his little fists were pumping like he already had demands.
“Hey, Buzz”, Dean whispered back, his grin blooming despite the dark circles under his eyes. He nodded toward your sleeping form on the bed. “Shhh. Mommy’s out”.
Lilah tiptoed in dramatically. She stopped dead when she saw Henry. Her bouquet slipped dangerously sideways until Sam caught it, rolling his eyes fondly.
“He’s so small”, Lilah breathed, climbing up onto Dean’s knee without asking. Her little hand reached out, hovering, not quite daring to touch. “And he’s got bees!”. She giggled, pointing at the onesie.
Dean huffed, pressing a kiss to her curls. “Yeah, figured it was only right”. He shifted Henry carefully, angling him so Lilah could peek without squishing him. Henry squawked, tiny and impatient. Dean sighed, already reaching for the bottle he’d half-prepped on the side table. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you, kid. Give your old man a second”.
The baby squawked louder. Lilah gasped. “Daddy! He’s mad!”.
Sam set the flowers down on the counter with the food, shaking his head with a smile. “Guess impatience runs in the family”.
Dean muttered under his breath as he jiggled Henry gently, “Man’s three hours old and already yellin’ at me for bein’ too slow”.
Henry hiccupped, let out a high little cry, then latched onto the bottle the second Dean got it in place, still frowning even in his sleepiness.
Dean smirked, rocking him gently. “Attitude. Just like his uncle”.
Sam leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a faint grin. But the longer he watched, the more his brows crept up.
“You’re… actually feeding him”, Sam said, surprised.
Dean shot him a look, adjusting the bottle with care as Henry suckled noisily. “No, genius, I’m playin’ poker with him”.
Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “I mean… you’ve got him swaddled right, you’re holding his head, the angle, hell, you look like you’ve done this before”.
Dean rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick. “The nurse showed me three times, Sammy. Three. I wasn’t about to screw it up in front of her and get that look”. He shifted Henry slightly, his palm cradling the tiny back of his son’s head, softer now. “Besides… not exactly rocket science”.
Henry let out a greedy little grunt, his eyes squeezed shut, fingers twitching like he was still arguing.
Sam grinned, unable to resist. “Still. Didn’t think I’d walk in and see my big brother like this”.
Dean glared at him, cheeks pinking as he instinctively slowed his rocking motion. “Shut up”.
Lilah giggled, leaning into Dean’s side and petting Henry’s blanket like it was a puppy. “Uncle Sam, Daddy’s the best bee daddy ever”.
Sam raised his hands in mock surrender, smile softening. “Yeah, Buzz. Looks like he is”.
Eventually you woke up slowly.
Dean caught your movement instantly. His eyes snapped up, that protective instinct kicking in before anything else, and when he saw you awake, his whole face softened. “Hey”, he murmured.
Lilah bounced once, careful not to jostle Henry. “Mommy! Daddy’s feeding him all by himself! And Uncle Sam brought fries!”. She beamed like it was the best news in the world.
Your lips curved, even through the heaviness weighing down your limbs. “I see that”.
Lilah tugged on Dean´s sleeve. “Daddy”, she whispered. “Can I hold him now? Please? Please? I’m big enough. I’m five”.
Dean glanced at you, the kind of look that said you hearing this? before sighing like a man already defeated. “Buzz… you gotta sit real still, alright? No wiggling. No spinning. He’s not a doll”.
Lilah gasped. “I know that! He’s Henry!”.
Dean chuckled under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe his life these days. “Alright, Buzz. C’mere. Sit right there—”, he nodded toward the foot of your bed, tone all mock-sergeant—“and grab that pillow”.
Lilah scampered over and plopped herself down exactly where he told her, dragging the hospital pillow onto her lap like she was preparing for a mission. She looked up at Dean with the wide, serious eyes of someone about to be knighted.
“Ready”, she whispered.
Dean’s mouth tugged into a grin he couldn’t fight. “Alright, big sis. Let’s do this”. He angled Henry carefully, cradling his tiny head with one big hand, and lowered him slowly onto the pillow in Lilah’s lap.
At the same time, you leaned back against the bedrail with your burger in one hand, fries in the other, and moaned around a mouthful. “Ohhh, Sammy, you’re a saint. Actual angel. Fries and a double cheeseburger? This is the real post-birth medicine”.
Sam smirked, flipping the top of the bag closed. “Glad to be useful”.
You swallowed down another bite and reached for a fry, your voice softer now, shy under the hum of machines and the quiet little family gathered around. “And… thanks for the flowers too, Sam”, you said, lifting your gaze to him with a small smile. “They’re beautiful”.
Sam ducked his head, ears tinged pink. “You deserve it”.
It hit you then how different this was. Lilah’s birth had been quiet and lonely, no one waiting outside, no warm food smuggled in, no laughter filling the air. Just you and a baby, scared. This time… this time you weren’t alone. And it felt like a weight had lifted you hadn’t even realized you were still carrying.
At the foot of the bed, Lilah leaned so close over Henry you were surprised her curls didn’t tickle his face. Her little hands stayed folded in her lap just like Dean had shown her, but her eyes were huge, drinking in every inch of her baby brother.
“He’s moving!”, she squeaked suddenly, looking up at Dean. “Daddy, look—his hand, it moved!”.
Dean chuckled low, crouched beside her, one steady hand still hovering under the pillow. “He’s sayin’ hi”.
Lilah’s mouth dropped open in awe. “He’s sooooo small”, she whispered, her whole voice reverent. “I can be careful. I’ll always be careful”.
-
Four weeks later, the rhythms of your life had shifted into something you never quite believed you’d have: messy and loud, freaking exhausting, but steady.
Dean was thriving.
Daycare drop-offs? He handled them like a bro. He’d walk into Lilah’s classroom with her bee backpack slung over one broad shoulder, her little hand swinging from his, and somehow leave with half the staff giggling like teenagers. Lilah loved it. “Daddy’s the coolest”, she’d declare when you picked her up later, already covered in paint and glitter.
At home, Dean had claimed the laundry like it was a hunt. Sorting loads with military precision, even if he still occasionally shrank a sweater or dyed the socks pink. Dishes? Done. Counters? Wiped. Floors? Well, floors were negotiable, but damn it, he tried.
Cooking, though? That was another story. The first two times he’d attempted a “real” dinner, anything beyond pancakes or scrambled eggs, the smoke alarm went off so loud Henry startled awake and Lilah declared, very seriously, “Daddy’s banned from dinner forever”. Dean took it on the chin, grumbling about “ungrateful critics” while you rescued the kitchen. After that, he stuck to breakfast duty and left the rest to you.
But where he wasn’t perfect, he more than made up for it with the kids. Henry, barely a month old, was already used to Dean’s arms. He’d settle faster against his chest than anywhere else. You’d find them in the recliner, Dean humming under his breath, Henry’s tiny hand clutching his shirt in sleep. Lilah, meanwhile, had her dad wrapped around her finger. Swing pushes, coloring sessions, elaborate Lego castles, he was there for all of it.
And watching him? Watching Dean Winchester turn fatherhood into second nature? It was enough to make your chest ache.
-
Today, Henry had been fussing all morning, the kind of colicky cry that made your nerves hum. Dean had scooped him up, one arm cradling the tiny bundle against his shoulder, bouncing gently while muttering under his breath about “how come I can take down a nest of vamps but one ten-pounder’s got me sweatin’”.
