Just A Girl Whos Lost In Her Own Head

The first week had almost killed him. He’d barely slept—and when he did nightmares of Her, just out of reach and screaming, would carve into his chest as the drums overtook him—so he’d wait until he was about to fucking collapse and then do it on the couch. Never on the bed. He didn’t go into the bedroom except to get to the bathroom. And every time he did, he had to fight the sick feeling in his body that She wasn’t there. He’d almost wrecked the apartment in wrath as well, smashing two chairs against the wall and shattering the TV. Then he’d been furious with himself for losing his fucking control, because She’d be upset the TV was broken. 

How the fuck is that helping anything, Benjamin? She’d cross her arms and glare at him. Then make him clean it up while She watched, cross legged on the couch. Still not really that mad at him, because Ben would grunt and glower at Her but do it all the same. Then he’d steal Her chocolate from the cafeteria in a silent apology, and even though she’d already forgiven him She would smile at him and tease him for being a grump as he watched Her eat.

She was haunting him. Ben knew Her too well, She’d planted herself so deep in his every thought that She was everywhere. Not just scattered through the apartment—clothes in drawers he had to pretend he couldn’t see, unfinished books on tables, and an empty coffee mug in the sink—but plaguing his every move. He couldn’t eat or cook without hearing Her frown at instructions and ingredients. 

What does “crisp up the edges” mean? Like, burn lightly? 

Ben had to stop cooking. It was wrong when Her voice was there but he couldn’t kiss the top of Her head or wrap his body around her own, hugging her into him as they both frowned at the stupid recipe.  

As such, at first he’d only left the apartment to get food—stalking back immediately after because if the Pussy Brigade kept looking at him with fucking pity he’d kill them all and that would defiantly make Her pissed—and to attend briefings. Boring, pointless fucking briefings where Butcher would say they still didn’t have a lead—at that point they didn’t know anything except that She was with Homelander and Vought said she was in “recovery”, so nobody had even fucking seen her—and Ben had to find another way to live with himself. With how he’d failed Her.

The Pussy Brigade had been pissed with him. MM’s glares had become somehow damn angrier than before, Annie and Hughie kept fucking sighing, Frenchie looked at Ben like he was about to rip everyone’s heads from their shoulders at the smallest word in his direction, and Butcher and Kimiko were acting like Ben was the fucking asshole. Like they weren’t the ones sitting on their fucking asses, and Ben was slowing them down. He had been attending their stupid fucking meetings and managing not to kill anybody when every single fucking one ended the same way, with Her not any closer to coming home. So every single one of them could go fuck themselves until She was. 

Then he’d been called to the dining hall for another meeting, and found only MM and Annie waiting for him. 

“You need to talk to her sister,” MM snapped. “She needs to know what happened.” 

“No.” Ben’s grunt was meant to be final. He didn’t want to talk to Violet. He didn’t want to be reminded of Her, he already had to see Her perfect face whenever he opened his phone. He had no desire to see her in all the similarities and mimicked expressions on Her sister’s features, or hear her in the way they both always spoke with a frantic pace, as if the words might get away from them. 

“We’re not fucking asking-“ 

Annie had stopped MM with a hand, looking at Ben carefully. “She’d want her sister to know.” 

She would. She’d be pissed Violet didn’t already know. But Ben couldn’t. “One of you pussies fucking do it then.” 

“It has to be you,” Annie had said Her name gently. “She would want it to be you.” 

Ben had wanted to kill Annie. To tell her she had no fucking clue what She would want him to do, but she was right. Ben had to do it. This was a fitting fucking punishment for failing Her.

They’d called Violet. Annie had wanted Ben to see her in person, but MM had decided it was too dangerous. So they’d called her, using MM’s phone. 

She’d asked Ben what the hell had happened, and he’d told her. 

The line had gone silent for a long, painful minute before Violet spoke again.

“You’re going to get her back.”

Even though it felt like the words were clawing at his throat, Ben had parroted what he’d been telling himself since he’d lost Her. “Like I fucking said, we have to kill Homelander-“ 

“I don’t give a shit about Homelander,” Violet had snapped. “You’re going to get her back.” 

“You think I don’t fucking want to?! You think this isn’t fucking killing me?” Ben had almost roared into the phone. He knew he’d failed, he didn’t fucking need this. Nobody needed to tell Ben he’d lost Her. He’d never be able to goddamn forget it if he tried.

“I know this is fucking killing you. And I don’t goddamn care.” Violet’s response had been cold. Furious. “She’s my sister, and I want her back. And if you care about her even a quarter as much as I think you do, you’ll want her back too. So go get her back.”

It hadn’t been a question or a plea. It had been a command. Ben was going to get Her back. Fuck Homelander, fuck Butcher and MM and Mallory. Ben cared about Her, more than he’d ever cared about anything, and if he didn’t get Her by storming the Tower he’d rip the world apart until he found Her and brought her back. Brought her home. 

Violet had hung up the line, Ben had chucked MM’s phone back at him, and turned to stomp back to his room. To get his shield and fucking bring Her home. He’d spent a week doing it the team’s way, fucking sitting on his ass like a pussy, and that was fucking it. He’d get her back, his way, no matter fucking what. 

MM had stopped him. Planted himself in Ben’s path with a glare. 

“Move.” Ben had hissed. There wasn’t fucking time for this. He had to do something. Get Her back right goddamn now. 

“Stop being a fucking child,” MM’s words had been blunt. Furious. And Ben’s vision had gone red. 

“The fuck did you just say to me-“ 

“You’re being a whiny, pathetic, sulking child.” MM hadn’t flinched, and Ben had been certain he had a death wish. “I sure as hell understand why Violet’s angry. But she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. We’re going to get her back, but when it’s safe.” MM had said Her name, and Ben had almost broken the teeth in his own mouth. “She’s strong. She’s smart. She wouldn’t want us to compromise the mission for her.” 

Of course She wouldn’t want that. She was always fucking throwing herself in the line of fire, taking bullets meant for everyone else because she could. But she shouldn’t fucking have to. Ben didn’t give a shit how strong She was, she shouldn’t keep fucking doing this to herself. He couldn’t keep fucking allowing everyone to just let her do this to herself. 

“I don’t give a single fucking ass’s ballsack.” Ben had hissed. MM needed to be crystal fucking clear where his priorities were. Not with the Pussy Brigade, not with the mission. With Her. Always with Her. “I’ve already fucking wasted too much goddamn time pussyfooting around for you-“ 

“This isn’t for me, you dense motherfucker,” MM was still in Ben’s way, and Ben had been more than ready to fucking move him. “Or for Annie, or Hughie, or even fucking Violet. It’s for her.” 

“Fuck you, you don’t know what the goddamn hell you’re talking-“ 

“She hasn’t broken out,” it was Annie who spoke, and Ben had turned on her with a scowl. “She’s still there-“ 

“I’m well fucking aware-“ 

“For a reason, you fucking asshole.” MM’s sneer had been cold. “We all know how strong she is. She could’ve broken out-“ 

“Her fire wasn’t working.” Ben’s fists had been curled at his side, and he’d felt fucking sick. “It just stopped. She can’t break out, she fucking needs me-“ 

“We haven’t damn seen her. We don’t know even if she’s in the fucking tower or not. And no matter what, we have to play this like she would.” 

That had halted Ben. “What in Christ’s fucking asshole are you talking about.” 

“We can’t play this like Homelander. Or Butcher.” Or you. Annie hadn’t said the last words, but Ben knew they were implied. “She’s the one who’s there. Who knows what is and isn’t possible, what precautions Vought does and doesn’t have. What they’re planning with Her. Right now we’re in the dark, but she isn’t. So we have to play this like she would, like she’d tell us to do if she were here.”

Ben had been silent, trying to find a good reason to not just fucking killing Annie and MM and storm Vought Tower to get Her back. He didn’t care about the mission or plan anymore. He just needed Her home. With him.

It’s not about us right now, Ben. Her voice had echoed in his head, gentle but firm. Don’t throw a temper tantrum, I’ll come home soon. Once this is over. Trust me. 

She’d play it smart. He’d known that immediately, that She’d play it smart. She’d play it underhanded and unfair—with sharp words and dirty tricks—but fucking smart, and She’d get the job done. At any cost that She deemed truly unavoidable. 

Ben really fucking wished She’d start realizing that she wasn’t an unavoidable cost. 

But that’s how She’d play it. She’d use herself like a weapon and then crawl back to Ben with Her guts falling from her body. She’d be planning something. Ben knew Her, he knew that she’d be planning something. But She was so fucking afraid of Homelander. There was no certainty that she was Her right now, that her mind was currently capable of finding a way out of this.

“We don’t know where she is,” MM had said slowly, and Ben had remained silent. “And we don’t have a way to get her safely, except killing Homelander. Don’t be a fucking idiot, you asshole.”

“We won’t rest until she’s back,” Annie had added, tone a hell of a lot more soft than MM’s. “I promise.” 

Ben had stormed past them, uninterested in their fucking promises, and tried to find a way around this. A good reason that he could just go get Her.

He could go to the tower. Demand Her back. 

And I’m sure they’d be super chill about that. Homelander would just hand me over and apologize for the inconvenience. 

He could just fucking kill Homelander right now. Stop waiting for whatever pointless fucking shit Butcher and Mallory were planning and kill Homelander now.

He’s not going to fight you. Not after we kicked his ass on the lawn. He’d see you and fly off.

He could bribe someone-

With what money, Pretty Boy? 

If you’re so fucking clever, Ben had hissed at the voice. Then what would you do? 

I’d play it out. I’d make a plan and then I’d play it out. 

You always shut the hell down when you’re afraid, no plans, barely even full goddamn sentences. And you’re fucking terrified of Homelander. 

Wow, I wonder why. 

“Shut the fuck up.” Ben had snapped that last part aloud, and Her laugh had carried on the wind. 

He’d sat in it, arguing with Her voice in his head for hours until his phone had buzzed on the table.

William Butcher; asshole, bother as much as possible.

Emergency. Dining hall, right now.

Don’t make me fucking drag you. 

They’d all been waiting when Ben had arrived. Huddled around Hughie’s laptop with wide eyes and mouths hanging open like fucking idiots. 

“Unless the emergency is you pussies doing a fucking circle-jerk-“ 

“It’s not,” Hughie had spoken over Ben, and his eyes had widened slightly as he saw Ben’s murderous scowl, realizing what he’d just done. “Uh, I mean you’ll want to see this. It’s important. It’s uh,” Hughie had opened and closed his mouth like a fucking fish, and Annie had taken over. 

“It’s her. It’s-“ 

Annie said Her name, and might have been about to say more, but Ben hadn’t fucking cared. He’d crossed the room in two steps and ripped the laptop up from the table. Ignored the protests of the group as he’d stared at the screen. 

They had been watching some fucking cable channel, with BREAKING NEWS written in bold letters on the bottom of the feed. It was a fucking interview, where a charismatic haircut in a suit was behind a desk, smiling at Homelander. Smiling at Her. 

Her. 

Alive. In public. In immeasurable fucking danger, but within an arms reach. She wasn’t speaking, just smiling and looking between Homelander and the host as they spoke. Laughing on a perfect fucking cue when Homelander made a horrible joke. 

But Her eyes were fucking empty. That wasn’t her real smile, or real laugh, and no part of Her body was relaxed. She didn’t look harmed, but it was impossible for Her to look harmed. Her hair was styled perfectly, but she never wore it like that. She wasn’t speaking, even as Homelander compared them to Romeo and Juliet and called it the best love story ever told. She hated Romeo and Juliet. She’d lectured Ben at least twice about how it was a fucking cautionary tale, a tragedy, not aspirational. She was laughing at jokes Ben knew she wouldn’t find funny, and Her eyes were fucking dull. She was sat with her hands on the table, and he could see Her middle finger, tapping slightly. 

“Unfortunately, Soldier Boy got away. What are your plans going forward to bring him to justice?” The Haircut had been asking Homelander, and She’d blinked. The only sign she’d heard. 

“Well, I was so focused on saving the love of my life,” Homelander had placed a gloved hand over hers, and She given him a too sweet smile. “That Soldier Boy managed to run away. I could’ve caught him, of course, but she needed me. So I stayed. But we’re working on a way to find him, and eliminate his threat all together. Permanently.”

The Haircut had nodded, and looked at Her. “The public is dying to know more about you and Homelander’s plans, now that you’re reunited. What can you tell us?” 

She hadn’t even opened her mouth, letting Homelander speak for Her. “Right now we’re just focusing on each other. Building a strong foundation for our future together. You’ll hear more when we’re ready to share,” Homelander had given a shark-like grin. “And it will be juicy. Right, honey?” 

She’d nodded. No words, only a nod. 

Ben had been about to smash the laptop and leave. Go fucking find Her. This was live, she was somewhere in the city right fucking now, and he’d made up his mind. She wasn’t herself, her eyes were vacant and she was never fucking silent. She needed him, and he was going to find her. 

But then She’d looked right into the camera. For only a half-second—he’d almost fucking missed it in his anger—She’d made eye-contact with Ben through the camera. And her face had morphed. Twisted into one Ben recognized for just that split moment, before growing blank once more. 

I’m okay, Benjamin. Trust me. I’ll see you soon. 

She’d see him soon. And when she’d stood up—hand clasped in Homelander’s without fingers tangled, without touching him beyond his glove—she’d been wearing green. It had been a hideous dress, fucking frills and bows and lace and one size too small. But green. 

And Ben understood. 

She was playing this her way. She was asking him to trust her. She’d see him soon. 

He fucking hated this. But She was asking him to trust her, and he did. She was still Her, perfect,  and she was wearing green.

She’d see him soon. 

Ben had chucked the laptop back at Hughie, and glowered around the table. “What’s your fucking plan.” 

“We, uh, don’t really have one-“ 

“Then fucking make one.” Ben had sneered at Hughie. At all of them. “Now.” 

Annie had frowned at him. “I mean, I don’t think that’s important, not when she just-“ 

“It’s the only fucking thing that’s important.” Ben had hissed. “If you goddamn pussy idiots want to play it like her, do it fucking right. No fucking room for error, or doubt, or goddamn hesitation. If we’re getting Her back by killing Homelander, then let’s fucking kill Homelander.”

Butcher had nodded. “Welcome back, Gov. Whatever it fuckin takes.” 

Ben had left. He hadn’t answered Butcher, because he’d have just killed him. Split his face open in fury. The pussy didn’t fucking get it. Butcher’s whatever it takes was about the job. Ben’s whatever it takes was about Her. Getting Her back, making her safe. He was a goddamn fucking hypocrite, and he didn’t fucking care. 

Whatever it takes.

Not Butcher’s whatever it takes—what Ben had once meant, a lifetime ago—where he was really saying at any and all costs. 

Her whatever it takes. Where she was saying at my cost. At my sacrifice. 

Her sacrifice was giving every part of Her. Letting Her worst fears and nightmares become reality. 

Ben’s sacrifice was going to be his fucking sanity. His peace of mind traded for the torture of failing Her. Of having to let Her do this. But she’d done it, and he’d be fucking damned if she did it for nothing. She was playing this how she wanted, and Ben knew a lot better than to stand in her way. He’d play fucking nice, and do what the Pussy Brigade told him to, because She’d come home to him. 

He’d failed his most important promise to Her. That was broken, shattered, gone into the fucking past.

Now he had to let Her do what she needed to do. And then everything would be keeping Her safe. 

She’d need to be safe when she came home. Ben had to keep himself the fuck together, so he could hold Her when she came home. So he could be Her home, and make sure she still trusted him to touch her, care for her, and- 

Ben had nearly run straight into the Kid. 

He didn’t look like Homelander. There wasn’t anything evil on the Kid’s face, anything deeply gut twisting and skin crawling. Homelander’s face was fucking wrong. Weak. Inhuman. The Kid just looked like a damn kid. He had the same blond hair and blue eyes that Homelander did, but a lot of fucking people had blond hair and blue eyes. Fucking Annie had blonde hair and blue eyes. And, to keep it damn fair, Homelander didn’t look like Ben. Homelander wasn’t Ben. So the Kid probably wasn’t Homelander.

But Ben had lost Her for the Kid. 

So he didn’t really give a shit about if the Kid was Homelander or not. Butcher had what he fucking wanted, and She had given it to him. Butcher had traded Her for the Kid. And Ben didn’t want a goddamn thing to do with either of them. 

The Kid had been about to say something. Maybe call Ben fucking grandpa again. She’d have loved that. She’d have fucking fallen over laughing and then kissed Ben’s scowl, calling him an old grump.

Something hurt deep inside Ben’s chest. He might be doing this Her way, might have resigned himself to sitting on his fucking ass and working fully with the Pussy Brigade, but he didn’t need another fucking reminder that She was gone. Not when the Thing was keeping time. Not when Ben couldn’t escape Her voice.

He’d shoved past the Kid without a word. 

It took Ben two whole fucking weeks to find a rhythm without Her. To pull his shit together for Her. 

He didn’t sleep in the bed. He wouldn’t sleep in the bed, not if She wasn’t there. He changed the sheets because she deserved them to be clean. He brushed his teeth because she’d notice if he didn’t. He fucking perfected pancakes, so he could make them when she got home. He fixed the TV. He called Mallory to fix the TV. The TV got fucking fixed, and it didn’t really goddamn matter if it was Ben or Mallory or Hughie who did it. The TV was in one piece, and She’d be able to use it when she came home. 

He found small ways to torture himself until She returned. Ways to remind himself She was gone, fucking gone and alone, while still holding Her as close as he could. Ben used Her stupid fucking flower shampoo once a week, just so he could smell her like a pervert. He watched all the movies and shows she adored and tried to learn all the goddamn million songs she loved. For such an intelligent person, She liked some stupid fucking shit. The music was slightly harder for Ben to get through, mostly because of the sheer goddamn whiplash. Bright pop to heavy guitar to—fuck him—showtunes. He managed to get one song down to a key, which brought his total up to two whole songs that Ben knew and could sing to Her. Moon River and Rainbow Connection. He’d have to learn a third, because the fucking banjo made him want to shoot himself. For TV, he could’ve watched all the movies and shows She liked because they were good—The award winning ones made by a bunch of pretentious whining art pussies—or he could watch the ones She loved because she was a fucking enigma of a woman. A low-budget film about a hot woman and the worst fucking “dread pirate” Ben had ever seen. A fucking movie about pageants and the FBI. A goddamn cartoon about talking cars and spies. Another fucking cartoon with a billion damn episodes about a family who made burgers. Another too long show about monsters and hunting them and being a self-righteous pussy all the time. 

Ben didn’t actually hate that one. He liked how much they decapitated people, and that he could almost hear Her talking through the whole thing. He couldn’t see any deeper meaning in any of this fucking dimly-lit shit, but She’d find some. And he wanted to try and look for something so that when she inevitably made him watch it, Ben could blow her fucking mind with some sort of stupid observation or metaphor. Her pretty mouth would fall open, and her eyes would widen—half with disbelief and half with delight—and She’d be so fucking happy. 

And that was where the torture part began. She wasn’t smiling at him. She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t even fucking safe. She was with Homelander. She was doing fucking everything for fucking everybody instead of resting against Ben and telling him about all Her perfect, strange, and pointless thoughts. Ben wasn’t holding Her, laughing with her or fighting with her over nothing. She didn’t even have a fucking way to know how much this was killing him. How every movie he watched and song he listened to made every part of Ben just fucking miss Her. He missed Her so fucking much. 