Meanwhile, Lilah had turned the kitchen table into a war zone of glitter, glue and construction paper. She was determined to make “welcome home banners” for Henry—never mind that Henry had been home for five weeks already. When the glue bottle clogged, she squeezed harder until the lid popped clean off. A geyser of sticky paste shot across the table. “Daddy!”, she wailed, throwing her hands up, now sparkly to the elbows. “It exploded!”.
Dean adjusted Henry with one practiced motion, the baby tucked into the crook of his elbow, bottle balanced in the same hand, while reaching for paper towels with the other. “Alright, Buzz, don’t panic. Nobody move. This is a Code Glitter”.
Henry suckled noisily, oblivious. Dean dabbed at the glue, grabbed the glitter jar before it tipped further, and tossed a fresh towel across the table toward Lilah. “Wipe what you can, and for the love of God, don’t sneeze”.
She giggled at his mock-serious tone, smearing glue across her cheek in the process.
By the time you walked in from swapping laundry, Dean looked like he’d been through a small war. Dean glanced up at you, hair mussed, chest rising like he’d just finished a hunt. “Don’t. Say. A word”.
-
Lilah stood in front of the mirror with her brand-new backpack. Bee-yellow with black stripes and almost as big as she was. Her curls were neatly braided (Dean’s work, of course; he was faster at it than you. Way faster), and she clutched Henry’s soft bee rattle like it was battle gear.
Henry babbled from his play mat, hands slapping at the toys, drool soaking his onesie. At eight months, he was sturdy and curious, already trying to pull himself upright on anything in reach, including Dean’s jeans when Dean crouched to tie Lilah’s sneakers.
“You sure about this, Buzz?”, Dean asked, his voice caught somewhere between proud and worried. “We don’t have to rush. School’ll still be there next year.”
Lilah rolled her eyes, the exact same way you did when Dean was being dramatic. “Daddy, I’m six soon. I have to go. I’m gonna learn to read big books and paint, and I already know my numbers”.
Dean’s mouth pulled into a smile that cracked at the edges. He tied the last knot and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Alright. But you better not forget about us little people when you’re famous”.
You swallowed around the lump in your throat as you helped her into her jacket. “You’re gonna do amazing, baby girl”.
The drive to school was quiet and heavy with anticipation. Lilah sat shotgun like always, her backpack buckled beside her, Henry gurgling in his car seat, kicking his feet.
When you pulled up to the school, the sidewalk buzzed with other kids and other parents. Lilah bounced in her seat, suddenly shy but determined.
“C’mon, Buzz”, Dean said gently, lifting her out. He crouched, adjusting her straps, brushing a curl out of her face. His voice cracked just slightly when he added, “Go show ‘em what a Winchester can do”.
She threw her arms around his neck, squeezing hard. “I love you, Daddy”. Then she hugged you too, carefully kissed Henry’s forehead, and marched up the steps.
You and Dean stood there long after she vanished inside. He slid an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. His eyes were damp, but his grin was boyish and so damn proud.
“She’s really growing up”, Dean murmured, forehead resting against your temple. “And we… we made it here. All of us”.
And for the first time in years, you believed it.
-
It was late-August. Your hallway smelled like coffee and pancake syrup.
“Shoes!”, you called, tying your own laces by the door.
“I have shoes!”, Henry declared, skidding in socked feet around the corner. Six now, all big opinions, he wore a tiny flannel over a animal tee, his backpack already sticker-bombed with cars and a single, stubborn bee. He held up his sneakers triumphantly and then, because he was Henry, tried to put them on without sitting down.
Dean caught him mid-wobble by the back of the shirt. “Easy there, Hot Rod. Park it”. He dropped to a knee and laced Henry’s shoes. “You gonna show first grade who’s boss?”.
Henry grinned, missing-tooth wide. “Already am”.
“Attitude”, Dean muttered, but he was smiling so hard it softened the whole line of his jaw. He flicked a glance over his shoulder. “Buzz? You almost ready?”.
Lilah stepped out of the hallway. Eleven: taller, wearing ripped jeans and bee pendant on her neck. Dean had braided her hair in two neat plaits that made her look like the exact midpoint between little-kid and almost-teen. She posed, deadpan. “Voted least likely to cry today”.
Dean pressed a hand to his heart. “Least likely to cry? You wound me, Buzz. After all I’ve done for you. Braids, rides, endless glue refills…”.
Lilah smirked, tugging her jacket straight. “Yeah, yeah. You’re slipping, old man”.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Old man?”. He shot you a quick glance. “Did you hear that? She called me old”.
You bit down on a grin. “Well… you did make that dad noise when you sat down last night”.
“Traitor”, Dean muttered, then turned back to his daughter, squinting in exaggerated menace. “Slipping, huh? You think just ‘cause you’re all middle-school fancy now, I can’t still—”.
Before Lilah could react, Dean swooped forward, scooping her up around the waist. She squealed, kicking her sneakers in the air, but he had her hoisted effortlessly. With one practiced flip, he had her upside down, legs dangling, hair flying like a curtain of curls.
“—do this?”, Dean finished, grinning ear to ear.
“Dad!”, she shrieked, laughing so hard her voice cracked. “Put me down! My jeans!”.
“You sure about that?”, Dean teased, walking in a slow circle. “’Cause I can keep this up all day. Gotta prove to you I’m not that old”.
“Mom!”, Lilah tried to appeal, upside-down face red with laughter. “He’s embarrassing me!”.
You leaned on the doorframe. “First day of school and already upside down. Pretty sure that’s a record”.
Dean patted her calf with mock solemnity. “Say ‘Dad’s not old’, and maybe I’ll let you down”.
“Never!”, Lilah yelled, still laughing, trying to twist herself right side up.
Dean just chuckled, tightening his arm around her middle like it was the easiest thing in the world to carry an almost-teenager. “Stubborn. Definitely my kid”.
He held her upside down a few more beats, her laughter shaking his shoulder. He grinned, but in his chest it twisted, because her laughter wasn’t the same high-pitched squeal it used to be. It was older now. Not the sound of a toddler or a four-year-old climbing into his lap with sticky fingers and curling up like a kitten.
“You’re heavy, you know that?”, he teased, spinning her carefully until her sneakers tapped the floor again.
Lilah staggered upright, cheeks flushed, hair half out of its braids. She swatted at his chest with one skinny arm. “You’re just weak”.
Dean caught her wrist, tugged her in, and kissed the top of her head before she could wriggle away. “Nah. I’m strong as hell. Just—”. He paused, swallowing something thick. “You’re not little anymore, Buzz”.
Her grin softened, just for a second, before she rolled her eyes in the way only an eleven-year-old could. “Duh, Dad. That’s how time works”.
Dean huffed a laugh, ruffling her hair even though he’d just braided it. “Smartass”.
But when she turned toward the mirror to fix her jacket, Dean’s smile slipped. He remembered nights on your couch, her tiny body stretched across his chest, her fists tucked under her chin, legs no longer than his forearm. He remembered her head fitting under his jaw, her weight a feather compared to the heaviness in his heart back then.
And now? Now she was almost as tall as his chest. Quick wit, her own world beginning to spin separate from his. He loved it, loved watching her grow into herself, but God, it pinched too.
“Hey”, Lilah said suddenly, catching his reflection in the mirror. “Don’t look all sad. I’m still your favorite bee, right?”.
Dean cleared his throat, his voice rough. “Always, Buzz”.
She smiled, satisfied, before starting to bounce toward Henry.
Dean reached out, hooked two fingers through the strap of Lilah’s backpack, and reeled her back in before she could escape down the hall.
“Dad!”, she squeaked, half-laughing, half-exasperated.
He ignored her protest, wrapping both arms around her in one of those bear hugs that pinned her arms. He buried his face in the crown of her hair, breathing her in like he had when she was tiny, when her curls still smelled like baby shampoo and syrup.
“Daaad”, she complained again, though there was no real fight in it. “You’re crushing me!”.
“Good”, he muttered into her hair. “Keeps you from growing too fast”.
She rolled her eyes, but after a beat, she softened in his arms. She let her head tip against his chest, her hands tugging lightly at his shirt instead of wriggling free. Sassy, yes, but still sweet. Still his little girl.
“I’m not little anymore”, she reminded him gently, like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Dean pulled back just enough to look at her. “Don’t matter, Buzz. You’ll always be my kid. My first bee”.
That earned him a small, real smile. She squeezed him once, quick but strong, before stepping back and shrugging her straps into place.
Dean’s hand lingered in the air a second after Lilah slipped out of his grasp, the absence of her weight hitting harder than he’d admit. He cleared his throat, blinking once, and turned toward Henry.
The kid was already standing with his backpack zipped. There was no hesitation in his stance, no glance back for reassurance.
Where Lilah had always curled into Dean’s lap, Henry had been different from the start. He’d cry when he needed to, Dean had made damn sure both kids knew tears weren’t weakness, but even then, Henry cried like he had a point to prove. Quick, fiery bursts, then jaw set, fists balled, moving on before anyone could coddle him.
Dean saw so much of himself in the kid it hurt sometimes. That stubborn tilt of his mouth, the way his eyes flicked over a room like he was cataloguing exits, the quiet determination that made him seem older than six. It wasn’t that Henry wasn’t soft, he could be, especially with you, and sometimes when Lilah coaxed him into her games, but his softness was earned, deliberate. He didn’t give it away easily.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck, watching Henry check his jacket pockets. “You good, Champ?”.
Henry gave him a thumbs-up, no hesitation. “Yeah. I’m gonna sit in the front row so the teacher knows I’m serious”.
Dean huffed a laugh. “That’s my boy”.
Lilah snorted, rolling her eyes but hiding her smile. “Of course you’re sitting in the front”.
“Where else am I supposed to sit?”, Henry shot back, all righteous indignation. “The back’s too far from the board”.
Dean grinned despite himself, heart squeezing tight. Lilah: soft edges, open heart, always reaching out. Henry: all Winchester grit, jaw set even when nobody asked it of him. Dean loved them both so fiercely it scared him, but in different ways.
One reminded him what he’d almost lost. The other reminded him who he’d been and who he wanted to be better for.
A few minutes later, Dean pulled onto the road.
After a while, Dean drummed his fingers on the wheel, glanced at the rearview, then at you. His grin tugged up slow, dangerous.
“You know”, he drawled, “Buzz’s got middle school now. Champ’s already takin’ over first grade. Feels like I blinked and they stopped bein’ little. Might be time we—”. He lifted his brows, eyes twinkling. “—made ourselves another one”.
You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “Dean”.
Lilah snapped her head around, horrified. “Oh my God, Dad, ew! Don’t even say that! You’re ancient”.
Dean barked a laugh, one hand thumping the wheel. “Ancient? That’s cold, Buzz”.
Henry, without looking up from tracing the stitching on his lunchbox, chimed in matter-of-factly: “Babies cry too much. Don’t do it”.
You bit your lip to keep from laughing, shaking your head. “See? Even your son’s voting against you”.
Dean flicked a look at Henry in the mirror, mock-offended. “Traitor”. Then, softer, his hand reached over to squeeze your knee where it rested between the seats. “Don’t care how big they get, though. Always gonna be ours”.
Lilah slumped deeper into her seat with a dramatic groan. “Can you not be gross before school?”.
Dean chuckled while his gaze flicked to the mirror and caught your eyes and… winked—slow, deliberate and freaking shameless. Heat crawled up your neck instantly, and you had to look out the window before Lilah caught you turning red. Of course, she caught enough.
“Ew! Mom, are you blushing?!”, Lilah groaned, burying her face in her hands. “No. Nope. I don’t wanna know. I know how babies are made now and—ugh—I’m never forgiving health class”.
Dean nearly choked on his own laugh, coughing into his fist. “Health class beat me to it, huh?”.
Lilah shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Don’t. Don’t say another word. If you even think about talking about it, I’ll walk to school”.
Henry perked up in the backseat, curiosity written all over his little face. “What’s health class?”.
“Nothing!”, Lilah yelped, spinning back around so fast her braids slapped her shoulders. “It’s nothing, Henry. Don’t ask. Ever”.
Dean snorted so hard the wheel wobbled in his grip for a second but he recovered quickly with that boyish grin.
“Relax, Buzz. I’m not gonna—”, He leaned back more. “I’m just sayin’, me and your mom… „.
“DAD!”, Lilah shrieked, smacking the dash with her palm. “Stop! Oh my God, stop! I’m getting out right now!”.
Henry cackled from beside you, no clue what he was laughing at but thrilled by the chaos. “Buzz is mad”, he sing-songed.
Dean chuckled, but his smirk softened as he peeked back at Lilah, who had now yanked her jacket over her head like a makeshift shield. “Alright, alright. I’ll cool it”. He paused just long enough to make it suspicious. “But, you know, you’re gettin’ older. Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to have that talk”.
Lilah groaned dramatically, muffled by denim. “No. No talks. Ever”.
-
Two weeks later, the house felt too quiet.
Lilah was at Mia’s for a Friday-night sleepover with movies and nail polish, and the kind of giggle-storm that always ended with Sam texting you both “send help (kidding) (maybe)”. Henry had finally fallen asleep upstairs, warm and heavy with a little flu, the humidifier purring and the baby monitor whispering white noise through its tinny speaker on your dresser.
You were already in bed, propped on pillows, scrolling just to keep your eyes open. The bathroom door opened and Dean padded out in nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips.
He let himself plop onto the mattress beside you with an exaggerated groan, like he’d just hauled salt bags across three states. Then he flopped onto his back with all the theatrics of a man begging for attention. The mattress dipped, bouncing you a little.
You didn’t look up from your phone. Not once.
Dean cracked one eye at you, then huffed. “Seriously? My wife can’t even appreciate the effort? I showered”. He sniffed his shoulder pointedly. “Smell pretty damn good, if I say so myself”.
Still nothing.
“Unbelievable”, he went on, rolling onto his side to face you, towel gaping a little too conveniently. “I even shaved”.
That made you flick a glance up. His jaw was exactly as scruffy as it had been this morning. Your brows arched. “Uh-huh”.
Dean grinned. “Not here”.
Your phone slipped a little in your grip as you bit down hard on a laugh. He looked so goddamn pleased with himself, with his green eyes gleaming, waiting for you to take the bait.
When he saw you fighting that laugh, he smirked and propped himself up on one elbow. The towel slid a dangerous inch lower, his voice dropping into that husky, drawling tone you remembered from years ago. The one that used to make your knees weak back when you were too young to know what the hell to do with it.