That was the worst part, really. It wasn’t that Ben had to put up with Butcher’s fucking lectures or Annie and Hughie’s goddamn sympathy. It wasn’t seeing the Kid or having to play nice with the Pussy Brigade and their terrible ideas. It was that he fucking missed Her. Mallory and Butcher would start fucking bitching about plans and intel other boring shit and Ben couldn’t look to the side and roll his eyes at Her. He had to eat alone—Ben was pretty goddamn certain he wasn’t welcome at dinners without Her—and she wouldn’t throw food at him or talk to him through large mouthfuls. He had to go into the bedroom to get changed and see Her clothing, still mixed in with his. Static. Never fucking moving from place unless Ben touched them. Because She wasn’t fucking here. If She was here she’d know what to fucking do with all of this, she always knew what to do, but she wasn’t. She wasn’t smiling at him with a pretty mouth and adoring expression. She wasn’t snorting or giggling at him with that same perfect smile. She wasn’t watching the world with sharp eyes that became soft when She looked at Ben. She wasn’t looking at Ben at all, except through the camera. All he had of Her were moments where the mask would drop. Where Her eyes would flash with confirmation through the screen that She was still Her, but nothing more. She never had enough time for anything more. 

Homelander was fucking parading Her around. After that first week—where nobody had even known if She was still in the damn city, or state, or country—She was everywhere. Red carpets and interviews and rallies where She’d stand, silent and empty, and Homelander’s side. Never speaking or moving, only smiling as Homelander guided her with a hand on Her lower back. She didn’t flinch when Homelander touched Her, but that wasn’t where She was supposed to be touched. She wasn’t meant to be herded around like a fucking sheep by Homelander. She was meant to be wrapped in Ben’s arms, safe and tucked into his side while she held his hand on Her shoulder. She was never supposed to be fucking silent. All She fucking did was talk, and when she didn’t it was because Ben was touching Her the right way—carefully and devotoutly—and all she could say was pleas of his name. But those were still goddamn sounds. Perfect fucking sounds. Ben didn’t even hear Her goddamn voice until around the third week, when everyone had been gathered around Hughie’s laptop in the dining hall to watch a film premiere for Fish-Boy’s movie and Homelander had dropped down from the sky with Her in his arms.

She’d looked fucking terrible. Still perfect, always perfect, but not Her. Ben couldn’t miss the slight gray lines under her eyes the makeup wasn’t covering, or the sheer fucking emptiness on Her face. She kept tapping her finger on the ridiculous fucking dress they had Her in—dark blue with lace and velvet that made Her face twitch almost imperceptibly whenever she looked at it—and Her cheek was being pulled into her mouth. That had almost been it. Ben had almost decided to just goddamn fuck it and go get Her now. She wasn’t fine, Homelander was still goddamn touching Her, and fuck it all Ben was getting Her back. 

But She’d spoken. For the first time in three weeks, one day, nine hours, twenty-three minutes, and fifteen seconds, Ben heard Her voice. It had been mechanical, over-saturated, but Her voice. 

They’d asked Homelander another useless, brown-nosing question about Fish-Boy and supporting sea animals, and he’d met them with too many teeth and cold eyes. And told Her to answer it. 

“Marine wildlife and its safety and preservation is a cause that’s very important to us both,” She’d smiled at Homelander, and it hadn’t reached her eyes. “Which is why, after the premiere tonight, me and Homelander will be donating 2 million dollars to the Timothy Foundation!” 

“We really care about octopi,” Homelander had kept talking, and She’d still been fucking smiling at him. “And squid, and ocean slugs.” 

She’d blinked, and Ben saw the words flash across Her face. 

Slugs aren’t cephalopods, you fucking idiot. 

She’d said me and Homelander. Not Homelander and I. She was tired, and being fucking used like a puppet, but still Her. They were letting Her speak now, and when the pussy interviewer had asked Her to spin so they could see her full dress, Ben had seen it. A jewel hair pin, completely out of place. Too fucking elegant, too fucking Her for whatever the hell they had her wearing. Green. 

So Ben had to keep waiting. It was fucking killing him—especially as they let Her speak more and more and he had to keep hearing Her voice speak words that weren’t hers—but he fucking pushed through. He wasn’t a pussy, he was a goddamn man, and if She could keep herself together then Ben could as well. For Her. 

But it was still fucking destroying him. 

The nightmares got worse. The longer She was gone, the less Ben slept. Half because the couch was not meant to be slept on—Ben’s legs kept dangling uncomfortably off the side and he could only fit one arm at time—and half because he couldn’t fucking sleep. Not without Her there, not when she was in fucking danger and that thought was chasing him into his sleep. His nightmares weren’t about Russia anymore, they were of Her, screaming and screaming and begging Ben to help Her. And Ben never could. He’d run and turn the fucking world upside down but he could never fucking save her from Homelander. He’d drop at Her side, give Ben a cold grin, and they’d both fucking vanish. 

And Ben would wake up with the drums tearing out of his chest. 

At one month, one long, horrible, mindless and suffering month of being without Her, the Thing became painful. It had been painful, reminding Ben of everything he’d lost and how the whole world was fucking shit because She wasn’t there, but now it was starting to grow bloody. It hadn’t gotten weaker with Her absence, if anything it was becoming a fucking monster. Stronger, angrier, more goddamn insistent to tell Ben that one fucking thing. The one he couldn’t figure out, the one he had needed to tell Her and had never been able to. It couldn’t use words, so it used memories to try and fucking kill him. To try and make Ben understand what he just fucking couldn’t. To make him rip himself further apart because She wasn’t fucking there. The Thing only offered him good memories, which was worse. The horrible ones—the images flashing in his head of Her fear and terror that would climb into Ben and make him want to kill whatever was making Her hurt—were justified. Ben had fucking failed her. And they reminded him to just keep fucking going until she was gone.

The good ones made him want to die. 

The memories of Her legs tangled in Ben’s or wrapped around his torso. Of Her smiling at him with so much joy and Ben kissing her when she laughed because it would turn into a moan and those were the two best sounds in the whole fucking world. Of Ben touching her, casually and always, and her leaning into him and pressing her head into his chest. Of watching Her—he always watched her, she was like a fucking star and he couldn’t look away—and how he’d memorized every perfect fucking detail of Her face. Of how her eyes would light up when she looked at him, and She’d tell him she adored him. He fucking adored Her. She was fucking perfect, still fucking perfect, always goddamn perfect. And every single piece of Ben that mattered, his will and resolve and care and mind and blood, was trapped in the tower with Her. Leaving only his body and the Thing, wrathful and desperate, to ache. His whole world fucking ached because She wasn’t there. 

And Ben couldn’t fucking do shit to get Her back. 

The Pussy Brigade was working on it. Whenever Ben would yell at them or demand updates, they’d always say they were working on it. They’d leave for meetings and missions that they’d brief Ben on, but never let him just fucking help. Let him bring Her home. Ben couldn’t go out in public, not after the tower, not when he’d been declared Public Enemy #1 by Vought and was a threat to America in the eyes of the general population. So he was fucking benched. 

“We’ve got another lead,” MM had been giving a briefing, and Ben had been half-listening. All these meetings always amounted to the same thing. Ben stayed behind, the Pussy Bridage found nothing, and She was still fucking gone. “It’s on Sage, old member of Teenage Kix’s might know some sort of fucking psychological weakness we can use against her.” 

Most of the fucking missions were about Sage. Trying to figure out what she was planning, what her long-game was, how they could get her out of the picture for an easier shot at Homelander. The pussy had locked down all of the Seven, and was taking goddamn precautions. Limited press, limited public appearances, all the focus on Her and Homelander’s fake fucking love story. On how Vought was trying to take Ben down for justice, to avenge Her. Fucking protect the country. 

“I don’t think she has psychological weaknesses,” Annie had frowned. “I think we need to be focusing on what her plan is-“

“Or we could just bloody kill her,” Butcher’s glare had been around the whole table, even at Ben. Which was stupid, because he was entirely in fucking favor of killing Sage. “Take her out permanently. Blow a hole in her fuckin chest that she ain’t gonna heal from.” 

“If you find an actual window for that,” MM had snapped. “Then let us know. Until then, we’re following the lead.” 

“It ain’t even a good lead, Mate.” Butcher had grumbled. “It’s fuckin useless. We’re not makin any progress chasing leads.” 

Ben agreed. He might have even spoken up and told MM that Butcher was, for once, fucking right about something, but the asshole never knew when to shut his mouth. 

Butcher had said Her name, and Ben had seen red. “Still with fuckin Homelander. And we don’t know what type of shit he’s doin to her while we sit on our asses-“ 

“Shut the fuck up, you fucking asswipe of a pussy.” Ben’s hiss had been a promise. A threat of blood on the tiles and Butcher’s brains scattered across the table. Butcher didn’t get to talk about Her. Didn’t get to say what she’d want, or imagine what pain Homelander was inflicting upon her, or even fucking think about her. She was lost because Butcher made her think she was worth less than the Kid, was worth less than all of them, was better off as a fucking pawn. So Butcher didn’t get to fucking say Her name.

“I’m fuckin defending her, Gov.” Butcher hadn’t stood down, because he was a goddamn self-assured idiot. “We’re all tryin to get her back-“

“I said,” Ben had pushed back the bench, standing with his fists clenched. “Shut the goddamn fucking hell up. You’re the piece of shit who said we had to wait. And you don’t get to fucking defend her, she’s not yours to fucking defend.” 

“But she’s yours?” Butcher had sneered, rising as well with tensed arms. “She’s your fucking woman? Your Sunshine? You think she feels like you’re fucking defendin her, when she’s trapped with Homelander?” 

She was Ben’s. Ben was Her’s. They didn’t fucking own each other, but She was Ben’s. To protect, to make happy, to hold and touch and- 

“Watch your fucking mouth.” Ben could hear the drums somewhere in the distance. “Or I’ll fucking kill you. You’re a weak, pathetic, excuse for a man, a manipulative, lying, backstabbing pussy. You couldn’t defend her if you fucking tried.” 

Butcher had been about to hit him. Ben had seen his fist curl, seen the flash of violence in his eyes, and fucking prayed Butcher was going to hit him. To throw a fist at Ben that he’d let land, to fucking feel it. Real, physical pain, instead of this never ending fucking ache. Then he’d fucking kill Butcher. It would be justified, the pussy would’ve thrown the first punch, so Ben could cover his hands in Butcher’s guts as he tore them out and nobody would say shit. He’d have proof, real fucking evidence, that he was fighting for Her. That he was doing goddamn something. 

But Butcher hadn’t hit him. He’d just glared, and Ben had stormed out of the dining hall. Back to exile in their apartment. Without Her. 

Hughie had tried to follow him. To fucking apologize.

“Soldier Boy!” His weak, nervous voice had called after Ben, and he’d felt fucking sick. He had never hated his supe name before, it had been his whole fucking life. He’d been fine with the Pussy Brigade using it, because to them he was Soldier Boy, and he got to be Ben to Her. But She hadn’t called him Ben in a month. He’d only heard his supe name. And now he fucking loathed it. 

He’d kept walking, and heard Hughie’s heart speed up as he chased after him.

“Wait, please just,” Hughie had taken a large gasp. “Holy shit, you walk fast. I just want to talk-“ 

“Go fucking talk to Annie,” Ben hadn’t turned around. “We’re not fucking buddies, Kid. I don’t have shit to say to you.” 

“It’s not about me-“ 

“I don’t fucking care.” 

“It’s about her!” Hughie had stopped running, just yelling Her name after Ben. “I want to talk about her!” 

Ben had turned. Not to talk. He didn’t have single fucking interest in talking about Her with anyone. But he’d needed Hughie to see his face when he spoke. “Don’t fucking say her name.” 

“She’s, she’s my friend too-“ 

“I don’t give a fucking flying shit what she is to you!” Ben had roared, closing the space between him and Hughie with furious, long steps. “Or Annie, or Butcher, or fucking anybody. She’s fucking-“ 

“She’s something to you.” Hughie had, in an act of bravery Ben hadn’t imagined him capable of, cut him off. “She’s something really important to you. Something more to you. I, uh, I don’t really know what, but I know she is. And I just, I wanted to ask if you were okay. With her not here. You haven’t really talked to us-“ 

“Shut the fuck up.” Ben wasn’t about to talk about his fucking feelings. Not with Hughie, not with fucking any of them. Ben’s feelings weren’t important right now, and they weren’t for the Pussy Brigade to ever fucking see. Let alone fucking talk to him about. 

“I’m, I think she wouldn’t want you to feel guilty.” Hughie had stood his ground, and Ben was almost impressed. “She cares about you. Like a lot, a kind of insane amount. And we all care about her, but she really, really cares about you. And like I said, she’s kind of more to you. So I just, I want to help.”

She was more to Ben. She was the whole fucking world to Ben. Fucking perfect, and she wouldn’t want Ben to feel guilty. She’d probably fucking apologize to him, or get pissed at him for being a dick to Hughie.

You’re being a baby, Benjamin. Her voice ran through his head. This isn’t anyone's fault. Not Hughie’s, not yours. I mean, a lot of things are your fault, but this isn’t one. 

Ben didn’t fucking care. He’d still lost Her. He might miss Her, and it might be destroying him that She was gone, but he’d see Her again. Soon. And he wouldn’t fucking break, so that She could. When she was safe. With him. 

“I’m not a fucking pathetic pussy who needs you to jerk me off about my goddamn emotions.” Ben had sneered at Hughie. “And she’s not fucking here. So don’t pretend you’d know what she’d fucking say or do or want.” 

None of them fucking knew Her like Ben did. None of them had any clue what She’d want, they barely had a grasp of what She fucking do, and they wouldn’t let Ben tell them. They knew he wouldn’t leave, not until She was home, but they still didn’t trust him. Not like She trusted him. Not like Ben trusted Her. And any care they had for Her was worth nothing compared to how She was fucking everything to Ben. How he was fucking devoted to Her, how he- 

“What would she want?” Hughie had asked, taking a slight step back but not leaving. “What do you think she would do?” 

“She’d talk to Neuman.” Ben had shocked himself with the words, because they’d fucking fallen out of him with certainty. She would talk to Neuman. And She wouldn’t bother asking about Sage. She’d look for breaks in Vought, or Homelander.

Sage is too smart to leave a leak. Her voice mused in Ben’s head. We need an in. A way to pull Homelander’s attention and trust away from her, or find a breach that Homelander is responsible for. He’s not a fan of being told what to do. You need to exploit something she can’t control or predict. Neuman worked with them both. She’d have an idea what they clashed about, and we can use that. 

Hughie had stared at Ben. “Neuman? What would Vicki-“ 

“She worked with Homelander and Sage.” Ben had echoed his imagined words of Her, saying Her name and trying not to let it hurt. “Would think chasing after Sage’s weaknesses was stupid. She’d think it’s a waste of time, especially after a fucking month with no result.” It’s the definition of madness, Benjamin. This door isn’t opening, you can’t brute force your way through it. Find another entrance. “She’d want to talk to someone reliable. Find another fucking way, that actually works.” 

Ben had left Hughie gaping in the hall, and marched away. Back to the apartment. Alone. 

Another week passed, and nobody had called Ben for a meeting. He was running out of patience. They were nowhere fucking closer to Her. He had to keep fucking watching her on the TV, watch Homelander touch her incorrectly and repulsively, watch Her smile in a way that wasn’t hers. He was kept from insanity by those small moments that proved She wasn’t gone, just not safe, but Ben was at the end of his fucking line. 

He was about to do something. Every day he’d been getting closer to doing what he should’ve from the fucking start, because the Pussy Brigade kept saying they were playing this like She would, but they fucking weren’t. Ben knew how she’d play this, he’d even damn spelled it out for them, and they were still doing it fucking wrong. 

He was going to do something. Today. Now. Ben was going to just fucking risk it, and everyone could hate him and he couldn’t give a single shit about that. He was getting Her back, his way, today- 

His phone buzzed. Lighting up with a message from Hughie. It stabbed Ben’s chest to have to read it, because he had to look at Her face on his lockscreen and see the name She’d entered for Hughie’s contact. But he did anyway. He wasn’t a fucking pussy. He could read a damn text. 

Hughie Campbell; Cocksucker, don’t be a cunt.

We’re having a meeting.

Please come ASAP. 

When Ben arrived in the dining hall, everyone was gathered around Hughie’s laptop again. He was starting to think this was some sort of fucking mating ritual of theirs, with how damn often they did it. 

“Oh, you’re here.” Hughie sounded surprised. As if he hadn’t fucking told Ben to come. “You’re uh, on time. The call hasn’t started.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about.” 

“We’re calling Neuman,” MM snapped, meeting Ben’s eyes with a glare. “Congrats, motherfucker. Looks like your idea might actually work.” 

Ben scowled, but stalked around the table. He didn’t gather in their little fucking herd—standing off to the side as they all shot him glances—but waited. They were finally fucking being half as smart as She was, so he’d put up with their weird looks and goddamn attitudes to make sure they didn’t fuck this up. 

Neuman appeared on the screen after five minutes of heavy silence. Ben immediately knew where she was. His old room, in the safe house.

For her sake, he hoped someone had fucking cleaned it before she arrived. 

“Hi, guys.” Neuman’s voice crackled slightly, but the video remained smooth. “Mallory said you had some questions for me?” 

“How are you, Vicki?” Hughie asked, apparently with no fucking sense of urgency. “Have you and Zoe settled okay?” 

“We’re good,” Neuman shrugged. “I mean, a little stir-crazy, but good. I heard about the Anomaly, I’m really sorry-“ 

“This is actually about her.” As Annie spoke, Ben’s fists tightened at this side. “We’re, uh, we’re trying to find a weakness in Homelander. Kill him faster, get her back. And we were wondering if you had any ideas.” 

“Ideas?” 

“You worked with both the cunt himself and Sage,” Butcher drawled. “You can’t be fuckin clueless as to what they might be plannin.” 

“I mean,” Neuman frowned. “I remember Sage was trying to develop a gas to use against Soldier Boy-“ 

“We got that already,” MM leaned forward, slightly over Hughie’s head. “We’re thinking more long term shit. Something we can use against Homelander, something that might make him turn away from Sage. She’s the real threat right now. We’ve got Soldier Boy to blast Homelander, but we can’t get a shot as long as Sage is keeping him in check.” 

“Huh,” Neuman’s face twisted in thought. “I’m not sure. In November, right before Maine, I heard Homelander and Sage fighting about something. Homelander had gone somewhere and not told her. She said if word got out it could ruin everything she’d planned, and he said she wasn’t his boss, he was hers, and it had been for his own health.” 

“Health?” Annie frowned. “He’s invulnerable.” 

“Mental health,” Neuman corrected herself. “He said he needed closure. That he’d gotten it, and now he could move forward.” 

“The hell would that asshole need closure about?” MM and Butcher exchanged looks. “He kills everyone he hates, everyone who threatens him. He doesn’t have a family-“ Ben didn’t miss the pause, or everyone’s quick looks in his direction before MM continued. “Or at least one that matters. No childhood, no friends, no past. The fuck-“ 

“He was made in a lab, no?” It was the French Prick who spoke up, looking around at his team for confirmation. “That is his childhood. Maybe that is what he needed to move forward from.” 

Butcher nodded slowly. “Prick is bloody obsessed with family. That was his whole fuckin thing with Ryan and-“ 

Her. That was Homelander who fucking thing with Her. And Ben wasn’t going to let Butcher fucking say it. He stormed forward, into Neuman’s view. 

“Where the hell is Homelander’s lab. Where they fucking grew him, or raised him, or any of that fucking shit.” 