“Y’know…”, he murmured, tracing one finger lazily up your shin, under the blanket, “all those years ago, you couldn’t keep your eyes off me either. Don’t think I didn’t notice”.
You tried to scoff, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.
Dean leaned in, close enough for his breath to brush your ear. “Hell, I remember you lookin’ at me like I was already in your bed—”, his grin widened“—and we both know what happened when I finally got you there”.
Your breath hitched despite yourself.
He chuckled, low and satisfied, nipping at your earlobe before dragging his lips down your throat. “You were so sweet, so easy to ruin… And damn if you didn’t make me work to keep up after. I swear, you were tryin’ to kill me”. His hand slid higher up your thigh, warm and.. so heavy. “Still are”.
“Dean—”.
He pulled back just enough to catch your gaze. “Don´t Dean me like that. I put two kids in you, and I’m not done yet”.
Your pulse jumped.
He grinned and kissed the corner of your mouth before whispering against your lips, “Now, tell me again you don’t wanna find out how smooth I shaved”.
You tipped your head back against the pillow, glaring at him even as your lips twitched. “You’re insufferable”.
Dean grinned wider, his hand inching higher under the blanket. “Insufferable? Please. You were climbing me like a tree when you were barely legal. I’ve still got the scratch marks”.
You smacked his chest lightly, but he just caught your wrist, pressing your palm flat against his warm skin. His heart thundered beneath your hand.
“C’mon”, he drawled, his lips brushing down your throat again. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember the way I used to make you cry for it. Beggin’ me. Neighbors probably thought I was killin’ you”. He chuckled. “Turns out I was just teachin’ you how good it could feel”.
You sucked in a sharp breath, and he smiled like he’d won. “Still teachin’ you, baby. And you still can’t keep quiet”.
Aaand… you broke. You always did with him. Your phone slid to the side, forgotten, as you grabbed the knot of his towel and yanked. It fell open and Dean’s smug laugh turned into a groan as you wrapped your hand around him.
“Geez, sweetheart—”. His hips bucked into your palm before he caught himself, biting back a curse. “Fuck, I missed your hands on me”.
You smirked, kissing down his chest, and he tangled a hand in your hair, guiding you, half desperate, half reverent. “Yeah—yeah, that’s it. Damn, you’re gonna kill me tonight”.
The towel hit the floor. Dean hauled you under him, mouth hot and messy against yours, grinding into you through your thin sleep shorts. His cock pressed hard and insistent against you, making you gasp into his kiss.
“Tell me you want it”, he rasped. “Tell me you want me to put another one in you”.
Your answer was a broken moan, your hips arching into him, and that was all the permission Dean Winchester ever needed.
But when he hovered over you, one arm braced on the mattress, the other tracing down your side, from your ribs to your hip, his grin softened. His eyes roaming your face like he couldn’t quite believe he still got to be here, with you, after everything.
“You know”, he murmured, brushing his lips along your jaw, “I could’ve had a lot of lives. None of ‘em would’ve been worth a damn if I didn’t end up right here”.
You swallowed, your fingers curling in his wet hair. “You’re only saying that ‘cause I let you in my bed”.
He chuckled before pressing his mouth to your collarbone. “You were way too good for me back then. Still are”. His lips trailed lower, lingering at the top of your breasts. “Guess I just got lucky”.
You shook your head at him, shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Shut up”, you whispered, and leaned up to catch his lips before he could say something else that would make your heart ache in that helpless way.
Dean kissed you back without hurry, like he had all the time in the world. His palm slid up to cradle the back of your head, thumb brushing behind your ear. When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his grin faded into something softer, something that lived only in the lines around his eyes.
“Not gonna shut up”, he said quietly. “Not about this”. He shifted so his forehead rested against yours. “I ain’t ever been good at the whole ‘big speech’ thing”, he murmured. “But I’ve spent most of my life running head-first into stuff that didn’t matter near as much as I thought it did. This—”, he gave a small, crooked nod toward you, the bed, the closed door, the whole life the two of you had built—“this is the best damn thing I’ve ever been part of. You. The kids. I love you, and I’m not gonna stop sayin’ it just ’cause I sound like a sap”.
Your eyes stung, but you laughed anyway, brushing your nose against his. “You really do talk too much”.
“Yeah”, he said with a huff of a laugh, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Lucky for you, I mean every word”.
"I know", you whispered, the sound catching against his mouth as you kissed him again. “But stop talking for now”, you whispered, “and help me make another one”.
Dean’s laugh rumbled deep in his chest, warm against your skin. He brushed another kiss to your forehead, softer this time. “Yes, ma’am”.
Summary: Eighty-five years after Soldier Boy left you behind, he finds you frozen, kept as leverage, and drags you back into a world you never got to live. Far from Vought’s spotlight, you and Ben try to stitch a marriage back together from ash.
(sequel to "the softest thing")
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language, angst
Word Count: 6657
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
Seven months later, the quiet still felt borrowed. But it had held.
You and Ben lived in a small town outside Oklahoma where the roads ran flat and long under a wide white sky, where people still waved from pickups and left pies cooling on windowsills and minded their own business with the kind of stubborn politeness that passed for mercy. Vought barely existed there except as a name some folks had maybe heard once on a television they didn’t trust much anyway. Supes were city nonsense. News was what happened to other people.
So you got your quiet.
A rented little house with a porch. A kitchen with too much morning light. A bedroom where the dresser drawers stuck in damp weather. A church three streets over with white clapboard siding and a bell that sounded thinner than the one you remembered from home, but near enough.
You and Ben had built a routine because routine was safer than promises.
Coffee. Groceries. Laundry. He fixed things badly at first and better after you made him do them twice. You learned which modern food brands were edible and which ones tasted like punishment. He drove into town for hardware and came back with tools, soap, canned peaches, and once—absurdly—a bouquet of grocery-store carnations he shoved at you like he was handing over ammunition.
You had not let him kiss you much. Not really. A few quiet ones. Careful ones. Mostly when emotion got too large for words and both of you were tired enough not to fight it.
Touch had been slower still. A hand at your back crossing a street. His palm hovering at your elbow when the steps iced over. Fingers brushing yours over a grocery list.
Sex was nowhere near the table. He knew better than to push, though that didn’t stop him from trying his luck now and then in that shameless, infuriating way of his.
He was trying, though. God, he was trying.
With all the charm he’d still somehow kept. With all the rough-edged patience he’d had to teach himself. With all the, "But I’m your husband", he could pack into one glance, one muttered comment, one hand lingering a second too long at the small of your back before he made himself step away.
And every Saturday for the past seven months, Soldier Boy had gone to church.
Because you had insisted.
“You need to wash yourself clean”, you had told him the first week, standing in the kitchen with your arms folded while he stared at you like you’d announced he was joining a convent.
He had barked out a laugh. “Sweetheart, I don’t think a Baptist church in Oklahoma has enough holy water for me”.
“It isn’t funny”.
“No Baby”, he’d said, still grinning a little. “No, it really isn’t”.
Then he went anyway.
The first time, half the congregation had turned to look because even in a town that didn’t care much about the outside world, Ben looked like trouble in a dress shirt . Broad shoulders, hard face and too much confidence even when he was trying to sit still. He had looked personally offended by the hymnal and deeply suspicious of the potluck sign-up sheet. But he went. Sat beside you in polished shoes he hated and listened to the pastor talk about repentance while his jaw worked like he wanted to argue with God directly.
Now it was habit.
This morning, sunlight striped the bedroom floor through the curtains while you got dressed. The air already held the dry warmth of early day. You slipped into your long soft satin skirt, the pale cream one that moved quietly around your legs when you walked. Then you buttoned your blouse and tucked it in with careful fingers, smoothing the fabric at your waist the way you always did. Old school, Ben had called it once, half-teasing and half-awed, watching you pin your hair back at the vanity like the whole century ought to slow down and take notes.
Now he sat on the edge of the bed in dark slacks, bare-chested still, because he had not yet bothered to pull on his shirt. One elbow rested on his knee. He had been pretending to lace one shoe for the last minute and a half, but his hands had gone still.
He was just watching you.
You caught his gaze in the vanity mirror. “What”.
Ben blinked once, as if remembering his own face. “Nothing”.
“Benjamin”.
That made one corner of his mouth twitch.
“You want the truth?”.
“I assume I’ll regret it”.
His eyes moved over you again, slower this time. Not vulgar for once, not even really hungry, though that lived under his skin often enough. Something softer and fuller. The kind of look that made you feel seen in places you weren’t sure you wanted seen.
“You look beautiful”, he said.
The words came plain. No clever line. No grin built around them. Just the truth, and somehow that made them land harder.
You looked back at yourself in the mirror instead of at him. The blouse was modest. The skirt fell nearly to your ankles. Your hair was pinned simply, the way the older women in town wore theirs, though yours always came out a little softer around the face no matter how neat you tried to make it.
“It’s for church”, you said.
“As if that changes anything”.
You almost smiled.
From the bed, he exhaled and finally bent to finish with his shoe. “You know”, he muttered, “this has gotta be some kind of crazy ass joke”.
You reached for your earrings. “What is”.
“Me”. He tugged the lace tighter than necessary. “Sitting in a bedroom in Oklahoma on a Sunday morning—”.
“Saturday”.
He pointed at you without looking up. “That too. Getting ready for church while my wife looks like…”. He stopped, then glanced up with that familiar rough heat in his eyes. “Like that”.
You put one earring in and gave him a warning look through the mirror. “Behave”.
“I am behaving”.
“That was not behaving”.
“That was admiration”.
“That was trouble”.
His mouth twitched again. “Yeah. Maybe”.
You turned from the vanity to reach for your cardigan, and the movement made the satin shift around your legs with a soft brush. Ben’s eyes dropped to the sound. He looked for one second like a man remembering far too much all at once. Then he checked himself.
That part still struck you sometimes. The stopping. The fact that he could now. The visible act of reining himself in not because he feared your anger, but because he had learned, finally learned, that wanting something did not entitle him to reach.
He stood to pull on his shirt. White, clean, sleeves rolled once before he shoved his arms through. On anyone else the motion would have been ordinary. On Ben, even dressing looked faintly combative. Buttons did not deserve that much force, but he gave it to them anyway.
When he was halfway done, he looked at you again and said, quieter now, “You sure I’m not gonna burn alive in there one of these days?”.
You slid on your cardigan and picked a speck of lint from the cuff. “One can hope”.
That got a real laugh out of him.
Then, because he was still Ben and because every so often sincerity came out of him before he could catch it, he added, “I go because you ask”.
You looked up. He was standing at the foot of the bed with his shirt open at the collar.
“I know”, you said.
His expression shifted a little. “And because I like sitting next to you while you sing”.
The room went still for a beat. You hadn’t expected that. Maybe he hadn’t either.
“You sing loud”, he added, with a shrug that tried and failed to make it casual. “Not good. Just loud”.
You stared at him. Then you picked up the nearest hairbrush and threatened to throw it.
He held both hands up at once, laughing properly now. “All right, all right. Beautiful and loud”.
“Awful man”.
“Your husband”.
That could have irritated you. Some days it still did. But this morning the words landed softer than they once would have.
You adjusted his tie when he couldn’t get the knot right.
Neither of you commented on the intimacy of that.
Your fingers worked at the silk while he stood very still above you, looking not at the tie but at your face. You could feel his gaze there.
“Don’t”, you murmured without looking up.
“Can’t help it”.
“Yes, you can”.
“Not this one”.
You tightened the knot a touch more than strictly necessary.
He made a face. “Cruel”.
You smoothed the tie flat against his shirtfront. “Clean enough for church”.
Ben looked down at where your hands rested for the briefest second against his chest, then back to your face. Something warm and almost wondering moved through his expression.
You stepped back before it could become too much. He let you. Then he reached for your coat from the chair and held it open for you without a word.
Small things like that had become the shape of this new life. Not declarations. Not grand speeches. Just a thousand ordinary gestures done a little more carefully than before.
You slid your arms into the coat. He settled it over your shoulders without touching more than he had to. When you turned toward the door, he caught your wrist lightly and you looked up.
His fingers loosened at once, giving you every chance to pull away. His eyes searched yours in that old restless way of his, hope and apology and want all mixed together.
“Can I kiss you before church”, he asked, “or is that sacrilegious?”.
You shouldn’t have laughed. You did anyway. And it surprised both of you.
Then, because he had earned at least this much, you tipped your face up. Ben kissed you softly. Just once. Brief and careful. His hand never left your wrist. His mouth was warm and familiar and still capable of stirring old grief and newer tenderness in the same breath. When he pulled back, he looked steadier somehow. Less haunted for the moment.
“There”, he said quietly.
You smoothed your skirt once, though it didn’t need smoothing. “Try not to fight with the pastor today”.
“No promises”.
“Benjamin”.
He sighed like the burden of righteousness had once again fallen unfairly upon him. “Fine. I’ll behave”.
You gave him a look. He reached for the front door before you could say anything else, opened it, and stood aside for you to step out into the Oklahoma morning first.
-
Over the next few weeks, you started fitting into the town a little better.
Not into the century. That still felt unlikely. But the town, yes.
You learned which grocery store carried decent flour, which older lady at church made a pie crust worth respecting, and which roads Ben should avoid if he didn’t want to get trapped behind tractors for twenty minutes and come home muttering about “agricultural tyranny”.
You also learned, unfortunately, that the world had invented something called smart TVs.
Which was how, on a Tuesday afternoon, you walked back into the living room carrying folded laundry and found Ben sprawled on the sofa, one arm slung over the back, watching the sort of thing that made you drop a dishtowel in pure outrage.
“Benjamin”.
He jerked like he’d been shot. Not because he was ashamed, exactly. More because your voice had hit that sharp note he had learned to fear. He grabbed for the remote. The television went black.
You stood there with a pillowcase over one arm and stared at him.
His expression shifted through guilt, annoyance, and the faintest trace of a grin he was trying very hard not to let happen.
“What", he said, too casually.
You pointed at the television. “In my living room?”.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It’s our living room”.
“That makes it worse”.
Ben rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Sweetheart, I was alone”.
“You were not alone. The Lord was here”.
That finished him. He bent forward with a laugh he tried and failed to hide in his fist, and you marched across the room and smacked the back of his shoulder with the pillowcase.
“This is not funny”.
“It is a little funny”.
“You need help”.
“I’m aware”.