Neuman gaped at him, shaking her head slightly before speaking. “It was, um, I don’t really know. Sage said he couldn’t just disappear right now, and Homelander said he hadn’t even left the city. So he was in New York, but I don’t know where.” 

“It’s a big fucking city,” MM muttered behind Ben. “I don’t think we’ve got the time to comb it for one lab.“ 

Kimiko was signing something to the French Prick. Fast, with a determined face and a lot of nods. 

“What the fuck is she saying,” Ben snapped, and could feel MM’s glare through his skull. He didn’t fucking care. 

“She said that sounds similar to where they kept her,” the French Prick said Her name for clarity, watching Kimiko carefully. “That we found that by looking for the dead scientist. That the Homelander probably was not paying his childhood home a visit for fond memories.” He looked over Ben, at Butcher. “She wants to tell Monsieur Butcher that when they made her into a monster, they tried to find weaknesses. She thinks they might have done the same for the Homelander.” 

“MM,” Butcher said, and Ben looked back to see him frowning. “Call Grace. Tell her we need any records of Vought scientists she’s got. Lad,” Hughie turned as well, blinking at Butcher. “Keep talkin to Neuman. See what else she’s got while we work this.” 

Butcher started to walk away, and Ben followed. Blocking the asshole in his path. 

“The bloody hell is your problem-“ 

“I’m going on this one.” Ben snapped. “There’s not fucking shit you can do to stop me. We won’t be in public, this is the best fucking lead we’ve gotten in a goddamn month, and I’m fucking going to check it. Make sure you pussies don’t fuck it up.” 

He thought Butcher would argue. Tell Ben to shove it, that he was still benched. But he just looked Ben up and down with a scowl and narrowed eyes, and shrugged. 

“Your fuckin funeral, mate.”

Ben let Butcher walk around him, and stalked back to the table. Sitting silently off to the side as Hughie, Annie, and Kimiko all spoke to Neuman. The French Prick had left with MM, leaving Kimiko to type her thoughts on Her phone, but Hughie always repeated them aloud for Neuman, and Ben had fucking ears. Nothing interesting happened—New Noir was weird, Neuman was pretty sure Ashley was bald, and something called a Believe Expo was happening in a week—until the end of the hour. 

“How are you guys holding up?” Neuman asked, and Hughie shrugged. 

“I mean, we’re fine. Can you, uh, repeat the thing about the Deep-“ 

“What, that he’s an octopus fucker?” Ben couldn’t see Neuman’s face, but she sounded exasperated. “You already knew that Hughie. I’ve told you everything I have, I just want to talk to my friends.” 

“We’re okay, Vicki,” Hughie glanced across the table to Ben, watching silently. “I mean, it’s rough, but we’re okay.” 

“How is everyone, with the whole Anomaly thing?” 

Ben really fucking wished they’d all stop looking at him like that. Like he was about to start fucking crying. 

“We’re mostly just worried about her,” Annie said slowly. “I mean, we miss her. It’s weird without her here. But there’s not much we can do until we kill Homelander.” 

“That sounds like Butcher talk, Annie.” Nueman said flatly. “That doesn’t sound like you guys.” 

“It is Butcher talk,” Hughie admitted, rubbing his neck. “But he’s not always wrong-“ 

“I didn’t say he was,” Neuman interrupted. “I just wouldn’t trust his judgment with this. I mean, he’s being a hypocrite.” 

Annie frowned, glancing up at Ben again. At his hands, curled into white-knuckled fists as he listened. “About what? Like, with Ryan?” 

“No,” Hughie shook his head, giving Annie a sad look. “Becca. That’s what you’re talking about, right, Vicki?” 

“It is. I mean, this is almost exactly like Becca. And you told me he was doing anything to get her back. But Soldier Boy-“ 

All eyes shot up to Ben, and he held their weak, nervous fucking gazes as Hughie cut off Neuman with a stutter. 

“He’s, uh, Vicki he’s here. Soldier Boy, he kind of, uh, he’s listening.” 

Neuman didn’t falter. “Good, he should hear this. Butcher had a wife, Homelander did to her what he’s done to the Anomaly. And Butcher did pretty much anything he could to get her back. Searched for her, killed for her, whatever he could to get her back. I mean, Stan even told me they cut a deal for it. If Butcher wasn’t such a heartless asshole, he’d care more about Soldier Boy and the Anomaly. About how Becca didn’t seem like the type who would want him to let what happened to them happen to anyone else.” 

Hughie swallowed. “I don’t think he doesn’t care, or isn’t trying to help her. I just-“

“Hughie, don’t make excuses for him. I saw how Soldier Boy was about her. Like Butcher was for Becca. And if he’s still there, then that old asshole should know that Butcher did whatever it took for Becca. He might even be right, but he’s still a hypocrite.” 

Ben left. If they all kept looking at him like that, with all that fucking pity, he’d lose his goddamn mind. He already fucking knew about Butcher’s wife. The Kid’s mother. He’d learned about her on the first go. She’d had Homelander’s son, got killed, Butcher had made her some sort of fucking promise, and Ben hadn’t given a fucking shit about any of it.

But he’d never known Becca Butcher. He’d heard Her talk about Becca, when she’d yelled at Butcher about Homelander and when they’d been planning to trade Her in for Ryan, months ago. But he’d never known about Becca outside of those sparse details. He didn’t know the lengths that Butcher had gone to. Lengths he wasn’t allowing Ben to go to for Her. 

Ben was going to fucking kill him. 

Jesus, Benjamin. Were you even listening to Neuman? 

Shut up. His voice in his own head was a growl. Ben didn’t need Her voice to tell him off right now, because even in his head she was always fucking right, and Ben didn’t have any interest in being talked out of this. 

You shut up. Butcher’s a dick, but he’s not an idiot. 

He’s a fucking hypocrite, Sunshine. You’d be fucking home if he wasn’t such a goddamn cold-hearted pussy. I’d have gotten you day one if Butcher hadn’t stopped me. 

You wouldn’t have gotten me, though. Butcher’s, for once, right. Homelander would’ve hidden me the moment you stepped foot in the tower. 

Homelander hid Becca. Butcher still fucking fought to get her back. 

Becca died, Ben. She’s like, really dead. 

Ben faltered for a second. Becca had died. That doesn’t fucking mean anything. 

I’d say it’s kind of important. If I’m really Becca two, then maybe Butcher’s just trying not to get me killed as well. 

You can’t fucking die. And you’re you, not Butcher’s fucking dead wife. 

I know that. All I’m saying is maybe Butcher just doesn’t want you to lose me, like he lost Becca. 

I don’t think he gives a fuck about me that much, Ben drawled Her name in his head, and could almost fucking hear Her sigh. 

He’s not heartless, Ben. I mean, he’s a cunt. But he’s not Homelander. He’s capable of thinking of others, sometimes. 

Ben wasn’t a fan of how, when She was just a voice in his head, he couldn’t shut Her up by kissing her. He had to listen to Her, and she was always fucking right. She was too good, too kind, but right.

Ben didn’t kill Butcher. And, when he was called to the dining hall two days later for a briefing, there was finally a fucking plan. 

“We’re heading to Queens,” MM was stood at the head of the table, Butcher a pace behind him. “A group of known Vought scientists and a handful of chem and bio majors at NYU interning with Vought all went missing round November, and they all got cars that were parked in Queens. Mallory found a building that’s getting electrically wired underground, and we’re going to check it out. Got it?”

Annie raised her hand, and MM nodded. “Do we have a way in? If it’s a Vought building-“ 

“Ain’t nobody been seen entering it since all those fuckin nerds vanished,” Butcher shrugged. “I’d wager we’ll just walk right in.” 

“What about security, Butcher. Keycards. Locks.” 

“We’ve got America’s strongest cunt comin with us,” Butcher shot Ben a smirk. “You think you can open a locked door, Gov?” 

Ben scowled at him. “You fucking know I can, you pussy.” 

“That’s the bloody spirit.” 

“Do we, uh, what are we looking for?” Hughie glanced nervously between Ben and Butcher as he spoke. “Is it just kind of a pray we find something situation, or is there like something specific?” 

Butcher didn’t stop glaring at Ben as he answered. “A weakness, Lad. Anythin that Homelander or Sage wouldn’t want us to see or know.” 

Hughie nodded. “Like a weapon? Or a drug?” 

“We’re not sure yet, kid. But I’m sure there will be something.” MM sighed, then muttered under his breath. “There better be fucking something.” 

“Oh, okay. So it’s all of us, or-“ 

“Me, Soldier Boy, MM, Kimiko, and Frenchie. You and Starlight will stay and hold down the fort.” Butcher clasped Hughie on the back, and Hughie gave a sputtering cough. Idiot had just put water in his mouth. “Try not to fuck on the tables while we’re gone.” 

“We’re not going to fuck on the tables, asshole.” 

Butcher winked at Annie. “Long as you clean up after yourselves, I don’t care where you twats fuck.” 

“It’s not your business-“ 

“As much as I’d love to have another long and graphic conversation about my co-workers sex lives,” MM cut Annie off with a glare at Butcher. “Can we get our fucking asses up and into the van?” 

“I’m not the one who can’t keep it in my fuckin pants, Mate-“ 

“We all keep it in our pants!” Annie was almost shouting. “Everyone keeps it in their pants, it’s not our fault we’re capable of love, you lonely, bitter asshole!” 

“Love ain’t lust, Starlight-“ 

“Can we please fucking move-“ 

Ben stood up, and the Thing was trying to fucking kill him. It was Her, she had to know that unspeakable fucking thing Ben couldn’t goddamn understand- 

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” MM shouted after him, Butcher and Annie still locked in their pointless fucking argument that was making the Thing go feral. 

“I’m fucking getting ready.” Ben snapped, not bothering to turn. “And I want a gun.” 

He didn’t wait to hear MM’s response. If they wouldn’t give Ben a gun, he’d take one. And there was not a fucking world where they could stop him from bringing his shield or wearing his suit. This was fucking important, and their bitching and moaning about protocol and safety wasn’t going to help with fucking shit. 

I feel like you just really want a gun, Ben. Her voice hummed, carrying through the silence of their apartment. 

I do want a fucking gun. It’s a goddamn useful weapon. 

You’ve done fine without one before.

No, I didn’t. I gave you my gun and I fucking lost you.  

And how the hell would the gun have stopped that? 

I don’t fucking know. But it would’ve. 

You can just want the gun, you know. You’re allowed to just want something. 

I only fucking want you. Ben's jaw was going to crack. The gun will help me get you. I don’t want the damn gun, I want you. 

Aw, I want you too, Pretty Boy. 

You as well. 

Fuck you. 

“I wish I fucking could, Sunshine.” 

He’d spoken aloud again. He had to fucking control that better, or the Pussy Brigade would start asking questions Ben didn’t want to answer. 

They were taking the Pussy Mobile. Butcher’s car only fit five—a limited they’d tested once and had no interest in testing again—and nobody seemed thrilled with Ben’s pitch of just leaving Butcher behind, so he found himself in their awful fucking van, pressed up against the wall without Her at his side. The ride was silent, and Her ghost—not a fucking ghost, she wasn’t fucking dead—whispered in his ear the whole goddamn way to the Bronx. 

Do you think they ever clean this thing? 

No. 

I mean, they have to. They all get shot and beat up way too much for it to not be a biohazard. 

It doesn’t fucking smell like they clean it. 

But MM’s like, obsessed with cleaning. I don’t think he’d step foot in here if they didn’t. 

Maybe this is where Butcher jerks off. MM cleans it and Butcher jerks off right after. 

Her giggle rattled around Ben’s head. What type of porn do you think he watches? 

Hentai. 

How the fuck do you know what Hentai is, old man. 

There was fucking hentai in the 80s, Sunshine. I’m not a damn dinosaur. 

See, I don’t believe that. 

Doesn’t fucking matter what you believe. You’re the one who’s going to fucking benefit from my years of experience and study. 

Ben could see the flush of her face somewhere behind his eyes. Could just fucking hear Her heartbeat pick up, a million miles away. 

Shut up. 

Someone backs down real fucking fast when she’s horny. 

I’m not the one who just promised to fuck me with tentacles. 

I never said shit about tentacles. 

Fuck you. 

I want to. 

You’re impressively horny, Benjamin. 

It’s all for you, beautiful. 

Thanks, that means a lot. I’ve always aspired to be an old man’s spank bank. 

Brat. 

Cunt. And you’re wrong. Butcher is actually into femdom. 

Ben snorted aloud, and the French Prick gave him a strange look. 

He was losing his fucking mind. He missed her, and he was losing his damn sanity over it. 

This better fucking work. 

Butcher had been—fucking annoyingly—right. They all but walked right through the front door, down into the basement, and found the elevator. Without any damn buttons. 

Butcher hadn’t been right. Good. 

“What the fuck are supposed to do now?” MM scowled at the sealed metal doors. “We don’t have a keycard, and there aren’t any more stairs-“ 

“I’m fucking thinking, MM, calm the bloody hell down-“ 

Ben’s attention was pulled away when Kimiko tugged on his sleeve, looking up at him with wide eyes. “What the hell do you want.” 

She waved the French Prick over and began rapidly signing, occasionally pointing between herself and Ben. 

“Mon Coeur,” the French Prick frowned, glancing at Ben. “I am not sure that this is a good idea.” 

She shook her head, and repeated a lot of the same signs once more.

“But-“ 

She covered the French Prick’s mouth with a hand, pointing at Ben again before removing it. 

“Very well,” the French Prick addressed Ben with a twitchy gaze. “She says both you and she could go down the shaft. Send the elevator up after you. But,” the French Prick looked back at Kimiko. “Mon Coeur, what if you cannot send the elevator-“ 

“That’s a good fucking idea.” Ben snapped. “Tell her that’s a goddamn good fucking idea.” 

Kimiko flipped Ben off, and the French Prick sighed. 

“She can hear you.”

“I don’t give a shit what she can and can’t hear. We’re doing that.” He turned over to MM and Butcher, still fucking arguing. “Me and her,” Ben pointed to Kimiko, still glaring at him. “Are going down.” 

“The fuck are you on about.” MM grunted, looking between them wearily. “Frenchie-“ 

“Kimiko wishes for Soldier Boy to open the doors, then they will both jump down the shaft. They will survive, and send the elevator up for us.” 

“Ain’t no way in Satan’s fucking taint we’re letting you out of our sight, Gov.” Butcher sneered. “Me and MM will figure it out, and you’ll follow our fuckin orders-“ 

“Fuck you, Butcher.” Ben marched over to the elevator. “I’m not going to fucking run or betray you. I’m not a fucking backstabber, and if I wanted to pull something I would’ve already.” 

As Ben pulled the metal apart, ripping the doors open with ease, he still fucking heard MM’s low mutter to Butcher. These fucking pussies kept forgetting he had super hearing. 

“He’s not lying, Butcher. If he was going to betray us, he’d have done it in fucking February. When she went soft of him.” 

“MM, you of all damn fuckers-“ 

“I know what I’m fucking saying.” MM’s voice had gone cold. “I goddamn know who I’m defending. And I also know he’s not going anywhere. Not until Homelander’s dead.” 

Not until She’s back. MM didn’t have to say it. He knew, just as well as Ben knew, that he was fucking stuck here until She returned to him. Technically he could run. He could fuck the whole lot of them and break out, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t leave Her—with Homelander or just in fucking general—so he wouldn’t go anywhere until She could go with him. 

And Butcher fucking knew it as well, so the asshole fell silent, and let Ben pry the doors fully open. 

Nobody ended even fucking needing to jump down, making the whole goddamn argument pointless. The elevator was stuck right at their level, and didn’t require a keycard to operate, so they were able to all fucking ride it down the normal way. 

When they finally halted after far too goddamn long and the doors opened with a pleasant ding, the smell hit Ben’s nose first. The whole lab, tubes and equipment and computers, was covered in a goddamn horrible smell. It was rotten, and fucking disgusting. 

“Merdre,” the French Prick spoke first, the group filtering off the elevator. “I am not the only one who is smelling this, non?”

“I sure as shit do,” MM glanced around the lab as they spread out and spotted the brain-crushed, pantless, very dead man who had a clean hole right through his fucking dick. “But it’s fucking putrid, it can’t just be Dick-hole.” 

“If someone finds a candle or somethin,” Butcher drawled. “We’ll light it. Until then we’ve fuckin work to do.” 

Ben stared around the lab, and his eyes landed on a large, red door. Sealed shut, burn marks scorched around it. It took only five seconds to open it. One to wish he hadn’t fucking bothered. 

“Christ on a fucking Cross.” Ben muttered. “It’s not just Dick-hole.” 

It was blood. Fucking bodies and blood and rotting flesh smeared and torn across the room. A slowly decaying body of a woman—untouched save for being tied to a chair and half her face having fucking fallen off in death—was in the corner, but everyone else had been ripped limb from fucking limb. 

“Bloody hell,” Butcher muttered, a few feet behind Ben. “I’d say it’s a safe wager that Homelander’s visit wasn’t a happy fuckin reunion.” 

“Holy fucking shit!” Ben turned to find MM’s face twisted in a nausea, hands raised like if he blocked the view it might vanish. “Some warning might have been fucking appreciated-“ 

“We ain’t got time for warnings, MM.” Butcher started moving around the lab, poking over papers and frowning at folders. “Faster we find what we’re fuckin lookin for, faster we get out of this place.” 

It took four hours. Four whole goddamn hours for four grown fucking men and Kimiko to tear apart the whole goddamn lab and find absolutely nothing of use. Ben took half of the room—he moved faster than all four of the pussies combined—while MM and Kimiko searched their half closer to the elevator and the French Prick and Butcher searched closer to the door. Files and papers and records and half-finished experiments all amounting to goddamn zero. They overturned tables, ripped plaster off of walls, and shouted at each other to keep fucking looking. Still finding nothing. Not a goddamn thing. Kimiko gave up first, around hour two, and turned on the old TV in the corner of the lab. Squatting down next to Dick-hole and watching the only channel the piece of shit seemed to get, Vought News Network. The French Prick joined her almost immediately, and around hour three MM stood off to the side—away from Dick-hole—and watched with them. 

By hour four it was just Ben and Butcher. Destroying whatever was fucking left. Finding nothing. 

Butcher grabbed Ben’s shoulder, and Ben nearly fucking punched his face in on instinct. 

“Calm your bloody shit, Gov, I ain’t tryin to fight.”

“Then what the fuck-“ 

“Nobody’s cleared the office. It’s the last check on our list.” 

Butcher was right. Nobody had stepped foot in the maggoty, fly ridden and foul smelling office. They’d all shot it looks of repulsion, but nobody had actually set foot in the guts and innards. 

“I am not fucking going in there, Butcher.” MM called from the TV. 

“I ain’t askin you, but someone’s fuckin gonna have to-“ 

Ben didn’t wait to hear any more of their pointless arguing. He spun around and stomped into the room, ignoring how everything smelled so much goddamn worse when he had to be surrounded by it. He turned over severed legs, marred torsos, and one face still twisted in a scream, looking for fucking something. Anything. A single goddamn thing that could help them- 

There’s a desk, Benjamin. Maybe check the desk. 

Shut the fuck up. 

I mean, it’s pretty obviously right there- 

I said shut up. 

Cunt. 

Brat.

What would you do without me? 

Fucking die. Ben would fucking die without Her. He was fucking dying without Her. Nothing fucking mattered, nothing was beautiful anymore. He was losing his mind, but it didn’t matter because She wasn’t here to lose it with him. 

You’re just a voice in my head, Sunshine. I’m the one who saw the desk in real goddamn life. 