You stood over him in full offended-wife splendor, cardigan buttoned, hair pinned up, and gave him a lecture so pointed that by the time you were done he had actually muttered, “Yes, ma’am”, just to get you to stop.
You did not stop.
But later that night, when you found the television parental controls mysteriously switched on and Ben acting like it had happened by divine intervention, you had to bite the inside of your cheek not to smile.
Another day, you discovered TikTok. This happened by accident, which somehow made it worse.
A woman from church had said, “Oh, honey, you should look up recipes on there” and you had nodded politely, only to discover three hours later that modern people apparently took cooking instructions from dancing girls, shirtless men, and women narrating casseroles in voices too cheerful to trust.
You were scandalized.
You were also fascinated.
So the next morning you announced, with great dignity, that you were making “that baked feta pasta everybody seems possessed by”.
Ben looked up from the newspaper. “The what”.
“Don’t mock. It has millions of views”.
He lowered the paper slowly. “You know what, that sentence alone tells me this century was a mistake”.
Still, he hovered in the kitchen doorway while you worked, arms crossed, watching you treat the whole absurd thing with way too much seriousness. Cherry tomatoes. Olive oil. A block of feta you regarded with suspicion. Pasta boiled properly because no internet person was going to tell you how to salt water.
When it came out of the oven and you stirred it all together, Ben leaned over the pot, sniffed once, and said, “That actually smells pretty good”.
You gave him a smug look. “I know”.
He took one bite that evening, chewed, and pointed his fork at you.
“Don’t get cocky”.
“You ate half the pan”.
Also, your mouth had grown back. Just in little flashes. A comment under your breath. A look. A soft answer with enough edge tucked into it to make him blink, then grin despite himself. Ben had started to live for those moments in a way he would never have admitted plainly. You could tell. Especially when you caught him off guard.
One Saturday after church, while he was trying and failing to fix the porch step without swearing in front of Mrs. Tallou next door, you stood in the doorway and said, “You know, for a man who spent years being called a hero, you are surprisingly bad with a hammer”.
Ben looked up from where he was crouched with the toolbox at his feet.
Mrs. Tallou covered a laugh with one gloved hand.
“You trying to embarrass me in front of the neighbors?”.
You folded your arms. “No. I think you managed that on your own”.
He stared at you for one beat, then laughed hard enough he had to sit back on his heels.
That night, he kissed you in the kitchen while the dishwater cooled in the sink and murmured against your mouth, “You’re getting brave”.
You had looked up at him and answered, very softly, “Maybe I’m just remembering myself”.
That had shut him up in the best possible way.
You baked more too. Partly because it calmed you. Partly because baking still made the house smell like something stable and decent and yours. Partly because in a world that had become almost too strange to hold in your head all at once, flour and butter and sugar still obeyed.
You made banana bread from another TikTok recipe and declared it “acceptable, though overpraised”. You made cinnamon rolls one rainy afternoon that had Ben standing in the kitchen pretending not to hover while they cooled. You learned that modern ovens ran hot and modern measuring cups were somehow more annoying than old ones.
And then one day, without telling him why, you made his favorite cake from the fifties.
Yellow cake. Chocolate frosting. A simple one. The one he had once loved so much he used to eat ate night in the dark kitchen while you were asleep. The one you’d made for his birthday the year before Vought gave him Compound V, when he’d come into the kitchen behind you in his work shirt, stolen a fingerful of frosting, and kissed your temple while you pretended to be annoyed.
He came in from the yard that afternoon smelling like cut grass and stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. For a second he only stood there.
Then he looked at the cake. At you. Back to the cake.
“No”, he said quietly.
You looked up from the counter. “No what”.
“That’s not fair”. His voice had gone rough in a way that had nothing to do with humor.
You wiped your hands on a dish towel. “Do you want a slice or not?”.
Ben crossed the room and stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell sunlight on his skin and the faint soap from his shower that morning.
“You remember that?”.
“Yes”.
Something moved over his face too quickly to name.
When you cut him a piece, his hand brushed yours taking the plate. He looked down at it for a second like he was afraid of what it might do to him.
Then he took one bite. Closed his eyes. And had to set the fork down before he said, very low, “Jesus”.
You smiled a little. “Still good?”.
He looked at you over the plate, eyes too bright for something as ordinary as cake.
“Yeah”, he said. “Still good”.
It was a few nights after that when he asked about the baby.
The question came out of nowhere and yet, somehow, not out of nowhere at all.
You were in bed with a book open and unread in your lap. Ben sat on the edge of the mattress. He said your name first. Just your name. You looked up.
“I saw it in the file”, he said.
Your chest tightened before he even finished.
“The medical records”.
You closed the book carefully and set it aside. Your fingers stayed resting on the cover for a second longer than necessary. “I didn’t know for sure”, you said after a moment. “Not really”.
Ben didn’t move.
“I thought maybe”, you went on quietly. “I’d been late. Tired. But then… then it happened”.
He stared at the floorboards.
You looked down at your own hands in the blanket.
“For over two years before that, it never worked”. Your voice thinned around the old shame, still somehow alive enough to sting. “I used to cry in the bathroom so you wouldn’t hear me. I felt like…”. You let out a small breath. “Like a terrible wife”.
Ben’s head came up so fast it almost startled you. “No”.
The word came sharp. Immediate.
You looked at him.
“No”, he said again, softer now but no less certain. His jaw flexed once. “That was never on you”.
The old grief shifted inside you, surprised to find itself contradicted so forcefully after all these years. You looked down. “I know that now”, you murmured. “Mostly”.
For a few seconds neither of you spoke.
Then Ben rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, glanced at you sideways, and because he was still himself enough to reach for humor when the pain got too close, he said, “Well”.
You blinked at him.
He looked almost cautious now, which on Ben was a strange enough sight on its own.
“I’m just saying”, he muttered, “if we ever wanted to… take another crack at it, I do still remember the basic mechanics”.
You stared at him. Then your cheeks turned hot all at once. “Benjamin”.
He held up both hands. “What? I’m trying to raise morale”.
“You are impossible”.
“Not impossible”. His mouth twitched. “Motivated”.
You pulled the blanket higher though it did absolutely nothing to hide your face. “That was indecent”.
“Probably”.
“You should be ashamed”.
“I usually am”, he said, and then, because he saw the way your mouth wanted to soften despite yourself, he added more gently, “I meant someday. If you ever wanted. No pressure”.
The room settled around that. Your face was still warm. Your heart too. Because the truth was, for all your modesty and all the hurt still sitting between you, you had missed him. Not just the idea of him. Not just having a husband in the house or another body in the bed. Him close. His weight of attention. His mouth at your temple. His hand at the small of your back. The private softness that had once belonged only to the two of you.
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then you said, quietly, “You talk too much”. That made him grin.
But only a few nights later, it happened.
You had been lying awake listening to him breathe. You turned toward him first. His head shifted on the pillow, eyes finding you in the dim.
“You all right?”, he asked, voice rough with sleep.
You nodded once.
Then, because the words felt old and tender and humiliating and true all at once, you whispered, “I want my husband again”.
He went completely still.
Your hand found his wrist over the blanket. Warm skin. Steady pulse. “And I want”, you said, softer now, “to be your wife again”.
Ben made the smallest sound in his throat. He turned onto his side slowly, like any sudden movement might scare the moment away. Even then he didn’t touch you yet.
“Yeah?”, he asked.
You looked at his face, half-shadowed on the pillow beside yours, and saw how hard he was trying not to rush even this. “Yes”, you whispered.
His hand came to your cheek. When you leaned into it, his eyes closed for one beat, like that small permission had hit him harder than anything else.
Then he kissed you.
Slowly. Like he had all the time in the world to relearn you right. Your hand slid up into his hair. He shuddered at that, the reaction so immediate and honest it made your own eyes sting.
When his hand moved to your waist, it stayed light until you pulled him closer. When his mouth found your throat, it was with reverence instead of hunger first. When the old want came into him stronger, sharper, he held it back with visible effort until you asked for more in your soft, shy way that had always undone him worse than anything bold ever could.
It was not the same as before. It could never be. It was gentler. Sadder. More careful. Full of pauses and quiet checks and his voice rough in the dark asking, “Like this?” and “Feels good?” as though he needed every answer from your own mouth before he trusted himself to keep going.
And when you finally let yourself have him again, it was not because you had forgotten anything. It was because, for the first time in a very long time, he was loving you like your heart and body were both things worth protecting.
By the time it was over, you were utterly spent. You lay half across him with your cheek on his warm chest, one leg tangled weakly with his under the sheets, the summer-dark room smelling like cotton, skin, and the open window where the night air still moved the curtains in slow, lazy breaths. Ben’s heart beat strong and steady under your ear. Sweat cooled along your spine. Every muscle in your body felt loose and heavy, the kind of deep exhaustion that only came after being held too close for too long in the best and worst ways.
He had not stopped after the first time. Or the second.
By the end of it, more than an hour had slipped by in pieces too soft and blurred to count properly, and now you could barely lift your head. Your fingers rested uselessly against his chest. Even your scolding energy had mostly gone thin. Mostly.
Ben, unfortunately, looked far too pleased with himself.
His hand moved lazily up and down your back, broad and warm, while the other rested at your waist beneath the sheet. Every now and then his fingers flexed there like he still couldn’t quite believe you were really in his arms letting him hold you like this.
Then, in that low, rough voice that always sounded like trouble when it dropped into a tease, he said, “You alive there, sweetheart?”.
You made a faint, exhausted noise against his skin.
He chuckled under you. “Thought I might’ve fucked you tired”.
You lifted your head just enough to give him a glare. It was not your strongest glare. You knew that. He knew it too. That only made his mouth twitch.
“Don’t you start”, you murmured, voice breathy and ruined with tiredness.
“There it is". His grin turned lazy and shameless. “That face”.
You narrowed your eyes. “What face”.
“That offended little look you get when I say something, in your words, filthy”. His thumb brushed once at your side, absent and warm. “Cute as hell”.
Your cheeks heated at once. “Benjamin”.
The satisfaction on his face was immediate. He loved this. You could tell he loved this. Not just teasing you, but specifically getting you just scandalized enough to lecture him. Over the past months it had become one of his favorite games and he played it with the delighted patience of a man who had discovered a private treasure.
“You hear your voice when you scold me?”, he asked, entirely too smug. “All soft and breathy”.
You tried to push yourself up straighter and failed halfway, your arm giving out and dropping you right back onto his chest. Ben laughed outright then. Not cruelly. Warmly.
“You’re impossible”, you muttered.
“And you married me anyway”.
“I was young”.
“You still like me”.
That earned him another look, weaker than before but no less sincere.
Ben only smirked and brushed your hair back from your face. His touch gentled almost immediately under the teasing. That was the way of him now more often than not, mouth shameless, hands careful.
“Go on”, he said. “Tell me I’m indecent”.
“You are indecent”.
“Mm-hm”.
“And vulgar”.
“Sure”.
“And entirely too full of yourself”.
That actually made him grin. “There she is”.
You tried to stay stern. You really did. But exhaustion and warmth and the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek made it difficult to hold onto proper outrage for long. Your eyelids had gone heavy again. The room had softened at the edges. His hand kept moving in that slow rhythm over your back, making it even harder to remember why you were meant to be offended.
Ben noticed the exact moment your body started melting back into him.
His voice changed with it, dropping lower, softer. “Tired?”.
You let out a tiny hum that was probably yes.
He pressed his mouth to the top of your head. “Yeah. Thought so”.
-
Over the next few months, Ben stopped pretending he could keep his hands to himself. And you stopped pretending you wanted him to.
It was small and constant. His palm on your lower back when you passed him in the kitchen, his mouth finding the back of your neck while you stirred a pot, his fingers sliding into your hand like he owned the right to comfort now and wasn’t wasting it. He was still cocky about it too, because of course he was.
You’d be rolling dough, flour on your cheek, and he’d lean in and murmur something filthy-soft in your ear just to watch you freeze, scandalized. Then you’d swat him with the dish towel and hiss, “Benjamin”, and he’d grin like that was his favorite hymn.
He stayed gentle with you. Always checking without making a big show of it, always in control in a way he hadn’t been decades ago. But he was still so… him. All muscle and heat, that masculine smell of soap and sweat and sun, shoulders filling doorways, voice so deep when he was amused. It made it easy to be soft again. Easy to be your feminine self, not because he demanded it, but because he made room for it like it was precious.
Some mornings you didn’t even make it to coffee before he’d catch you around the waist, pull you back against him, and mutter, “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart”, like you were the problem.
And you’d roll your eyes and say, “Then go be strong somewhere else”.
He never did.
He took you shopping in the next town over like it was a mission.
He was weirdly into checking the modern world’s lingerie while you stood in front of a rack of ripped jeans looking like you might faint.
That made his mouth twitch. “Try ‘em on”.
You did, because he was your husband and because, annoyingly, the jeans fit. You came out of the dressing room stiff as a board, tugging the hem of the too-short shirt downward.
Ben leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dragging over you like he couldn’t help it. “Yeah”, he said, smug. “You look hot”.
You narrowed your eyes. “I look like I’m auditioning for sin”.
“Same thing”.
You threw the hanger at him. He caught it and laughed like he’d won.
Then you found a little 50s-style dress with soft fabric, modest neckline and a nipped waist. You stepped out and immediately felt like yourself again.
Ben stopped talking. For a beat, he just looked at you like the air had changed.
Then he cleared his throat and said, rougher, “That one”.
You tilted your head. “You like it?”.
He blinked like you’d asked whether he liked oxygen. “Yeah, I like it. Christ”.
He bought it without checking the price, then acted annoyed about the whole thing in the parking lot because being openly tender still embarrassed him.
He learned to do small domestic things without acting like they were beneath him. He replaced a broken hinge. He even installed a smoke detector and complained the entire time.
“Why’s it gotta beep.”
“So we don’t die.”
“I’m not dyin’.”
“I am.”
He stared at you.
Then he installed two.
At night, he’d pull you into his lap on the couch like it was casual, like it was nothing, like his hands hadn’t once been the reason you feared beds. He’d watch whatever you put on. Old movies, sermons or the news he pretended not to care about, and he’d keep one hand on your thigh under a blanket with his thumb moving slow over your skin.
And when you scolded him for the way his mouth worked, for the way he teased, for the way he’d whisper something indecent at the worst times, he’d grin and say, “You’re cute when you’re mad”.
“I am not cute”.
“You’re fucking adorable”.
“You need prayer”.
“I need you”.