Maybe. He could fucking see Her shrug. But I’m the one who pointed it out. 

Ben rolled his eyes as he searched through the desk, and tried to ignore the wrath of the Thing inside him. How much he fucking missed Her. How he was dying without Her. How he was pretty fucking sure that’s why the Thing was growing so agonizing. He was simply just going to die without Her. 

There, Ben. Files. 

They’re covered in fucking blood. 

Literally everything’s covered in fucking blood. Get the files. 

It was a simple manila folder with CLASSIFIED written large black letters but no other apparent precautions to keep it classified. Ben thumbed through them, not really fucking sure what he was actually looking for. 

It’s like porn, Pretty Boy. You’ll know it when you see it. 

Half the files were redacted, the other half were full of a bunch of fucking science words Ben didn’t understand. But one, stained in rusting red and typed in faded, small letters, looked important. Ben squinted at the words, and he’d found it. He’d fucking found it. 

He stomped out of the room, shoving the papers into Butcher’s hands. 

“The bloody shit is this.” 

“Read it.” Ben snapped. “Use your fucking eyes and read it.” 

Butcher’s brow furrowed, scanning the page, and looked back up at Ben with a wide grin. “Well fuckin done, Gov.” 

“What is it?” MM called, pushing off the wall. “The hell did you find.” 

“Homelander’s fuckin recipe.” Butcher smirked back down at the paper, reading it aloud in a gleeful tone. “Due to the nature of the donor,” Butcher winked at Ben. “The boy will be immune and unaffected by the original formula of compound V. His DNA had been engineered to engage with specific elements of the drug (i.e. strength, durability, enhanced hearing and vision) and ignore others (i.e. immortality, complete healing factor) and as such additional shots will be null.” Butcher looked up at MM with a childlike grin. “Cunt ages no matter what. If we don’t get him, fuckin time will.” 

“Butcher, we can’t just wait fifty fucking years for time-“ 

“Don’t lose your pants, mate, there’s more,” Butcher’s attention returned to the paper. “Comparatively, the compound V used in other super-abled subjects will overload the boy’s body, sending him into a temporary vegetative state. Unlike the original formula, modern V shots act as only an enhancer on the subject, and his body is designed for an exact amount, blah, blah, lot more of the same shit.” Butcher looked around the room, and Ben had never seen him look this genuinely fucking happy. “We’ve fuckin got it. We’ve finally fuckin got it.” 

MM shook his head slowly. “You’re telling me, this whole goddamn time, all we’ve had to do was shoot the motherfucker up with V?” 

“Occam’s fuckin Razor,” Butcher shrugged. “We’ll need to get a real bloody sharp needle, and some V, but then we’re fucking golden. Sage won’t matter if we can turn the cunt into a coma patient.” 

“We could go to the Believe Expo,” the French Prick had turned away from the TV, but was still sat next to Kimiko and Dick-hole. “That is where they were previously transporting the V, it is a good start.” 

“Bloody good idea, Frenchie,” Butcher nodded, a maniacal grin still plastered across his face. “Let’s head out, we’ve got some fuckin work to do.” 

The French Prick started to rise, but Kimiko grabbed his hand and pulled him back down. 

“Mon Coeur-“ 

She grabbed his head, physically turning the French Prick’s eyes back to the screen. Ben’s followed, even as MM and Butcher moved to the elevator, and he froze in place. 

It was Her. In that same stupid fucking news room Homelander had been dragging Her to, wearing a fucking costume. An all red supe costume that she’d have made fun of. Called frivolous and gaudy and other pointlessly big words. It look ridiculous and out of goddamn place on Her body. On Her—too fucking perfect to be wearing so stupid—across from the Haircut, smiling. 

No Homelander. 

“Oi, Gov, let’s fuckin move-“ 

“Shut the fuck up.” Ben stomped to stand behind Kimiko and the French Prick, unable to rip his eyes from the screen as the interview began. 

The Haircut spoke first. “Anomaly, thank you for joining us today.” 

She smiled. No teeth, no light joy. Fucking empty. “Thank you for having me.” 

Her voice was too high, too sweet, with no edge or amusement. It made Ben’s skin fucking crawl. 

“Now, this is your first interview since you’ve returned from Soldier Boy’s captivity. How have you been recovering?” 

“As well as I can be,” She wasn’t even blinking. Like a damn robot. “Homelander has been incredibly supportive and understanding, but it’s been hard to keep it in.” 

The Haircut leaned forward. “Keep what in?” 

“The truth,” Her face was a portrait of sadness and confliction. Her pout too large, her eyes too doe-like, timidness slathered on every feature. “It’s been so hard to recover, fully recover and move on, when nobody even knows.” 

“What the fuckin hell is she doin?” Butcher and MM had walked up behind Ben, and Butcher’s grunt was low. Almost worried. 

On the TV The Haircut, still smiling at Her, was blinking in surprise, shooting looks off the camera. “Um, that sounds very difficult-“

“I mean,” She gave a pained sigh. “I just can’t believe they’ve tricked you.” 

Nobody in the lab was breathing. Ben wasn’t fucking breathing, trying to just focus on Her words over the rapid heartbeats around him. 

“I’m not sure I’m following-“ 

“Starlight!” Her voice had gotten desperate. Turned into packaged, too loud, exaggerated desperation. “She’s been lying to all of you, working with Soldier Boy since the start! The CIA, they woke,” she gave a choked sound. “Soldier Boy,  he never died, and they woke him up to use against Homelander. They’ve forgiven all his crimes against this great country and have been trying to use him to kill Homelander! And Starlight’s been helping him keep me away! They were going to use me as bait, because they knew he’d always save me, and then kill him!” 

She broke down in tears as the Haircut gaped at Her. Pretty tears, with no sobs or screams or gasps. Just pretty, pouting tears. 

“What the hell-“ 

MM’s words were cut off by the Haircut, giving Her a comforting, nervous part on the arm as he spoke. “That’s, wow. I mean, you heard it here first, folks. Soldier Boy isn’t in fact a terrorist, but a CIA plant, working with Starlight to kill our great heroes. I, uh,” the Haircut looked back to Her. “Is there anything you’d like to say? To Soldier Boy?” 

She fanned Her face, wiping away one stray tear. “If he's listening, I just want him to know I’m not broken.” The Haircut pointed down the camera, and She turned to stare into it. Through the screen, right at Ben. “You tried to burn me, but I’m not broken. And I’ll see you soon.” 

“For justice?” 

She smiled at the Haircut weakly. “Of course.” 

As the Haircut moved onto a commercial break, Ben stared at Her through the screen. In Her stupid fucking costume, giving the Haircut a fake fucking smile. And Ben’s blood felt hot. 

When the TV clicked off, Butcher spoke first. “What the bloody fuckin shit was that.” 

Ben turned to Butcher with a glare. They were not even going to entertain the idea that She’d flipped. Not when she was such a fucking genius. “She just fixed a lot of your fucking problems for you. Like she always fucking does.”

The French Prick frowned. “I do not see how this helps us-“ 

“The best lie is made of the truth,” MM watched Ben carefully, his brain clearly moving a lot goddamn faster than the rest of them. “And she just said all the right things, in the wrong way.” 

“In a way that saves your fucking asses,” Ben snapped, and Butcher scoffed. 

“If anything She just fuckin damned us-“ 

“Butcher,” MM shook his head. “He’s right. She just did us a huge favor. Nobody already aligned with Starlight will believe the whole kidnapped narrative. We can flip this easy to Soldier Boy aligned with Starlight and to protect the public, and she was just as dangerous as Homelander. We didn’t kidnap her, she was detained for crimes. Or we can let people start to look further into who she actually is. The footage of her and Soldier Boy fighting Homelander will resurface, same with Firecracker, and we’ll just tell the fucking truth. The ball is in our court now. The CIA can distance themselves, or not. That’s up to Grace. And he,” MM pointed to Ben. “Can go in public. He’s not a terrorist anymore.” 

Butcher nodded, and as he and MM continued to talk about responses and how to play this, Ben could only fucking see Her.

Still Her. Playing it like Her. Planning something, fighting in Her own insane, fucking sacrificial way. With carefully chosen words and broken metaphors She’d never normally use that told Ben it was Her. 

He couldn’t go get Her. He was certain now, because the crack in her voice had been real when she’d said he’d always save me. Ben would always fucking save Her, and she was telling him not to. 

She was telling him She wasn’t broken. That they’d still burn together. 

That She’d see him soon.

——————

It was going to take two months, three days, fourteen hours, eleven minutes, and forty-two seconds for—if everything worked—you to go home. Back to Ben. 

But everything had to work. 

The first week, they lock you up. You only see Homelander and Sage, asking you questions you couldn’t answer because they won’t take the gag off of your mouth. 

Then Sage sits down across from you, leaning forward and speaking like you were a child. 

“I am going to give you one opportunity for this, understood?” 

You glare at her, and she sighs. 

“I am going to proceed as if you confirmed. As you know, physical threats and acts of torture are not viable for long-term cooperation. So instead I’m offering an incentive. If you work with us, cooperate fully, then we refrain from actively targeting Butcher and his associates. We can kick the can down the road, make threats, but never actively pursue action.” 

You look up at Homelander behind her, eyes narrowing, and he waves you off. 

“Please, I can fucking control myself enough to not kill them, even if they deserve it for poisoning you against me.” Homelander steps forward until he’s leering over your body. “Until you say you’re ready, I won’t kill any of them. We’ll work on us. I’ll even, look I’ll pinky promise.” 

You give him a flat look. Your hands are still wrapped and cuffed and you can’t pinky promise, even if you trusted him. Which you didn’t. 

“We’re serious,” Sage says your name, and your attention returns to her. “Until you’ve come to terms with their treatment of you, we will ensure they remain physically unharmed.” 

Sage was lying. Not about the promise, about the come to terms with their treatment part. She knows what Homelander had done. She knows you had chosen to leave. She knows about you and Ben, and even if she doesn’t fully get that you loved him she knows you’d never turn on him. Ever be ready to kill him. 

She’s feeding Homelander’s delusions. She has a plan, one that even Homelander wasn’t privy to. But you need the gloves off. Your plan needed to be set in motion. 

So you nod. 

From there, time is long. You don’t wander through the tower, or see anyone Homelander doesn’t want you to see. They’d taken off the gag and handcuffs, but you’re still locked in Homelander’s room. You’d never actually been in Homeland’s room at Vought tower before this, because he’d kept you secret. In the white room, or the lad. You’d known he had one, just from knowing generally about the Seven from the news and media and billboards everywhere, but you’d never imagined it being real. As far as you’d been concerned, he didn’t sleep. He was mechanical, monstrous, and something as human as sleep wasn’t something he was capable of. 

But he did. Homelander always, for at least an hour a night, would sleep. In the bed you were forced to use as well. He hasn’t touched you. By some miracle, Homelander hasn’t touched you. He makes you sleep in his bed and smile at him and say all the right things, but he hasn't touched you. Not like that. 

Because he’s afraid. Of you. It’s the only thing that helps you hold down your vomit, allows your fire to stay under your skin. The knowledge that Homelander is afraid of you. It’s so easy to miss, how he won’t look away from you for more than two minutes at a time. How when you move he watches you far too closely. He won’t touch you with bare skin unless he has to for the camera, and even then it’s brief flashes of something like fear. The room is kept cold, and you know it’s meant to quell your fire. It doesn’t—and you still think Sage knows that—but Homelander seems to be unwilling to take you anywhere warm. TV sets are cold, ice is offered in large cups at outdoor events, and when you’re eventually allowed out of the room, the tower is almost numbingly air-conditioned. 

It took another two weeks for them to let you leave the room. Two weeks to prove that you would behave, to make Homelander think you were coming around. Time spent being choked by artificial coconut, receiving PR training, and making small, careful moves. Carefully calculated smiles at Homelander off of the camera, small, fake flinches into his hand when someone else would come near you. 

Play the part. Play the role you’d been given and fall apart alone. Let Homelander show you off wherever he could and ask all the right questions about his life and fame. 

“Are all these people here for you?” You ask him in a too soft voice. You know they were all here for him—they were literally holding Homelander is America’s True Hero signs—but the question makes him laugh like you were a silly, stupid child, and that’s what you’d been aiming for. 

“They’re here for us,” He says your name, grinning around at the crowd, and waving at the gathered people like he was the Queen of England. 

Fucking pussy might think he is the Queen of England. Fucking bitches and moans like it. 

That made it easier. Ben’s voice would mutter in your ears, and make this all easier. Easier to look around in awe, give Homelander one of your rare smiles, and get through this. 

Then—when Homelander locks you back in his room and leaves to do who knows what—you fall over the toilet and hurl your guts of disgustingly fancy food, sobbing until it was all out. Covering your mouth with a hand so you wouldn’t scream, swallowing and drowning in your own tears. A small period, every day, where you just broke. Where you let yourself mourn and hate this and miss Ben. Wish you were anywhere but here, wish you could just go home. You just want to go home. 

But you always pick yourself up, and amble through the apartment until Homelander returns. 

He has food delivered to you. It’s pretty much whatever he wants—you think he’s not actually sure what food you like and can’t really be fucked to find out—and he’ll make you eat it with him, making sure you eat it, before informing you he’s going to bed. 

Which means you’re going to bed. 

You don’t sleep. You can’t sleep. Not when Homelander is on the other side of the mattress and everything is so cold. He hasn’t touched you, and that gets you through the night, but you’re not stupid. You know better than to try and predict what Homelander will or won’t do. To trust him to follow a pattern. Which means you lie awake at night, eyes closed and breathing controlled so Homelander thinks you’re sleeping, and try to drag your fire further up into your body. 

The cold isn’t harming it. But it keeps going numb. All your fear and pain and hatred and anger keeps washing over you, feeling like it’s going to burst out of your body, and the fire grows dormant again. And when Homelander’s too close, when there are too many cameras, when you have to smile and laugh and pretend you’re not dying, the fire falls further away. 

Ben would say you have performance issues. You’d try to punch him, tell him if anyone has performance issues it’s going to be the hundred-year-old man, and he’d laugh and remind you that you know he doesn’t have performance issues, and you miss him. You miss him so much. Because if you looked at him and said I miss you, and I love you, and I’m so sorry I should’ve just come home because I miss you and love you and you were right we should’ve just left and I’m so, so sorry, he’d just hold you. He’d pull you into his big, warm, safe body and let you scream until your voice was hoarse. 

I was right. His voice still rumbled through you, even when he wasn’t there. Even when he was just a piece of you that was always dedicated to missing him. To loving him, all the time. I was absolutely fucking right, but if you keep trying to apologize, Sunshine, I’ll lose my damn mind. So shut up. 

And you miss him more, as you became more certain you can’t let him get hurt. That your two jobs right now are to do this right, and do this careful, and never let them hurt Ben. Play your role and never let them hurt Ben. 

When you were given a choice, a say in your outfit or hair or makeup, you always chose green. It made everything in your guts and lungs painful, because it always moved your brain from I have a plan to Ben. Ben, I love you, but you have to. You have to keep telling him you were fine, you have to tell him you hadn’t broken, without actually saying it. The only sign he’s seen you and understands was that he still hadn’t appeared in Vought’s lobby, demanding they return you to him with roars of your name and a lot of violence. 

But you worry. You worry Ben will notice the days when you were just exhausted, when the cracks are starting to show because everything in you hurts. When a strange sort of beast that has started to wake in your blood wants to make everything hurt the way you are. Every time that happens—every time Homelander drags you somewhere and you have to smile and swallow down strangled noises and a vile taste when Homelander’s hand finds your body—you worry that Ben will come. You want him to come, you want more than anything in the world for him to just grab you and take you far away, but he can’t. Because this doesn’t work like that. 

You resort to allowing him to follow you. For your love of him to walk a pace behind you, a phantom nobody can see but you. 

In the first three weeks, locked in Homelander’s room and in front of cameras, it’s just you and that phantom. Nothing in Homelander’s apartment is Ben, he’d call the whole thing fucking pathetic—over-expensive bullshit, and that coffee table is too fucking ugly to even do coke off of—but he’s still there. Everywhere around you, but still just a figment of your love. In the air and thumping with your heart, and you love him. 

But not real. 

They keep asking you questions about your relationship with Homelander—you’re still not allowed to actually speak and Sage doesn’t think that’s sustainable—so they sit you down and run over the backstory. 

“So, the story is you’re Homelander’s sweetheart,” a skinny man wearing plaid—you can’t remember his name, you’re pretty sure it starts with an S—is pitching you a life story, like you’re going to make it into an Oscar-bait coming-of-age story. “Childhood best friends to lovers, star-crossed, soulmates, made for each other.” 

“But fate has other plans. Thing’s weren’t going to be so easy.” The shorter, bald one jumps in over… Sam. Sean. Steve. 

It doesn’t fucking matter. Call that one Bald Pussy and that one Skinny McBrown-Nose. 

You’ve been introduced to about a hundred different Vought employees’ dedicated to selling Homelander and Sage’s lie over the span of today alone. Bald Pussy and Skinny McBrown-Nose it is. 

“You’re torn apart at every turn. He’s in the Seven, but you don’t want the fame.” 

Bald Pussy makes a sad face, picking up again from Skinny McBrown-Nose. “You just want him.” 

“You’re an independent woman, you want a career.” 

“But he wants a family.” 

“Fights, compromises, making up because whatever happens-“ 

“You’ll always find each other.” 

They’re still bouncing off of each other, and your blood is trying to burst out of your body. You feel like something is killing you, ripping apart your head and heart and tongue and you miss Ben- 

You think they fuck each other while they rehearse this bullshit? 

The phantom is behind you. Whispering in your ear with a low, gravely, voice that—just within itself—pulls you down and holds you together. 

I’d hope this doesn’t require rehearsing. They’re just saying words people vaguely associate with love. Soulmates and made for each other mean essentially the exact same thing. 

I can’t believe this is what Vought has fucking come to. Paying a bunch of pussies to talk. Goddamn anyone can just say words about love. 

Really. 

Are you doubting me? I can be fucking romantic. 

Uh huh. 

Remember when I made you hot chocolate with all those weird pink marshmallows? 

I had to walk you through that, and you got mad the marshmallows weren’t, and I quote, “proper fucking marshmallow color. They perfected marshmallows damn decades ago, fucking idiot pussies didn’t need to make them pink and add fucking candy canes.” 

Shut the fuck up, I still did it. I’m a goddamn gentleman. 

You are not a gentleman, Benjamin. 

I fucking am, and I’m romantic. I can say shit about romance like those pussies, fucking watch me. Love, chocolate, flowers, orgasms- 

You just said orgasms. That’s not romantic. 

I can make it fucking romantic. And you fucking love the orgasms I give you. You love me. 

I do. The pain is becoming softer, something that’s sitting where it shouldn’t be. A part of you that knows all of this is just plain fucking wrong, to be here—be anywhere—without Ben. I love you more than I’ll ever be able to say. 

You must really fucking love me. All you ever do is talk. 

Sage snaps your name. “You aren’t listening.” 

Show time. 

Knock them fucking dead, Sunshine. 

Shut up and let me focus. 

“Is it,” You give Homelander the most pathetic, nervous look you’re capable of. “Is it important for me to listen to them? I’m really tired, and I have a lot of downtime. You could give me a file, I promise I’d read it.” 

“It is important,” Sage watches you carefully. “You need to understand-“ 

“I understand,” you sigh, and let a little bit of your genuine exhaustion show. “I’ll say whatever I need to for this to work for you. I’m just tired, I want to go home-“ 

That does it. You called it home, and Homelander turns to glare at Skinny McBrown-Nose and Bald Pussy. “You two have written this down.” 