That shut you up every time, because it sounded too honest to fight.
Then days were passing.
You were tired in a different way. Hungry, but picky. Your temper a little shorter. Your body softer around the edges.
One morning you were folding laundry and Ben leaned in the doorway watching you like he was doing math.
“You’re late”, he said.
You blinked. “Late for what”.
He stared at you like you were joking. “Your period”.
Heat rushed to your face. “Benjamin”.
“What? You are”.
“That is not your business".
He walked over and took the calendar off the kitchen wall with one finger like it had personally offended him. Flipped the page. Counted silently.
Then he looked at you, brows lifted, mouth already twisting into that smug, dirty humor.
“Sweetheart”, he drawled, “you are so bad at that simple women stuff”.
You grabbed a dish towel and snapped it at him. “Stop talking”.
He caught your wrist gently and his eyes went bright in a way you recognized instantly. Not fear, not even shock. Something that looked suspiciously like excitement, filtered through Ben’s ego like everything else.
“We’re goin’ to the store”, he said.
You frowned. “For what”.
He smirked. “For the little stick that tells you whether you made me a baby”.
Your mouth fell open.
At the pharmacy he bought two tests. Back home, he hovered so hard you finally snapped, “Do you want to come in with me too?”.
Ben leaned on the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed. “I’m your husband”.
“You are not watching me take a test”.
He looked mildly offended. “I wasn’t gonna watch”.
“You’re literally standing guard”.
He shrugged. “Habit.”
You shut the door in his face.
From behind it, you heard him mutter, “If it’s positive, I’m naming it John Wayne”.
“You are not!”. A pause. Then, quieter: “Okay. Maybe we talk about it".
When you finally opened the door, he tried to look casual and failed completely. His eyes went straight to your hands. You held up the test with a palm that had started shaking. Ben went still. Then his face changed.
“Yeah?”, he whispered.
You nodded once, breath catching.
Ben exhaled hard through his nose like he’d been punched, then stepped forward and stopped himself halfway, hands flexing at his sides.
“You okay?”, he asked, too careful for a man like him.
You swallowed. “I think so”.
He nodded, eyes bright, and tried to make his mouth work around something cocky. Something dirty. Something that wouldn’t show how much it meant.
What came out instead was, “Holy shit”.
Then he cleared his throat and recovered just enough to add, “Guess I’m still good at my part”.
You smacked his arm. He laughed and finally, finally, he reached for you. Slow. Asking with his body first. When you didn’t pull away, his arms came around you like he’d been holding his breath for months. “I got you”, he murmured into your hair.
-
The morning you told the pastor, the sun came up clean and gold over the little town like it didn’t know anything about the years you’d lost.
You sat on the porch step afterward with a glass of water sweating in your hand, watching dust drift down the road behind an early truck. Ben paced the yard, then stopped and pretended he wasn’t pacing by “checking” the fence post for absolutely no reason. He’d been doing that a lot since the test. Hovering, without admitting it. Like if he kept moving, the joy couldn’t turn into fear.
You watched him for a moment.
“Ben”, you called.
He stopped instantly. Looked at you like you’d snapped a leash. “What”.
“You’re wearing a hole in the grass”.
He blinked. Then that crooked little grin tried to show up and couldn’t quite find its place. “Habit”.
“You’re allowed to sit”.
He hesitated, then came over and dropped down beside you with a heavy exhale, shoulder brushing yours. His knee bumped yours and stayed touching, as if he’d decided he didn’t want any space left between you today.
You held your water with both hands, staring out at the quiet street.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then Ben said, rough and oddly careful, “You want tea?”.
You almost smiled. It was such an ordinary question. The kind of question a husband asked in the morning in a small house on a quiet street. The kind of question you’d once answered without thinking.
“Yes”, you said softly. “Please”.
Ben nodded like he could do that at least. Like tea was something he could make right when so much else had been ruined. He stood to go inside, then paused and looked down at you. His eyes moved to your hand. To your wedding ring. To his ring on his own finger. He reached out, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted, and tucked one loose strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles barely grazed your cheek.
“Still can’t believe you’re here”, he murmured.
You leaned into the touch before you could stop yourself. “Neither can I”.
He huffed a breath through his nose and left his hand there for a second longer than necessary. Then he went inside.
You listened to him in the kitchen: cabinet doors opening, the old kettle filling, the low curse when he bumped his hip on the counter because he still hadn’t learned that small houses didn’t move out of the way for big men.
The sound settled something in you. It reminded you, painfully and sweetly, of another small house. Another quiet street. Another kitchen where you used to sit with a mending basket at your feet and listen for footsteps that didn’t come.
Back then, you had waited in silence. Now, you didn’t have to.
Ben came back out with two mugs. He’d even put a spoonful of sugar in yours the way you liked without asking. That made your chest ache in a small, secret way you didn’t name.
He sat beside you again and handed you the mug carefully, then stared out at the street.
After a minute he said, “You scared?”.
You glanced at him. He didn’t look at you when he asked it. He was looking past the fence line, past the mailbox, out at nothing. The question sounded like it had cost him.
You blew gently on the tea. “Yes”.
Ben nodded once. Like he had expected that. Then he finally looked at you. His eyes were too honest for his own comfort. “Me too”, he admitted.
You shifted your mug to one hand and reached for his other on the porch step. His hand was warm, callused and heavy. He stiffened for half a second, then let your fingers lace with his like he’d been waiting for permission.
“You know”, you said softly, “in the beginning… I used to sit and sew and listen for you”.
Ben’s mouth tightened. “I know”.
“I stayed up because I thought one day you’d walk through the door and be him again”.
Ben’s gaze dropped to your joined hands. For a moment you saw the old shame try to rise. The old instinct to get mean or dismissive to escape it. But he didn’t. He stayed. You watched the choice happen in his face, and it made something in you loosen, just a little.
“I’m… sorry”, he said, quiet as breath.
You didn’t answer with forgiveness. But you squeezed his hand. Ben’s thumb moved across your knuckles.
“You still gonna make me go to church every Saturday?”, he asked.
You tilted your head. “Yes”.
He sighed like a man enduring terrible hardship. “Unbelievable”.
“You need it”.
“You need it too”, he grumbled, then added, quieter, “I’ll go”.
You smiled into your mug. "I know".
———————————
A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 AND I may have a surprise for you 🙈
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It's called an EZRide+ and you can learn where to find them here. They're about $1100 US as of June 2026, but you might need to buy additional parts to attach them to your chair, depending on the style of chair.
Remember to put links to products like this, they're usually hard to find and a lot of people need to know they exist.
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When I get blood samples at work sometimes they’re still warm from being imminently inside the patient’s veins and my hands are always cold because all the labs Ive work in are in the basement and they keep it kinda cold for whatever reason (and I’m also just a chilly kid).
And I clutch the little warm tubes of blood and feel this sick person warming my hands and I think about how kind you might be and how I wish I could hold your hand and how badly, how really really badly, I want you to get better and stay warm and hold someone’s hand again.
And anyway sometimes it’s better to not think so vividly about the people I’m doing tests for. I’m a good little cog in a vast machine of people all trying to heal and cure, and my cog feels so fucking small sometimes. But I hope the blood I prepare for you helps you breathe better and laugh and wake up feeling well rested.
We’ve never met but you warmed my hands and I want you to know I love you and I’m rooting for you.
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