Skinny McBrown-Nose stutters out a response, “Uh, Seth, you said you were going to-“ 

“I told you I couldn’t, Evan, because I had that thing-“ 

“You mean your fucking dick replacement surgery?” Homelander sneers, and Seth—Bald Pussy had the S name, not Skinny McBrown-Nose—flushes and stares at the floor. “I do not care who writes it down, as long as you give it to her tomorrow.” Homelander’s sharp words make them both nod nervously, and he offers you a hand. 

You take it, slow, tentative, and deliberate, and trying not to jerk it back and scream when cold leather wraps around your hands. This is working. Everything is where it needs to be right now. Not where it wants to be, not where it should be, but where it needs to be. You can scream when it’s safe to do so, when you can muffle the sound into Ben’s skin. 

After that, Homelander tells Sage that you won’t be doing PR training anymore. You don’t hear the conversation—or, more likely, argument—but when Sage tells you she’s watching you through narrow eyes with a sour expression. She passes you a large stack of papers, tells you to memorize them fast. 

That afternoon is spent flipping through the pages, trying to focus on the words and not rip them to shreds. Most of it is information you already know, just from the PR campaign Vought’s been pushing since January. Homelander’s secret lover. Two supes from the same small town, one stronger than any before and one who's very pretty. He loves her, because she’s sweet. She loves him, because who wouldn’t? 

You have to take a five minute break after that. Five minutes of heavy breathing, thinking about happy things before you can keep reading. 

As a supe, you have fire, but it’s not well controlled, and this you can only heal herself. You’re no longer immortal. Your name, Anomaly—there’s a footnote that says you’re dropping the the part of the Anomaly, to match Homelander—is because you have absolutely no control of your powers when you use them, which is why you don’t. You finished high school and never went to college, but you got experience in marketing from following Homelander around. Your parents were married for almost 30 years before a truly tragic car accident killed them both. You had them cremated, no gravestones or other possible evidence, and decided you wanted to start a family with Homelander. Then Soldier Boy kidnapped you, and your plans were put on hold. 

Another five minutes. Happy things. 

You—this you that’s been manufactured and designed to wear your face and not be you—aren’t a real person, with interests or hobbies or anything important to say about you except you love Homelander. The personality section calls you sweet and gentle, nice and loving. You enjoy cooking, clothing, and books. That’s it. Cooking, clothing, and books. You’re an independent woman, but you love Homelander, and you gave up everything because you love Homelander and he asked you to, and you’re smart but not smarter than he is, and you’re also a girly girl but you’re still smart, but still not too smart, not enough to be alienating or off-putting or annoying, and you’re not that funny but you’re really pretty, and you love cooking and clothing and books and Homelander- 

Music. City Lights. Ben. 

Music. Ben. City Lights.

Ben. Music. City Lights. 

Ben. 

Sitting with him. Eating with him. Laughing with him. Talking with him. At him. To him. Real and safe. 

Music. City Lights. Pine trees and strawberries and malt vanilla. Movies and TV shows and music. The color green and city lights and Ben. 

The tears fall, slow and silent, and your hand is itching to your throat. You still can’t breathe. This is lonely and you’re tired and you miss Ben. You’re not breaking. You won’t break. But you’re cracking. You can’t think outside of the cold, outside of your blood trying to spill into everyone else. 

You're trapped. Homelander will come back and he might not touch you but you can’t be sure, you have to get on stage and pretend to be this half-person in the morning, and you don’t love Homelander, you love Ben. And he isn’t coming to save you, because you’ve been making sure he doesn’t, but you miss him. You want to go home. Not here, never here. This isn’t home, this is an execution room. Cold and dangerous and everything is wrong. Home is warm and safe and everything is yours. None of this is yours. None of this is you. You can’t break, you’re not allowed to break. You can’t go home if you break, but you can’t go home now, and all of this hurts. It just hurts, and you want to go home, and all of this hurt is trying to burst out of you and it’s so cold- 

Fucking breathe. The phantom hums your name around your head, into your body. Breathe. 

You can’t. You can’t breathe. You don’t know why, but this is it. This is the thing that’s going to make you collapse and not get back up. You’re going to fail because of something so pointless, that doesn’t even matter- 

It fucking matters, Sunshine. All of this shit isn’t you. You’re a fucking pain, but you’re you. Not this weak fucking hussy bitch. Breathe.

Breathe. You’re you. You’re cold and alone but you’re you. 

When you get home, because you will fucking get home. Don’t think for a goddamn second I’m going to leave you here, you will come the fuck home. And when you do, you can cry all you damn want. 

You’ll break when you're home. You’ll go home soon, and you’ll break when you’re home. Ben was going to be angry, so fucking angry you were doing this to yourself. But he’d stay. He’d always stay. 

You memorize the script, memorize the role, and play it well. Smiling. Don’t break. Say the lines they’ve given you and don’t break and spend a half hour of the Deep’s 90 minute movie throwing up in a bathroom stall. Alone. 

It takes another week for them to let you roam the floor. You’re not allowed off of 99, or into actual meetings, but they unlock the doors and you’re officially introduced to the Seven. Sage knows you, and won’t stop watching you with narrow eyes. The Deep nods at you, and tells Homelander you’re smoking hot. Noir II nods in agreement, and then starts to talk before the Deep whacks him upside the head. Ashley—who is apparently a part of this—pretends she doesn’t know you, but when your hands shake you can feel her anxiety. A-Train just gives you a nod and a nice to meet you. 

You have your first real conversation with him a day later, when he speeds into Homelander’s apartment in the middle of the day. 

“We need to fucking talk.” 

You yelp, jumping back slightly. “Please, I’m not-“ 

“Cut the bullshit. You’re not Homelander’s girlfriend, no matter what they’ve been telling us to say.” 

You watch him carefully, not fully dropping the mask. “It’s, I don’t know. I’m confused, I’m not sure-“ 

“I said cut the bullshit.” A-Train snaps. “They don’t put cameras in Homelander’s room, he’s not going to find out about this. You can drop the act.” 

You pause. He might be lying. He could be baiting you out, but he doesn’t seem like the type. If he didn’t trust you, he’d probably just keep yelling until you confirmed his suspicions. And, based on the way he keeps looking at the door, pacing back and forth, A-Train’s not supposed to be here. Talking to you. 

“Fine.” Your face falls from nervous anxiety in exhaustion. Every fiber of your features is barely held together over the exhaustion. “What.” 

“What are they planning. Your team.” 

You shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve been preoccupied. You’re the one who’s allowed to leave.” 

“They’ve locked us in since you and Soldier Boy’s little show outside. Sage is cracking down on our downtime, she’s still convinced there’s a leak.” 

“There is a leak.” You hold A-Train’s glare. “And Ben and I’s little show got Ryan Butcher out.” 

A-Train blinks at you. “Ben?” 

“Soldier Boy,” you mutter. “I call him Ben. He’s my…” You trail off. He’s not your boyfriend. Or, technically, lover. But you do love him. He’s everything, and you love him. “Friend.” 

“Friend?” He frowns at you. “Back at the diner-“ 

“It’s complicated.” 

A-Train halts in front of you. “Whatever. I don’t care about your complicated relationship with Soldier Boy. I need to know what Starlight and Hughie and MM and the rest of them are planning.”

“And I told you, I don’t know.” 

“Guess.”

“I can’t,” you hiss. “They might be planning to kill Homelander. They might be planning to kill Sage. Maybe just focus on Vought. I’m not exactly able to talk to them, so I don’t know.” 

“What about you?” A-Train glares at you, hands on his hips. “Are they not going to try and come get you?” 

“No. They’re not.” 

“I thought those assholes were all about teamwork and morality-“ 

“Morality,” your voice is softer than you want it to be. “Is relative. In this scenario, it would be immoral to focus on one person in exchange for an opportunity to kill Homelander.” 

A-Train gives you a look of disbelief. “You’re not being serious.” 

“I am not the priority.” Your nails are digging into your skin, and something in your throat has become like a stone, but you keep going. You have to keep going. “I am doing what I need to do. They are doing what they need to do. Right now, that’s what this is about.” 

“What, you think being some kind of self-sacrificing hero is going to help anyone.” A-Train scoffs. “Grow up. This is the real world, the big leagues. You’re not going to get a parade just because you did the stupid, selfless thing.” 

“I don’t want a parade.” I want to go home. “And I am well aware of the real world. The real world is expensive and tiring and lonely. I have nothing, I’m exhausted, and I’m completely fucking alone. This is hell.” The anger is trying to leave your body through your throat. “I’m not making the hard choice for glory. I’m making it for the real world.” 

A-Train glares at you for another long second, and then he’s gone in a whoosh. 

Three days pass. Three days of being alone and missing Ben and trying not to break. You’re in front of a camera almost all the time now. They won’t stop putting you in the ugliest dresses known to man, but you make sure they’re green. You make sure to look into the camera and give Ben signs. Something else that tells him you’re okay, that keeps him from trying to save you. That you miss him, but you’re fine. You’ll see him once this is over. Once all the pieces fall into place, once it’s safe and will be simple. 

You hope they’re trying to kill Homelander. Whenever you think about it you become a little lightheaded, because what if they're not. What if they’re trying to kill Sage, or the Deep, or Noir II. What if they just haven’t come for you because they’ve spent the past month planning to get you. A lot of this relies on them finding a plan to kill Homelander. Without you they’re not strong enough to keep him anywhere, and Ben can’t just ask him to stay still and take the shot. They’re going to need to keep him down, keep him still or trapped. They need to be looking for something, because all of this will be pointless if they aren’t. 

When A-Train finds you again—in another marble bathroom, and another awful gown, throwing up into the toilet—you swallow down what’s left and speak before he has the chance. 

“I still don’t know what they’re planning. But you need to find out.” 

You’re met with a blank stare for only a second as A-Train takes you in. Still knelt before the toilet bowl, tears falling, cracks appearing at the surface. “Holy shit, what are you-“ 

“I’m vomiting. You need to go to MM and tell me what they’re planning.” 

He shakes his head. “I told you, I can’t risk it. They’re watching our every fucking move, they even know I’m in this bathroom.” He freezes, staring at you. “Shit, they know you’re in this bathroom-“ 

“No, they don’t.” Your words are fast, sharp, said just before A-Train takes off. “They couldn’t put the tracker in my body. It kept burning and short-circuiting. They don’t know we’re talking.” 

A-Train nods curtly. “Fine. But I still can’t fucking risk taking a trip to talk to MM right now.” 

“You need to.” 

“I can’t, I have a family that they’ll hurt-“ 

“I’ve got a family that they’ll hurt,” you snap, standing on shaking legs. “We’ve all got families that they’ll hurt. People we care about that we have to keep safe. I’m not asking you to kill Homelander yourself, I’m asking you to find out what my team is planning.” 

“Why the hell do you need to know?” A-Train rolls his eyes. “You can’t help them, and you’re obviously having some sort of mental break that’s stopping your powers-“ 

“I am not having a mental break,” you take a rough step forward. “I’ve just been fucking kidnapped, again, so I’m crying. And I need to know so I can adjust.” 

“Adjust?” 

You laugh. It’s not a real laugh, it’s cold and tired and angry, but it feels good. You’re angry, and it’s not trying to explode from you because you can show it. “I’m working on something. I need to know what they’re planning so I can change my plans to match.” 

A-Train frowns at you. “Your plans… You mean you’re-“ 

“Not just sitting on my ass? Actually trying to help? Yeah, I am. I may not be a hero,” You jab a finger into his chest, and he flinches. “But at least I’m not a fucking pussy.” 

He’s gone again. It’s getting really annoying. But you don’t let yourself dwell on whether A-Train will help you or not. Because Homelander finds you the next day, and your timeline has to move up. 

“You’re going on TV again. Tomorrow.” 

“Okay,” your voice is soft, and something foul and molding is rooting in your gut. “Where are we going-“ 

“It’s just you.” 

You blink at him with a parted mouth, and most of the fear in your voice is real. “Just, just me?” 

“Well, obviously I’ll be going with you.” He waves you off with a hand, rubbing his forehead. “But just you on the TV. Sage wrote you a script, you’ll read it during the meeting.”

“Meeting?” 

“We’re making you a supe outfit. You fucking need it. You’re a hero, you’re my partner, putting you normal fucking human clothes give the public the wrong idea.” 

You wait for him to continue. You know better than to try and interrupt, or ask questions. 

“You’re not human. They can’t think just anyone can have what we have. If people keep seeing you dresses like a fucking actress they’ll think you’re just like them. That we’re just like them.” 

The silence is long enough for you to nod. “Okay.” 

Homelander’s look of surprise at your compliance lasts only a second before turning into satisfaction. “Good.” 

You’re going on TV, alone. You have a chance to knock the first domino down. You sit through the meeting and all the pitches and don’t speak or scream or vomit. Your costume is red, because Vought employs geniuses who understand that red and fire are often associated with each other. It’s revealing, there’s a corset and lace and high leather boots that hurt your feet. The script is bland, blatant propaganda, but it doesn’t matter. You won’t really need to memorize it anyway. 

Homelander’s gone again that night, and you’re not sure this will work, but you give it a shot. 

“A-Train?” 

Silence. He’s not an on-call angel, you’re not sure why you thought he’d respond- 

“What.” 

You turn to find him glaring at you. “I need your help.” 

“Why.”

“I can’t tell you.” 

A-Train shrugs. “Then I’m not helping you. Nice talk.” 

“Wait!” He’s not gone, just glowering at you, so you sigh and push the words out of your mouth.

“I’m going on TV tomorrow. Alone.” 

“Good for you.” 

“A-Train, I’m going on TV. Without Homelander. To give an interview.” 

“I don’t give a shit-“ 

“I’m going to do something.” You snap. “I need you to pull Homelander away, so I can do something.” 

He narrows his eyes at you. “Do what.” 

“I can’t tell you. But it’s important.” 

“Is it,” he pauses, looking around the empty apartment like Homelander might jump out and laser him. You understand the instinct. “Part of your plan? For them?” 

“Yes.” 

“To help them.” 

“Hopefully.” 

“Huh.” A-Train crosses his arms. “Why should I help you.” 

You scoff. You don’t have time for this. “Because if you don’t, then we’re all fucked.” 

“I’m already fucked. I put my skin on the line for your team, and got put in lockdown. And they still haven’t done shit-“ 

“They’re working on it.” They have to be. “I’d know more if you would just do what I asked.”

“I told you I can’t-”

“And I told you need to, if you want to actually do something. But I’m not asking for that right now.”  

He frowns at you. “What are you asking, exactly?”

“To pull Homelander away.” You repeat, sighing. “Just distract him from the studio.”

“Why.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m still not going to tell you. All I can say is it will help them if I do it. But I have to do it.”

A-Train is silent. Examining you before speaking slowly. “You think they’re going to win.” 

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.” 

“Why.” 

“Because, there’s not another option.” You swallow. “Please. All you have to do is make sure that Homelander leaves the studio. That he’s gone and busy.” 

“And this,” he finally takes off that stupid visor, meeting your eyes. “This will help those idiots? Really help them?” 

“It will.” You make your voice firm. It will help. It has to. “But I can’t do it with Homelander there.” 

“You’re really not going to tell me what exactly you’re going to do?” 

“Nope. It gives you plausible deniability.” 

“Not if I’m the one who calls Homelander away, Sage already doesn’t trust me-“ 

“So make the Deep do it. Or Noir, or literally anyone else that deserves it.” You frown into the air. “I’d go with The Deep, though. He’s too fucking stupid for them to think he planned anything.” 

A-Train takes a long breath, still glaring at you. “Fine. But if this doesn’t work-“ 

“It will.” 

“For both our fucking sakes,” he puts the visors back on, shaking his head. “It better.” 

It does. By some miracle, you get every single one of the words you’d been rehearsing for weeks out on live TV, and Homelander—pulled away for a PR crisis in which the Deep publicly admitted to fucking another octopus—doesn’t stop you. The cameras go off, the show goes to commercial, and you blink into the darkness of the studio. You have to trust they’ll understand what you said. Why you said it. That Ben or Butcher or Annie or someone will know what to do with it. That they’ll take your opening and use it, that Ben will be able to help them. 

One step down. One step closer to going home. 

You’d expected Homelander and Sage to be mad. You hadn’t slept last night, knowing that whether or not this worked you were going to have to think fast, act quick, and hope you’d done enough to make Homelander think you were just confused. Just a nervous, confused girl coming around to understand what he’d done for her, what his enemies had done to her. All you had to do was have convinced Homelander. When it came down to it, Sage’s opinion of you wouldn’t matter, not if you’d really, truly convinced Homelander. 

At first, you thought you had. He drops into the silent studio, everyone’s hushed and nervous whispers falling dead as Homelander marches up to you and yanks you up. Your mask is still on, and some of the tears are real. A small allowance of grief, for yourself. For saying everything that was true, for having to say he would always save you and know who you were speaking about. But not be able to scream Ben. Ben, I love you, into the camera and just go home. You know Ben will understand what you were telling him. He’ll have heard your words, the one explicitly for him, and understand. 

You weren’t broken. You were breaking but not broken. He hadn’t been able to burn with you, but he hadn’t failed you. Ben could never fail you. You’d see him soon. The words you've been staring into cameras since you’d been able to. You love him, and you’ll see him soon. 

He won’t understand that you love him, because you’ve only ever thought that part. You’ve stared into countless lenses and thought Ben, I love you and I’ll see you soon while only letting your face say I’ll see you soon. 

When Homelander drops you back into his apartment, that’s what will get you through whatever comes. One step closer. You’ll go home soon. 

You put on your most meek face and soft voice, and start apologizing before Homelander can even say your name. 

“I’m, I’m so sorry, I was just thinking about what they did and I couldn’t stop,” you shake your head and fall backwards onto the couch. “I didn’t mean to, please don’t hate me, I’m so sorry, please-“ 

It’s not Homelander that cuts you off—he looks annoyed but not angry—but Sage, stomping into the apartment.

“What did you just try to fucking pull?” She sneers, stopping above where you’ve curled into yourself. “You think you’re smart? That was insurmountably idiotic, I thought you’d know better than to try and go off script so blatantly.” 

“I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry,” you double down. You make yourself look pathetic and scared, try to push yourself into the cushions. “I swear, I just couldn’t stop, I keep thinking about what they did-“ 

Homelander grins, clapping his hands together. “Finally, some fucking progress.” 

“This isn’t progress, you idiot,” Sage snaps. “She’s tricking you.” 

“Look at her, she’s sobbing,” Homelander gestures to you, and it takes all your effort not to flinch. “So she messed up, this is still good. She’s coming around, and now people will know about what a bitch Starlight-“ 

“This is not good. Soldier Boy is a threat now. A real threat to your image, a threat to her,” Sage points at you, and something twists in your upper gut. “Staying where we want her. We both know that not a word of what she said was true-“ 

“I’m sorry-“ 

Homelander silences you with a raised hand. “Don’t apologize to her, she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. We can deal with Soldier Boy, and he’s got nothing to do with her.” 

“Really,” Sage’s voice is dry and bored. “You’re sure about that.” 

“Of course I am, he’s Butcher’s fucking lapdog right now. They haven’t come to get her back, he’s not going to do it. They don’t care about her, and she’s finally getting that-“ 

Sage says your name, and your blood runs cold. “Would you like to tell him, or should I?” 

It’s all you can do to stutter and shake your head. “I, I don’t know what you’re-“ 

She gives you an annoyed look. “Fine. But I expected better from you.” She turns back to Homelander, and all your fire is gone. Replaced by something feral, that’s trying to make everything else just as afraid and dreadful as it feels. “She and Soldier Boy are fucking.” 

Homelander scoffs. “Please, don’t be fucking insane-“ 

“They are,” Sage’s gaze snaps to you. Looking you up and down. “Or at least she wants to fuck him. But he’s the only real threat to you right now, because he’s probably going to try and get her back.” 

“I, I’m not, I don’t understand-“ 

“Yes, you do. You can’t be trusted right now, not while you’re still Soldier Boy’s pet.” Sage shrugs. “I personally don’t think you’ll be able to pull off that leash, but we’ll see. Now,” she looks back at Homelander, whose face is blank, jaw ticking. “I have to go deal with one of your other mistakes. Find me when you decide what to do with her.” 

Sage leaves, something smug flashing in her eyes. She’d been waiting. This is what she’d been waiting for. Your move, so she could retaliate. 

And now Homelander is speaking your name, slow and cold. “Did you fuck Soldier Boy.” You open your mouth, and he raises a finger, grabbing your jaw and forcing your eyes onto his. “And don’t you dare fucking lie to me again.” 

You didn’t. You never actually fucked Ben. But you don’t think Homelander is going to care about specifics. “Yes.” 

“On purpose.” 

“Yes.” You can’t breathe. All your words are forced out of your body, and the feral thing inside of you is everywhere in your body. Trying to get out. 

“Do you still believe that I hurt you.” 

You’re going to scream, but his grip becomes tighter. “Yes.” 

His eyes flash red. “After all I’ve fucking done for you? You’d turn around and fuck my father?” 

“I didn’t-“ 

“No more fucking lies!” Your jaw might break. “I turn you into a supe, a god, and this is how you repay me?”

“Please-“ 

“I love you,” he pulls you up off the couch, and your hands fly instinctively to grab at his arm. “I fucking love you. I made you. Do you think anyone would want you like this? Weak? A fucking weak, ungrateful, lying bitch?” 

“No-“ 

“Exactly,” Homelander hisses, pulling your face closer. “Nobody else. You’re strong, I made you strong, but don’t forget your place. Mine. You belong to me, just like everything else. You don’t love Soldier Boy, you love me.” 

“I don’t-“ 

“I chose you because you’re nice.” Homelander sneers. “I chose you because you’re sweet. You were so pretty and nice, singing on that sage, and I fell in love with you right there. You’re just pretty, nice, and sweet. I made you a supe because I was tired of women who thought that their words made them worthy of me. Don’t think your fire, that you can’t even control, makes you my equal. You’re more powerful than Soldier Boy, but you’re not more powerful than me. Don’t get caught in the taste of someone weaker, and think that’s what you need.” 

You speak on instinct, the words falling from you before you can stop them. “Ben’s not weak.” 

“Ben?” Homelander face twists in hatred, and you think he’s going to kill you. Or try to, or just lock you up forever again. “Did you just call Soldier Boy Ben?” 

“I, I’m-“ 

“I thought you were getting better.” Homelander drops you back into the couch. “But you’re still too human. Too weak. Too easy for them to manipulate, make you think what those roaches want you to.” His eyes narrow. “We’re going to have to fix that.” 

You don’t hear the call he makes. You can’t hear anything over the blood, pounding in your ears. You want to go home. You should’ve just ran when you could, not taken a brief moment of Homelander’s fear and taken it as a reason to stay. You should’ve just run and gone home and now you can’t. Now you’re never going to go home. You’ll never see Ben again. Never be safe again. 

“Sir, you wanted to see me?” 

You don’t recognize that voice. You can barely focus on it, because the fear in your body hurts. It’s stabbing and snapping everything inside you, and you’re going to shatter into a million pieces. 

Homelander’s guiding someone in front of you. Noir II, the one that talks. The one Homelander didn’t kill.

“Stand right there. Don’t move or I’ll fucking laser your brains out.” He turns back to you. “Kill him.” 

You make a sound from your throat, and Noir II becomes rigid. 

“Uh, sir-“ 

“I said don’t move,” Homelander snaps, still looking at you. “You know who he is?” 

“Yes,” you breathe out. “He’s Black Noir.” 

“You know that he and Ben worked together? He was in on the Russia deal?” 

“I, uh, I’m just playing a role,” Noir II stutters. “I don’t know who Ben is-“ 

Homelander whips around, eyes glowing. “Don’t move.” 

You can hear Noir II’s swallow. “Yes, sir.” 

Homelander says your name. “He wanted to kill Noir for that. Like he’s going to kill you, for betraying him. For staying with me.” 

You can’t breathe again. Ben knows you didn’t betray him, you’d never betray him. He’d never hurt you, you trust him with your whole life to understand that you weren’t still here because you wanted to be. You’d always chose Ben, you love him. 

“So you’re going to kill Noir here,” Homelander steps aside. “And stop these pathetic delusions that Soldier Boy gives a fucking shit about you.” 

“I can’t,” you whisper. “Please, Homelander-“ 

“Yes, you can. Use your fucking fire or something. Kill him now.” 

You shake your head. “I can’t-“ 

“Christ, stop whining and just do it.” Homelander pulls you up again, dragging you across the room. Right in front of Noir. “The sooner you do, the sooner we can all move on.” 

“Please-“ 

“Now.” 

You can’t move. Every single muscle and tendon and blood vessel wants to leave your body. Everything is freezing, trying to spread like mold around you and you can’t breathe. 

“If you don’t do it.” Homelander’s body is pressed against yours, shoving you forwards. “I will. But no matter what, you’re going to stop lying to me, stop trying to trick me, and understand what your role in this is. You’re not Maeve, or Stormfront, or Starlight. You’re not a hero or bitch who’s going to try and control me. I made you for me. Now kill him.” 

You just choke on the air, and Homelander grabs your jaw again. “You can even do that fucking singing. Just kill him.” 

He rips off Noir II’s mask, revealing a young man. He grabs your hand, pushes it onto Noir II’s face, and he’s afraid. You didn’t have to be touching Noir II to know he’s afraid. You can hear his heavy breaths, you can see the way he’s frozen, and you can’t. You can’t kill him, you won’t.

Noir II makes a sound that might be a plea, and your heart falls into your gut. 

“I-“ 

Red flashed through the room, and Noir drops to the ground. Body sliced in two. 

“You were taking too long,” Homelander moves in front of you, pulling off a glove that’s been splattered in blood. “I’ve got things to do. You’re still going to the Believe Expo next week, but you’re going to stop being a little girl and start telling the truth. Understand?” 

You nod, still staring at Noir’s body. 

Homelander sighs. “Don’t think I like being mad at you. But you need to stop trying to be something you’re not. You’re the first woman that hasn’t tried to fucking control me, and that’s one the reasons why I love you.” He turns your head to look at him. “I forgive you for Soldier Boy. You weren’t yourself. But never,” his hand moves lower, sitting against your throat. “Forget your place again.” 

You hate him. You hate him so fucking much, but every part of your body feels far away. The whole world is just pure hatred and fear and it’s everywhere.

Homelander’s face twitches, hand tightening on your neck—your fear feels bigger, it almost makes you collapse—and he pulls his hand back as if you’d burned him. You couldn’t have, because everything is just fear and hatred and making the fire numb, but Homelander is staring at you like he’s seen a demon or a ghost. Then he’s gone. Leaving you alone again, with only a dead body for company. 

You don’t have anywhere to go. You haven’t felt small like this in a while, this useless and pathetic. But you don’t have anywhere to hide, anywhere safe to just fall apart. So you sink to the floor, gripping your arms with nails and cold hands, and scream. For the first time in over a month, you just scream. 

You want to go home. You can’t do this anymore, you just want to go home. You’re crawling up the stairs, away from the body to the bathroom where you can lock the door and break. Alone. Homelander wasn’t afraid of you anymore, he knew you were weak, and this might be your last time alone. 

I’ll come get you. Ben’s voice is everywhere, but still not real. You just want it to be real. 

“You can’t,” you whisper into the air, because it just doesn’t matter anymore. You’d lost everything already, the world is a blur, and there’s no point in trying to keep your sanity. “They’re ready for you. They’ll put you back to sleep.” 

I don’t fucking care. 

“But I do.” 

Sunshine, I will come get you. Say the word and I’ll get you right fucking now. I’ll fucking destroy the tower and you’ll come home. Back to me. 

“You don’t love me, Ben.” It hurts to say, but it’s the truth. Ben cares about you, but he doesn’t love you. Not like you love him.  

Shut the fuck up. Don’t doubt for a fucking second that you’re everything to me. Homelander’s a fucking pussy, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.

“But you don’t love me.” Everything is cold. Everything hurts and Ben doesn’t love you and you’re never going to see him again. Never going to tell him that you love him. You’re shattering, breaking, falling into something monstrous that can’t be put back together. Nothing is good, you’re not safe, and you’re weak. You’re exactly what Homelander says you are, weak. You’re not smarter, or stronger, and you’re never going to feel anything but cold again. 

When Ben’s voice sounds through the air again, it’s louder. Almost like he’s right in your ear. You can almost feel him. You’d recognize him anywhere, in any form, and this feels like him. 

He says your name, there’s something warm and powerful in your chest. I’m waiting, because you told me to and I trust you. But it’s fucking killing me. Whatever you’re fucking doing, it better bring you back. I don’t give a shit about Butcher or Homelander or any of this but you. I’m playing nice because you’ll be home soon. But you better fucking come home. 

I will. You don’t say it aloud, because all of the world suddenly feels far away. The only thing that feels real is Ben’s voice. Deep and warm. 

Fucking swear it. 

Promise. 

Good. The voice is silent for a second. That’s never happened before. I miss you. 

I miss you too.

Something around you sparks and flashes. It reminds you of Ben’s amusement in your body, rough and bright.

Don’t try and correct me, Benjamin.

I wasn’t going to say shit.

Yes, you were. I meant to say ‘too’. Statements that begin with an I are better suited to end with too. 

Smartass. 

I hate you. 

No, you don’t. 

The voice doesn’t remind you that you love him. It always reminds you that you love him. Instead it just keeps going.

If you hated me, you wouldn’t be wearing green all the time.

It’s a signal, Pretty Boy. I wear green so you pay attention. 

I’m not a damn toddler, I don’t need you to flash a color in front of my eyes to pay attention. 

Sure.

Shut the fuck up.

I agreed with you. 

We both know you fucking didn’t.

Sure.

Brat.

Cunt.

Silence again. Then-

For the record, I’m always paying attention to you. You’re fucking impossible to ignore, even when you’re gone. It’s damn inconvenient, I’m starting to look like a goddamn mental patient. And I fucking miss you, more than I’ll ever be able to tell you. 

Something rages inside your chest, something that feels bigger than the whole world and more valuable than oxygen, and then the warmth is gone. But you’re not screaming anymore, and all that’s cold is the floor of the bathroom and the air around you. Your vision clears with your head, you can feel the fire. It’s weak, not nearly enough to tear through Vought and escape, but awake.

You’ll survive this. You’d get through this. You’ll adjust, adapt, and keep moving. You will not break. You trust Ben, and you’ll feed the fire until you can make Homelander afraid again. He needs to be afraid again, to understand that he won’t fix you to what he wants, make you into anything. And when your plan works—in two weeks, two days, twenty-two hours, fifty-six minutes, and seven seconds—you’ll go home, and Ben will hold you. And you’d be safe. Soon, you’d be safe.

End Note:  Big thanks to everyone who’s sticking through the rough so we can get to the happy. You’re all amazing <3

Thank you all for reading, and please leave if a comment if you are so inclined! Every single one is the highlight of my day, from your jokes to your thoughts and feedback!

If you like this story, reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

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@c1gs-coffee @manicjk @artemys-ackles, @a-cup-of-nightshade, @bitchykittenconnoisseur

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@deansbbyx @s0urw00lf @ciuguapa @ilyaasansaif @whimsicalcherry

“What about,” Ben glanced at the next recommendation on the Ten Best Romantic Vacation Cities list he’d found online. It wasn’t total fucking shit, even if the website kept trying to tell him the Ten Best Ways to Use a Vibrator with a Partner. He’d save that tab for later. “Havana?”

“Cuba has a strained relationship with the CIA.” She shrugged. “I don’t think they’d agree to take us in.”

“Hawaii?”

“Well, I’d be fine with Hawaii, but I don’t think you would.” She retreated back into the bathroom, and Ben frowned.

“I’d fucking love Hawaii. It would be full of damn beaches to fuck on-”

“No,” She reappeared, walking over to stand between Ben’s legs. Looking so fucking perfect there—wearing his shirt and hair still messy from his hands and holding his face between her palms—that Ben almost missed what she was saying. “They wouldn’t put us in a resort, they’d put us in a town. Probably away from the beach, definitely without the infrastructure it should have. Just a real bummer of human rights. You’d hate it.”

She said those last words so simply that all the fancy, brainy shit she’d been telling Ben felt pointless. She thought he’d hate it, and she was always fucking right, and was smiling down at him with so much adoration on Her face that—even if she was somehow wrong—Ben was now certain he’d hate it.

“Fine,” he grunted, dropping his phone to his lap and tugging Her further forward with hands on the back of her thighs. “Where the hell would you want to go, if you’re so fucking smart.”

She was so fucking smart. And She knew it, because she was grinning when she said, “Rome.”

“Rome?” 

“It has a bunch of art and history and culture for me, and some very good fucking food for you. Plus, everyone there is stupid hot.”

Ben winked at Her. “You’re stupid hot enough to power a country, beautiful. I don’t need anyone else.”

“Thanks,” She mumbled, looking very firmly away from Ben as her face flushed that pretty fucking color. “But I was talking about for our escort business.” 

“And that’s why you’re the damn brains.” Ben rubbed circles on Her skin, and she fell a little further into him, hands tightening on his face. “Always fucking planning. We’re going to need to find some people half as damn hot as we are, because we’re only fucking each other.”

She scoffed, and Ben thought Her heart might beat right out of her chest. “How sweet of you, to keep your dick in your pants at even the prospect of money.”

“We’ll earn plenty of goddamn money. My dick is yours, Sunshine.” 

She hummed, and her hands started to play with Ben’s hair in a way that made him feel like a goddamn puppy. What was worse was that it felt fucking good. Her perfect fucking hands, touching him because she wanted to, because she liked touching him. “Even if someone offered ten million dollars?” 

“Yours.”

“That’s financially irresponsible.” She mumbled, still incredibly fucking determined to not meet his eyes. “We could buy a house with that money.” 

“If I was offering my dick for money,” Ben drawled. “We could buy a fucking island. But it’s yours,” he said Her name firmly, and she glanced at him with wide eyes. “So get damn used to chasing customers off.” 

“Chasing customers off?” 

“I’m going to have to do it for you,” he grinned at Her. “Fucking pussies who think they can fuck you the way I will.” 

She stuck her tongue out at him, but Ben didn’t miss the smile she was failing to fight. “Horny fucking cunt.” 

That was enough. Just that was a good enough reason for Ben to pull Her all the way into his lap, let her straddle his thigh, and silence her small sound of surprise with his mouth. For Ben to tug and touch Her skin in time with all the ways he’d learned to play her mouth until she was limp and moaning against him. Until he could bite Her lower lip and trace his hand along her spine and she’d throw back her head and arch against his hand. Until Ben could suck that spot on her throat and trace a hand across her ribs as she’d start grinding down onto him. 

“Ben-“ 

“Horny fucking cunt,” he echoed Her words against Her skin. “Your horny fucking cunt goddamn wants my dick, doesn’t it? Brat.” 

“Fuck you,” Her words were said through gasps, hands clawed and scraping at Ben’s scalp, and he chuckled.

“Afraid that’s not on the table right now, beautiful.” He pulled back to grin at Her. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t do anything about how fucking wet you are.” 

She whined something that might have been a plea, might have been a curse or vulgar phrase aimed at Ben, or might have been just one of the many pretty fucking sounds she made, but it all would’ve achieved this same effect. She was needy, She wanted Ben, and she was trying to fuck his thigh. Rolling her hips on it desperately, trying to chase relief against him. Making smaller, more desperate noises every time Ben’s hands brushed against her tits, every time his teeth or tongue found a new place to worship her skin. 

This was all they could do right now, and fuck it was torture. It was so goddamn painful to have Her grabbing at him and moaning and saying his name in that perfect fucking way—pleading and adoring in Her breathless voice—and not just be able to fuck Her. To know he had to goddamn wait another day, to feel his pants become tight like they had before and force himself to hold off when She wanted him to fuck Her. She wanted him. He had been given the image of Her slight drool when she’d jerked him off and knew she would look at him like that again. Look at him with more fucking care and want, because Ben would fuck Her until she wouldn’t ever think another weak fucking asshole could fuck her like she deserved. He’d fucking ruin Her. He’d have Her bounce on his cock like she was bouncing on his leg, and he would make her feel so fucking good. Make him worth something to Her, one fucking thing that nobody else would be able to give her.

Ben pulled back for a second, needing to just fucking see Her. See how fucking beautiful she was, wanting him, get a goddamn glimpse of how it would look when she rode his dick instead of his thigh. He’d never seen anything better. He’d seen mountains and waterfalls and the goddamn Northern Lights and they might as well have been fucking dumpster fires and car crashes compared to this. If anything, the car crash would be the only half-worthy comparison. Because She was destroying herself against Ben, staring at him with dazed, pretty fucking eyes, and all the bliss and pleasure on her face was from Ben. He was doing this to Her.

And he couldn’t look away if he tried. 

She’d made a small whine when Ben had pulled away from her throat—pushing down on him harder and hand scraping along the nape of his neck—but he pressed his head against hers and She moaned. 

“Ben, please-“

“So fucking good,” he growled, and She moaned again. “You want to cum, beautiful?” 

She nodded. “Yes.” 

“Beg.” 

“Fucking ass-“ She leaned forward, trying to capture Ben’s lips against hers. “Ben.” 

“I need you to fucking beg,” he kissed all across Her face, everywhere he could without bringing her any closer to the edge. “You want your horny fucking cunt to cum, then beg.”

“Please,” She was smoking. Her skin wasn’t growing warmer, but a glowing smoke was clouding the room as she tried to pull Ben closer. “Fucking please, Ben-“

He kissed Her, and she screamed into his mouth, clawing at his hair and skin. Bucking off his leg so that Ben had to grab Her hips and keep her still, had keep her from continuing to bump against him because he’d cum in his fucking pants. He had to pull himself the fuck together, he wasn’t a goddamn virgin pussy, but fuck She was so perfect. Ben might have almost cum just when She’d smiled at him, standing between his legs and touching him so easily.

As Ben looked at Her come down—beautiful and perfect and torn apart all over him—and she looked at Ben like he’d seen her look at the city skyline from the window, with the face she had when she listened to a song she loved. The Thing became painful. It had been trying to tell him something. Since the night before it had stopped trying to remind Ben how perfect She was, stopped trying to push him into her. Ben was well fucking aware how perfect She was. And since he’d crashed into Her there wasn’t a goddamn chance he was going to pull away.

So now the Thing was trying to tell him something. On repeat over twelve hours it had been rioting in Ben, trying to tell him something so fucking important. Something critical, that he needed to know so She could know as well.

And when She started to slide off of Ben—falling to her knees before him—the Thing felt like it might tear him apart.

“Hi,” She smiled at him, face so fucking bright and happy. Looking at Ben like he was everything.

He was. To Her, he was fucking everything. And weaker men than Ben would’ve cum just from Her saying that. Weaker men wouldn’t fucking survive Her. She’d look at them with sharp, infinite amusement on her beautiful face and fight with them over nothing and they’d simply goddamn die because fuck she was perfect. But She wouldn’t look at them like this. Like they were everything. That was—by some fucking grace of a god Ben was starting to be indebted to—a look She reserved for him. With adoration and care and something that was alive and powerful sitting deep in Her perfect eyes. Thank fuck Ben wasn’t a weaker man. He’d have never earned Her, on her knees before him with her hands on his thighs. He still hadn’t earned Her, but fuck him if he wasn’t going to dedicated the rest of his goddamn life to trying to. To showing Her that he was worthy of her looking at him like that, that he could keep up with her and protect her and-

Ben grunted Her name, because her hand was starting to trail up his leg and any and all thoughts were becoming just Her. “What are you doing.”

“Being an altruist,” She hummed, palm resting over Ben’s fully hard cock, still fucking smiling. “Giving back.”

“Sunshine-“ Ben cut himself off with a hiss, because she just fucking squeezed him. Her heart was stuttering around inside her, but Ben couldn’t tell if it was from desire. He didn’t need, didn’t want, Her to do this because she thought she had to. It had to be from desire. He wasn’t fucking Homelander. If She touched him, he needed her to need it. To want him. It wouldn’t mean a goddamn thing if she didn’t. If She touched Ben without looking at him like he was everything. “If you don’t want to-“

“I want to,” Her answer was fast, a little too fast, and Ben smirked. There it was.

“You want to?” He drawled, leaning over her, tilting her chin between his fingers. “How bad do you want to suck my dick, beautiful?”

“Bad,” She whispered. “But less and less by the second.”

Ben snorted. “Smartass.”

“Do you want me to suck your dick?” She blinked up at him, voice a little softer. “It’s just an offer, you don’t have to take it-“

Ben pulled Her face up between his hands, kissing her until her words name needy sounds and she was grabbing at his arms. When he was satisfied with the way she was moaning, Ben lowered her back down between his legs and grunted her name. “If I ever tell you not to suck my dick, fucking shoot me.”

“Yeah,” She nodded, glancing down at the outline of Ben’s cock, pushing against his pants that were still fucking on for some reason. “Okay.”

He muttered Her name, and she looked back up at him. “How much work do you want to do?”

She didn’t answer. She just started moving, pulling Ben’s pants down and taking him in her hand so quickly Ben would’ve thought she’d practiced. Stroking him once, twice, a third time, looking at his cock with pretty, lust-clouded eyes. Ben twitched in Her hand, and had to force himself not to rut into her, to just groan as Her thumb ran over the angry, red head of his cock. His job was just to watch Her—how she was so fully entranced in fucking torturing him—and let her do what she wanted. But it wasn’t fucking easy, not when she was so fucking beautiful, not when Her mouth was hanging slightly open and Ben didn’t think he could wait another second not being at least somewhat inside of Her.

Thank fucking hell and heaven and everything between that She didn’t go slow. Thank goddamn Christ that She took all on him at once, in a long movement that bumped him against the back of her throat, and set a brutal, torturous fucking pace. Found a beat, fast and rhythmic, where She’d pull up, up, almost all the way off with her hand trailing behind her, and lick the very tip of his cock before dropping back down. Down until Ben could feel the tightness of Her throat, squeezing his balls once before repeating it all again. Over and over, sucking with her teeth grazing him and her moans—loud and needy fucking moans—making Ben wonder if this was heaven. That was the only way that this—that She—was real, if he’d died and somehow managed his way into fucking heaven.

But Ben’s hand in Her hair that he’d tangled between his fingers to just touch her, was real. The small jerks of his hips into Her mouth—when her moans would vibrate around him and echo in his ears so he couldn’t help himself—were real. Her warmth and beauty and the feeling of Her was real. And fuck She was so fucking beautiful and perfect and-

Ben said Her name through strained teeth. “Where-“

She went faster. Moaned louder with a whine, her hand in time with the beat of her heart. Leaned into him, the wettest and most fucking sinful sounds Ben had ever heard escaping her. She was grinding down on air, so fucking pretty and focused, but looking up at him under eyelashes with want. Managing to take him deeper.

What did Ben in was Her. Fucking Her, groaning his name around his cock, looking up at him like he was everything.

He tried to pull away. He’d fucking swear he tried to pull away. He’d tried to paint her face or tits or any other perfect part of Her she’d allow, but she held him. She kept a firm grip on Ben’s leg for just a second—only long enough to tell him what she wanted—and he’d given in. He’d fucked Her face through his orgasm, and She hadn’t flinched as he came down her throat. Swallowing and letting Her tongue brush him all the way until he was done, then pulling off of him with a popping sound, and giving him a soft smile.

The amount of self-control Ben was capable of needed to be fucking studied. Every part of him needed to fuck Her. Anyone with half a fucking mind would need to fuck her if they were allowed to see her like this. Flushed and breathing heavy, eyes slightly unfocused with a want, cum dribbling out of her mouth. Allowed to see Her wipe it off with her fingers and suck them dry. Without hesitation, like it was something she didn’t even have to think about doing. But only Ben was allowed to see this, and that made it a million times more impressive that he was able to not throw Her onto the bed and fuck her until some stupid mission was the last thing she cared about.

The mission. The stupid fucking mission they had been supposed to be getting ready for. When it was over, he’d have all the time in the world to fuck Her like she deserved. But they’d have to actually do the mission first.

“What time is it?” She was looking around the room, still kneeling in front of Ben. “MM said we had to be in the dining hall at noon.” 

Ben couldn’t be fucked to stop staring at Her, let alone know the fucking time. “Check your damn phone, Sunshine, I’m not a fucking clock.” 

She stuck her tongue out at him. Her tongue that had just been wrapped around his cock. That had just been tasting his cum and she was still on Her knees-

“Mine’s dead, and like,” She waved vaguely past him. “Way over there. Give me yours.”

That snapped Ben out of it. Her palm was extended, she was looking at him expectantly, and he could not give her his phone. “You’ve got legs,” he grunted Her name, trying to look at her and remain completely fucking unaffected her flat glare. “Fucking use them.” 

She scoffed. “When have you ever been in favor of me using my legs.”

“I’m always in favor of you using your legs. They make excellent fucking handles.” Ben winked at Her, and her heart fluttered slightly. “And you’re always on my ass about letting you walk yourself. Here’s your fucking chance.” 

“Oh, fuck off.” Her voice was bored, unwavering. “Phone.”

“No. Get your own damn phone.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you being so weird.”

“I’m not being fucking weird-“ 

“Yes, you are. What’s wrong with you.” 

“Nothing, it’s my phone-“ 

“Benjamin.” She snapped, and he was in trouble. He knew that voice, that was Her I’m fucking onto your shit, Pretty Boy, voice. “Is it porn? Because I won’t give a flying fuck-“

“It’s not fucking porn,” he scowled. “I wouldn’t hide porn from you, that’s fucking stupid.” 

“So you are hiding something.” 

Shit. “Shut the fuck up.” 

She dove forward, hand jamming into Ben’s pocket. Where She knew he kept his phone, because she knew fucking everything. Insufferable, brilliant, perfect fucking woman. Thankfully, Ben was just faster than she was, and slammed his hand down to trap Her hand against him.

“Ben-“

“I’m not fucking hiding anything,” Ben said Her name firmly. It was incredibly fucking important she didn’t think he was keeping secrets from Her, because he wasn’t. This was worse than that. “I just value my goddamn privacy-“ 

“Oh, shove it up your ass, Pretty Boy.” She tried to tug her hand—now wrapped around Ben’s phone—from his grip. “I leave the door open when I shit and you spent an hour last week telling me about what Baseball games made you hard. I just sucked your dick. There’s literally nothing on your phone that could shock me.” 

He doubted that. Ben almost wanted to just let Her have his phone, to prove her fucking wrong. His pride managed to win for now, but if She kept talking about how she’d sucked his dick his will might dissolve real damn fast. “I told you about the baseball in fucking confidence-“

“I didn’t tell anyone.” She wrinkled her nose. “How would that have even come up? Hey, Annie. You know how you’re not Ben’s biggest fan? Wait until you hear about how he got a boner when the Phillies won the 1980 World Series, I’m sure it’ll completely reverse your opinion of him.” 

“Brat-“ “Can I please just check the time?” She had stopped trying to pull away from Ben, only frowning up at him with her pretty fucking eyes watching him carefully. “I won’t look in your phone, I just need to see the clock. Please.” 

Ben didn’t love how well that worked. How Her saying please and somehow trusting that he really wasn’t hiding anything from her made Ben crumble completely in only a second. Worse, he didn’t hate himself for it. He couldn’t call himself a fucking pussy because goddammit, anyone would’ve given into Her. Anyone with eyes and a brain would be willing to give Her anything.  

“Fine,” he grunted, loosening his hand from pinning Her’s in his pocket. “But I don’t want to hear a fucking word out your mouth, got it?” 

She blinked at him, but nodded. “Uh, sure.” 

His whole body was tense as She pulled out his phone, tapping the screen on, still on her fucking knees. She needed to stand up, needed to stop being so fucking perfect that Ben couldn’t look away, because now he had to watch Her look at his lockscreen as his teeth ground enough to break. Ben had to watch Her eyes widen, hear her heart skip a beat, and soft lips fall open in surprise.

She looked up at Ben, and he couldn’t avoid her gaze if he wanted to. “Ben-“ 

“Shut up,” he grumbled. “You promised. Not a fucking word.” 

“I did not promise,” She pushed. “I agreed. You should’ve made me promise, because I-“

“Fucking promise then. Not a word.” 

“Well, that ship kind of sailed, Benjamin.” Her voice was dry, and Ben couldn’t figure out what that face meant. How She was looking at him—still like he was everything—but with something pushing up behind her eyes. That powerful thing, the one Ben couldn’t name. “So now we’re going to have several words about it.” 

Ben scowled, remaining silent as he realized there wasn’t a way out of this. She was sitting straight, one hand planted on Ben’s knee to balance herself, and had placed her body right where Ben would knock her backwards and onto the floor if he tried to move away. He could try and kiss and fuck his way through it, but She had the sharp look in her eyes that told him she’d either bite him, burn him, or let him fuck her before immediately getting on his ass again after. 

She sighed, and turned Ben’s screen so he could see it. “That’s me.” 

It was Her. She didn’t need to be fucking showing it him, he well knew that it was her. It was his favorite picture of her, the first one he’d taken that wasn’t a blurry piece of shit. It showed her downstairs, watching the TV with a focus Ben could only describe as violent. He remembered what they were watching, that she’d been tapping Ben’s arm along with the soundtrack, and that it had been close to midnight, because he could recite every detail of the photo—in picture and out—backwards with his damn eyes closed. She was wearing Ben’s shirt and shorts that had been small enough for the shirt to completely cover. It gave the impression that she was only wearing Ben’s shirt. She was frowning at the TV—perfect face cast in a green light from its glow—and leaning against Ben’s shoulder with his hand on her thigh. She had been half asleep, and the drawn frustration on her face and intensity in her eyes had been because she was fighting to make it through the movie. The fucking Muppet Movie, that she’d used a favor for Ben to watch with Her. He hadn’t watched it, he’d watched Her watch it, but there was no reason she had to know that. She’d seemed thrilled he was just there, and he’d been satisfied watching Her struggle to stay awake, feeling her fall further and further into his side, and listening to her mumble about the Muppet’s fucking cultural importance right up until the credits rolled and she immediately passed out.

Ben fucking loved that photo. How She could’ve just watched it alone but used a whole favor just for Ben to sit with her. How She’d been so determined to stay awake she’d been trying to inch away from him, but Ben would pull her back gently and she’d just sigh as her eyes drooped further. How at one point She’d started singing along with all the damn puppets, and the room had filled with a colorful, misting light. How She looked so much like his, how anyone glancing at the photo would see that she was choosing him and know that he had chosen her. How fucking beautiful she looked, even in the dark from the higher angle. So fucking perfect. 

He didn’t have any justification for it. The photo or why it was his lockscreen. It had taken Ben a whole hour while She was with Annie and Hughie to figure out how to set it. She’d told him, and he’d listened, but phones were a goddamn terrible, dogshit technology. But he’d done it. By himself. And fought the urge to brag to Her after. Because She didn’t need to know that it was his lockscreen, and Ben didn’t really know to explain why it was. It made him fucking happy. He liked seeing Her pretty face every time he used his phone. 

And he wasn’t sure how to tell Her that without sounding like a fucking idiot pussy.

So he just glared at Her and grunted, “Obviously.” 

“Ben,” Her words were slow, and she wasn’t looking away from him. “Why is that a picture of me.” 

“Because the camera was pointed at your damn face.” 

“Benjamin.” 

“It’s a good fucking photo, okay?” Ben snapped. “You look hot.” 

She glanced at the photo. “I do not look hot.” 

He scoffed. “Get your fucking eyes checked, Sunshine. You look hot. Every photo of you looks hot.” 

Her eyes somehow grew wider, her heart picking up speed, and Ben was going to chop off his tongue. “Every photo of me?” 

“That’s enough,” Ben lunged forward, but She swatted his hand with just enough heat for him to pull back with a hiss of Her name. “Give me my fucking phone.“

“Tell me what you mean by every. Every photo of me.” 

“No.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Fine, you stubborn, grumpy ass. Have it your way.” 

Before Ben could stop Her, she was swiping his phone open and entering his password. Hunching down so Ben could see her face, covering the phone protectively with her body. 

“This is violation of my fucking privacy.” He grumbled. “I’m going to report you to HR.” 

She shot him a flat look from under her lashes. “You didn’t even know what HR was until Mallory made us all sit in on that seminar because I called Butcher a hussy fucking cuntwad bitch and one of the regular agents overheard. And I could report you to HR for taking photos of me without my knowledge.” 

“They’re not damn pervert creep photos-“ 

“Ben,” She looked up at him, thumb hovering over the Photo Library app icon. “As your closest thing to unqualified legal counsel, I’d advise you shut the fuck up.” 

Ben scowled at Her, but snapped his jaw shut, watching her wearily as she opened his photos. 

They were all of Her. The only ones that weren’t of her were something called—according to his very thorough internet research—screenshots, that Ben didn’t know how he was taking, let alone how to stop taking. But the rest was Her. There wasn’t another fucking thing worth taking photos of in this stupid damn compound. In the whole fucking world. She was scrolling through them way too fucking slow, heart stuttering against her ribs, and Ben thought he might be fucking blushing. He didn’t fucking blush, he wasn’t a ditzy fucking schoolgirl or embarrassed pussy asshole who blushed- 

She surged upwards, yanking Ben down by his shirt to kiss him. Gently, sweetly, and so fucking soft, humming into Ben’s mouth with a smile. Leaning against his chest until She was hanging off him with her arms around his neck. When she pulled back Her eyes were burning with that strange fucking look, and she was chewing her lip and she studied him. Looking for something Ben didn’t know how to show Her. Mouth opening and closing, heart beating fast, and the Thing needed to tell Her something- 

“You’ve been playing Candy Crush,” She said with a small, smug grin. “I saw the screenshots. They go back like, three weeks.” 

“Shut up,” he muttered, rolling his eyes, and She just shook her head. 

“No, I’m going to rub this in your fucking face so hard-“ 

It was his turn. To kiss Her and hold her and hope that was enough for the Thing to just stop screaming at him. It wasn’t—it made everything worse when She relaxed against him with a happy sound—and the Thing grew impossible to ignore. Drowning everything out with Her, Her, Her, Ben had something she needed to have too, She needed to understand. The only thing to keep it at bay, from bursting out of Ben and into Her, was touching her. Setting his mouth deeper against Hers, hauling her over him as he lay flat on the mattress, letting her whines and breathless sounds run right through him. Let them satiate his undying need and hunger for Her. 

She pulled back first, and Ben let himself be slightly cocky about how her thighs were squeezing around his chest. About the fact that She just rested her head on his shoulder as she caught her breath. Warm breath fanning over his neck, heartbeat slowing right until Ben started to sit up and She mindlessly ground against him at the movement. 

The Thing had to tell Her about this indescribable, unending fucking something. But the Thing didn’t have words. It was a part of Ben, and Ben couldn’t get a goddamn fucking clue what was so apparently fucking crucial for Her to know. But She had to know, whatever it was she had to know, she needed to get it, get him, get why, Ben needed to tell Her- 

“It’s almost noon,” She whispered against Ben’s skin. “We need to go.” 

Ben nodded, and picked Her up against him, turning them so she was resting on the bed as he stood. “I’m wearing my fucking suit.” 

“Okay,” Ben could see her watching him in the mirror, still only wearing a shirt and underwear. He tossed her some pants and bra over his shoulder, and didn’t move until She started pulling them on. “You should bring your shield as well.” 

He frowned at Her. “What about you.” 

“What about me?” 

“You need a fucking weapon. I still have that pussy agent’s gun-“ 

She rose from the bed, padding over to Ben side with a small smile. “I’m the weapon, Pretty Boy. And I have you.”

Any protests Ben might have had about how She might be a walking, breathing weapon of mass destruction but Homelander always made her freeze were killed by those words. She did have him. She’d always have him. She didn’t need a weapon because she had him. She was brilliant and quick and made of fire, but if all that managed to fail, she had Ben. She was standing here, with him as he changed—stealing looks that he wasn’t fucking missing at his bare chest—and She had Him. 

“What wrong,” he grumbled, and She shook her head, hands roaming through one of the top drawers. 

“Socks.” 

Ben rolled his eyes, and grabbed out a simple black pair from the top. “I want my fucking phone back.” 

“Why, to play Candy Crush?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Ben muttered. “I’m fucking winning. I’ll delete it when I fucking win.” 

She snorted. “You can’t win Candy Crush, Benjamin.” 

“What the hell are you talking about.”

“There’s like a million levels. And they’re always adding new ones. It’s not a winnable game.” 

“Well I’ll make it fucking winnable.” 

She snorted. “How.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Ben frowned, watching Her as she continued to search the drawer. “And I just gave you perfectly good fucking socks-“

“I need underwear,” She mumbled, face flushing. “Mine are, uh, I can’t wear them.” 

Ben grinned—wide and smug—at Her reflection, “Why not?” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Ah,” Ben winked at Her when she finally met his eyes. “You’re welcome for that.” 

“Shut up,” She chucked a stray bra at Ben, glaring back down. “Go get your stupid fucking phone, you cunt.” 

Ben ran his hand up Her back, into her hair, and gently turned her head to look at him. He kissed Her one last time because she was so fucking perfect and no one could damn stop him. Long and wet, until She said his name in that perfect fucking way. “Brat,” he whispered against Her mouth, and she shoved his chest lightly. 

Ben took a steady step back, chuckling at Her glare, at the way her sharp eyes were still full of want for him. At the way Her dramatic pout was just a little bigger because he’d made her lips swollen. At Her. Just Her. So fucking simply Her. 

As She changed, Ben ducked under the bed and frowned at where he’d stashed the gun. Carefully between the mattress and frame, unloaded with the rounds beside it. He wouldn’t need it. The plan would work, and he wouldn’t need it. There was no need to bring it—to show the team he had it—and not need it. 

But it couldn’t hurt. He could stash it in his suit, hide it from Butcher and Mallory and Annie, and nobody would have to know unless he needed it. And then they wouldn’t try to take it away, because Ben would’ve just fucking saved their asses- 

“Just bring the gun, Ben.” 

His head bumped against the metal frame of the bed as he pulled out from under it and found Her standing above him with her arms crossed. “What-“ 

“You should bring it,” She shrugged. “I mean, it won’t hurt Homelander, but guns don’t weigh nothing. You could throw it at his face, if you needed to. Catch him off guard.”

Fucking Christ, She was perfect. Ben didn’t need to be told twice, and as he returned under the bed to retrieve the gun he heard her steps move away from beside him. When he stood back up, Ben saw that She had moved to her side of the bed, and was placing her sunglasses up on her forehead before turning to Ben with a grin. 

“Ready?” 

Ben shoved his gun into his pants, hauled up his shield, and gave Her a rough nod as he tossed his arm over her shoulder. “Fucking born ready.” 

For once, She and Ben weren’t the last people to arrive at one of these stupid fucking meetings. Butcher and Mallory were there—Ben didn’t think they had lives outside of fucking up everyone else’s—huddled along with MM at the head of the table. The French Prick and Kimiko were in a silent conversation on one of the benches, but Hughie and Annie were late. Ben tried not to feel too smug about it, but next time Annie tried to berate him about keeping his dick in his pants and his mouth to himself because he was making Her late, he’d shove this in her fucking face.

Seeing them, Mallory gave a curt nod and ushered Butcher and MM through the steel kitchen door as She guided Ben to drop down at the bench. Kimiko smiled at them both, the usual, toothy and broad smile for Her, and a small one with a nod for Ben. As She and Kimiko launched into an exchange of gestures, the French Prick gave Ben a nervous nod. 

“Good morning, Soldier Boy,” the French Prick was watching Ben carefully. 

“It fucking isn’t,” Ben grunted, and She kicked his shin under the table. 

Play nice, She shot him a quick glare before returning her attention to Kimiko, and Ben rolled his eyes. He was saved from the French Prick trying to continue engaging with him by Annie and Hughie’s arrival, Annie walking over to join the group of conniving dickheads in the back and Hughie halting at the bench, glancing nervously at Ben. 

“Just sit your pussy ass down, Kid.” Ben snapped, and braced for another hit to his leg. It didn’t come, and when he looked over at Her—expecting a glare or scowl—the only sign she’d heard him was her knee, pressing into his. 

Hughie sat, fidgeting at Ben’s side and trying to look at the doors without anyone noticing. With quick, weak glances and jerked head movements. Ben was about to tell him to just stand the fuck up and join them when he felt Her nudge his shoulder, and looked over to see her blinking at him. 

Kimiko said they were arguing about splitting us up. 

Ben scowled at Her. The fuck do you mean splitting us up. 

Mallory wanted you to go to the tower. MM didn’t. 

That was, genuinely, a fucking shock. MM hated him, there wasn’t a world where he’d stick up for Ben fucking staying with Her. It must have shown across Ben’s face, because She shrugged.

He apparently thought this wouldn’t work if they separated us. Said you’d just be a giant fucking whiny manchild without me. 

Did they decide? Ben decided to ignore MM’s manchild jab, because She’d just find a way to turn it on him with a joke and that fucker seemed to be the only one with a damn working brain. Because there’s not a fucking chance in hell you’re meeting Homelander without me. 

They’re still arguing. Butcher hadn’t voted yet, and they were waiting for Annie. 

Ben rolled his eyes. Who damn died and put those four pussies in charge of us. This is fucking democracy, Sunshine, we deserve a vote. 

Well, we’re both technically dead, Kimiko and Frenchie aren’t citizens, and I think Hughie just doesn’t want to deal with them. 

They’re talking about our fucking lives. We should get a goddamn say. 

Take it up with Mallory, Pretty Boy. 

I’m not taking shit up with Mallory. She can suck my dick if she tries to separate us. 

She pouted at him. I thought your dick was mine to suck alone. 

Ben snorted, pulling Her closer towards him and kissing the top of her head. Before he could growl something in her ear that would make her fucking horny enough to ditch this whole stupid goddamn plan and take off to Rome with him, the doors were swung open and MM stalked back into the room with Annie close behind him. Butcher and Mallory followed after a few seconds—Mallory having pulled a huge fucking poster out of her damn ass at some point—and they stopped at the head of the table as Annie dropped next to Hughie and MM sat beside the French Prick. She hadn’t tried to pull out from under Ben’s arm, and until she did she’d stay right fucking there. 

“Look alive, cunts.” Butcher glared around the table. “We’re moving out as soon as all our bloody ducks are in a row. Grace?” 

Mallory nodded, spreading the poster across the table. It was a blueprint. Ben recognized it immediately. He’d seen it far too many fucking times. It was a Vought Tower blueprint. 

“Butcher, Marvin, Frenchie, and Kimiko will take this door,” she tapped the blueprint, and something around Ben’s throat loosened when he realized he wasn’t going to the tower. He was staying with Her. “Into the building. It’s used for the Seven’s housekeepers and more illicit guests.” 

Hughie frowned. “Illicit?” 

“Hookers, lad.” Butcher winked. “It’s the hooker door.” 

“Oh. Uh, good for them.” 

“And we have access to it?” Annie leaned forward. “MM, you said A-Train-“ 

“He’s leaving it unlocked for us.” MM tapped the map, near where Mallory had just done the same. “And making sure someone conveniently loses their badge.” 

“Someone?” 

“Don’t worry your pure little bleedin heart, Starlight.” Butcher drawled. “We’ll be keepin the lady on lockdown. Best fuckin witness protection package the CIA’s got.” 

Hughie frowned at MM. “What about A-Train? Are we, are we just going to trust him?“

“He’s got his own ass on the line as well now.” MM’s voice was firm. Not leaving room for argument. “And after the Diner, he and Ashley both got skin in the game. I trust him.” 

“And he’s just leaving the door unlocked? Giving us an opening?” 

“He said he’d try and keep The Deep and New Noir distracted. Can’t account for Sage though.” MM looked away from Hughie, back to Mallory. “As long as there hasn’t been any leaks, it shouldn’t fucking matter that Sage is in the tower though. If she doesn’t get the drop on us, she’s a non-issue.” 

Mallory nodded tightly. “Agreed. And none of my men are stupid enough to say shit to anyone, so we’re in the clear. Team Butcher will take the elevator up, find Ryan Butcher on 99, and extract him. Butcher has the Becca and Anomaly files on his phone, and hopefully that will be more than enough to make Ryan go willingly.” 

Ben tensed, and when She spoke her fingers were tapping against his arm. “And if it’s not?” 

“Then Frenchie creates the diversion, and we leave empty handed.” 

She nodded slowly, examining the blueprints. “Frenchie?” 

“Oui?” 

“What exactly is your diversion?” 

“I have detested the billboard of Firecracker in the Times Square for several months. She is dead, she will not miss it.” The French Prick beamed with pride, and She glanced up with a frown. 

“Times Square?” 

“It will be controlled, Madame.” The French Prick assured Her, shooting Ben quick pussy glances. “Only just enough.” 

She nodded, narrowing her eyes back on the blueprint. “We’re taking two separate cars, right?” When nobody answered, She looked up. “Mallory?”

“You’ll all be transported in the van.” Mallory frowned. “It’s more effective-“ 

“No,” She shook her head, attention returning down once more. “It’s more dangerous. We’re already risking a lot by Annie coming with Ben and I. We can’t also have one group unable to make a quick getaway.” 

“I suppose,” Mallory’s lips drew in a thin line. “Butcher could take his car-“ 

“We’ll take Butcher’s car.” She tapped the blueprint, near the door. “There’s cameras. If they see Butcher’s car, they’ll know something’s up. You have,” She looked up, scanning the table with sharp eyes. “You’ve taken care of the cameras in the building. Right?” 

“We’ll shoot them as we go,” Butcher grunted, and She gaped at him. 

“As you fucking go?” 

“They won’t be entering the tower until after Homelander leaves it.” Annie leaned across Ben and Hughie to look at Her. “And they won’t be wandering. It’ll be fine.” 

“Speaking of Homelander,” Mallory crossed her arms. “Starlight, Campbell, Soldier Boy, and the Anomaly will,” she sighed. “Take Butcher’s car to the Starlight Fund. From there, Soldier Boy will call Homelander with Campbell’s phone. Once Homelander arrives, Starlight will alert Team Butcher, and they’ll begin. Do not-“ Butcher received a withering look. “Proceed with the extraction until Team Starlight has given the green light. Understood?” 

Butcher shrugged. “We’ll see.” 

“Butcher-“ 

“We’re playin real bloody fast and loose with a lot of this, Grace.” Butcher snapped. “I’d be more fuckin worried about what we’ll do if Homelander doesn’t take his bait.” 

Everyone looked at Her, still frowning at the blueprints. Ben squeezed her thigh lightly, and she glanced up at him a frown. “What-“ 

“What’s your plan, Love,” Butcher drawled. “For if Homelander don’t fall into your trap that easy.” 

She swallowed, and Ben could hear the rapid beat of her heart. “He will.”

Her voice was steady, every part of her controlled, but under the table her leg pressed into Ben’s, and her hand drummed against his leg. Ben grabbed it, stilling her movement, and She glanced at him.

You’re going to be fine, he glared at Her. This is going to fucking work, and you’ll be fine.

She smiled at him with sad fucking eyes that carved something open in Ben’s chest. I know. She tilted her head at him. And I thought you hated this plan.

I do. Ben scowled. I fucking loathe this stupid goddamn plan. But it will work, and tonight I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll stop making such fucking idiotic plans. 

She pouted at him. But making idiotic plans is one of my best qualities. 

Ben rolled his eyes. I’m well fucking aware of your best qualities. That’s not one of them. 

Really, She gave him a flat look. Because I think it’s in the top three. It’s stupid plans, my tits, and my ability to put up with your shit. 

Smartass, Ben bumped his knee with hers, grinning down at Her. You’re not even fucking close. 

Not even the tits?

Your pussy is better, Ben winked at Her. Trust me, Sunshine. You’ve got the best pussy I’ve ever fucking seen. 

She flushed, wrinkling her nose at him. Have you been ranking all the pussies you’ve seen? 

Had to pass the damn time somehow. 

I feel like there had to be other options. 

Maybe, Ben shrugged. But I don’t really give a shit. And now I can be fucking certain when I say your pussy is my favorite. 

What are my best qualities, if you’re such an expert? She was watching Ben carefully, and he almost scoffed at how nervous she looked. Like he might not be able to give an answer. Ben could list Her best qualities for fucking years, if someone let him. 

You’re a goddamn genius. You’re fucking kind, kinder than you should be. And you’ve got the best fucking pussy of all time. 

I don’t think I’m kind, She frowned, and that definitely made Ben scoff. 

You’re the kindest person I know. It’s fucking annoying. Ben studied Her soft, tight features. She didn’t believe him. You’re not nice, Sunshine. You’ve got a smart fucking mouth and a damn attitude. But you’re kind. 

She nodded slowly. And you don’t hate that? 

Ben blinked at Her. Why the fuck would I hate that. 

Kind people are pussies, Ben. 

Nice people are pussies, He glared Her name at her perfect face, watching him intently. They’re weak, lying, insufferable fucking holier-than-thou assholes. You’re not any of that. 

She smiled at him, without teeth but real. That was her real, comfortable smile that made the Thing so fucking loud. You’re not a pussy either. 

I fucking know that. He was trying to glare at her, but it wasn’t damn working. Not when She was smiling at him like that, and that deep, infinite thing in her eyes was so clear. Aimed at him. And the Thing had to fucking tell Her something- 

Butcher coughed, and Ben realized the whole fucking Pussy Brigade was staring at them. “You twats paying attention?” 

“Does it fucking matter if we are?” Ben drawled. “It’s her damn plan, and I know everything I’ve got to do. Not our fucking fault you dumbasses need a whole meeting.” 

“Then could you please repeat your instructions, Soldier Boy?” Mallory glared at him. “For our own peace of mind?” 

Ben held Mallory’s glare with his own. This was a fucking waste of time. “Go to the Starlight Fund, call Homelander, distract the pussy, then leave.” Protect Her. Don’t let her out of your sight, or Homelander within a fucking arms reach of her. Keep Her safe, at any fucking cost. 

“With whose phone, Gov?” Butcher sneered, and Ben rolled his eyes. 

“Mine, you fucking-“ 

Butcher made a loud buzzer sound. “Afraid that ain’t the right answer. Would you like to try again for double Jeopardy?” 

“That’s not how fucking Jeopardy works.” MM frowned, and Butcher shot him a glare. 

“That ain’t the fuckin point, MM. The cunt got it wrong-“ 

“Whose fucking phone should I damn use then?” Ben snapped. There would be time for Butcher’s fucking bitching later, right now Ben’s patience was about to fucking snap. This needed to be done. “Mine works fucking fine-“ 

“Your phone is a registered CIA number,” Hughie looked at Ben nervously as he explained. “Mine isn’t. Vought won’t take a CIA call, it’ll get screened on the first ring. And they probably won’t take a call from Annie, either. If we call the tower with my number we’ll get past the first checkpoint, and then you speaking will get us to Homelander.” 

This shit wasn’t worth arguing about. It was barely worth fucking talking about. “Fine. Are we actually going to do this, or just goddamn sit here like a bunch of assholes.” 

“We were just waiting on you and the missus to rejoin us, Gov.” Butcher sneered. “Everyone’s been clear for a hot fucking minute while you twats were eye-fucking.” 

Ben glowered at him, clenching his fist under the table. When this was over, Ben was going to kill him. It was going to be so fucking satisfying, and then he’d run away with Her to goddamn Rome. But this had to be finished first. 

As everyone started to filter out—tight nods and wishes of good luck being exchanged—Ben stayed at Her side. She was still looking at the blueprints, frowning as her eyes scanned slowly over the paper right until Mallory pulled it away. She started to stand, and Ben wrapped an arm around Her waist. Keeping her steady and at his side. 

“Team Starlight will leave first,” Mallory's voice was curt as she nodded at Annie. “Butcher-“ 

Hughie let out a high yelp as Butcher chucked the keys at him. Somehow, the pussy managed to catch them. 

“Lad, if you wreck my car, you’re buyin me a new one.” 

“Um, yeah. Okay.” Hughie nodded nervously. “Do I have to drive-“ 

“Yes, and any of those cunts bloody touch the wheel-“ 

“Your car will be fine Butcher.” Annie cut him off with a glare. “It’s just a car.” 

Butcher looked like he might kill her, but MM cut off any violence—fucking unfortunate, because Annie probably would’ve killed Butcher and then Ben wouldn’t have to—with a snap of, “We don’t got time to waste on this shit. The kid will drive, Butcher, and your car will live. Let’s fucking move.” 

Ben held Her against him out of the building, helping her into the backseat of Butcher’s car and pulling her back into his chest when he sat at her side. She let him, leaning against his body and burying Her face in his shoulder as her heart became uneven. Not fast, but arhythmic. Her breathing was controlled, steady against Ben’s skin, but her heart betrayed the fear in her. Ben fucking hated this. He hated that she was doing this to herself. He hated that the only thing he could really do about it was hold her, at least until it was over and he could kiss and fuck all the worries out of Her perfect brain. 

He could try to distract Her. He wasn’t sure it would work, not when she was hugging him so tight and so fucking afraid, but goddamnit he had to do something. He couldn’t just fucking sit here, in the back of Butcher stupid car, and do fucking nothing like a fucking weak goddamn pussy. 

Ben squeezed her against him once, and She hummed into his body. Not looking up at him, or speaking. So Ben turned forward, attempting a different strategy. 

“What the fuck were you pussies talking about in the kitchen?” Ben grunted, and Annie sighed in the shotgun seat. 

“It’s not that important.” 

Ben rolled his eyes. “So you weren’t trying to goddamn separate us?” 

Annie shot Hughie a glare, the kid’s knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Hughie, did you-“ 

“Kimiko told us,” She turned slightly in Ben’s hold, voice soft. “And they didn’t separate us, Ben. Don’t be an ass.” 

He glared at Her. “I’m not being a fucking ass-“ 

“Benjamin.” She wrinkled her nose at him, and Ben felt a little lighter. She was pushing back at him, she was less afraid, and that’s all he could fucking ask for. “Shut up.” 

“Uh,” Hughie glanced at them in the rearview mirror. “Are you, is he-“ 

“He’s fine.” She slapped Ben arm, and he scoffed. “Just grumpy.” 

“I’m not goddamn grumpy.“ Ben muttered. “I’m just trying to get some fucking answers. Figure out what shit they were saying about us behind our fucking backs.” 

“It’s really not that interesting,” Annie shrugged. “Mallory said it would be better to take you with Butcher. MM said it would be worse. Butcher and I voted with MM, and that was it.” 

She frowned, twisting around fully to look at Annie. “Butcher voted with MM?” 

Annie nodded, and She looked up at Ben. That’s weird right? I’m not insane? 

No, it’s fucking weird. Ben glared at Annie, and said aloud, “The fuck did he do that for.” 

“I don’t know,” Annie turned to look back at them. “I mean, would you rather he hadn’t?” 

“It’s just, it’s surprising.” She shrugged. “He hates us.” 

“I don’t think he hates you,” Hughie said slowly. “Butcher doesn’t like being wrong. Or challenged. You,” he said Her name, nodding to Her in the mirror. “Specifically, do both. I think when we found you he thought you’d be like either Annie or Maeve, and you weren’t.” 

“Annie or Maeve?” She gave Ben a confused look, and he shrugged. He didn’t have a fucking clue what Hughie was talking about, or how anyone could possibly be annoyed by Her not being Annie or Maeve. She was fucking perfect, and Butcher was lucky to be damn graced with her presence. 

“Like, completely against everything he does or completely for it.” Hughie looked to Annie for help. “Right?”

“I mean,” Annie frowned, nodding. “I guess. None of us were sure what we were looking for with you. Maeve said you were powerful, and hated Homelander. We all kind of took that as you’d been burned by Vought or something, not what, what actually happened.”

“And Butcher kind of got an idea that you’d be just, easy to work with. And after we did find you, I think he was sure you’d just be willing to do whatever he wanted to kill Homelander. And you weren’t.” Hughie shook his head, hands tapping on the wheel. “So I don’t think he hates you. I think he just doesn’t like that you’re um, not what he expected.” 

That was completely fucking insane to Ben. She wasn’t what anyone expected, that was one of the best damn things about Her. She was too damn forgiving and kind, but still a clever, vindictive woman who never fucking backed down. She didn’t ride any sort of fucking high horse, but also cared about people. It would be fucking annoying and insufferable if She wasn’t so fucking genuine about it. If her money didn’t live in her pretty fucking mouth when she said she’d do whatever it takes and understood what that meant for Her. She wasn’t easy to work with, not by a fucking long shot, but that was because she was goddamn resolved, so certain of what She thought had to be done and what She deemed unnecessary. She was always fucking right, she never fully broke, she never fucking faltered, and the whole goddamn world was better for it. 

“So he, he voted in our favor?” She was still looking at Annie, head tilted. “No conditions?” 

Annie shook her head. “I voted with MM, and he followed. Told Mallory he was with us.” 

She nodded, and gave a small sound of agreement. Even as he wanted a fucking reason—for Butcher’s goddamn attitude and cruelty to her, for why’d this was where he backed them up—Ben decided he would drop it for now, no how much this all made him want to pummel Butcher into the curb. There would be time for that later, now was about keeping Her here. With him. 

Ben kissed Her shoulder, because he fucking wanted to, he could, and she was starting to look damn sad again. She leaned her head back into Ben, and smiled up at him. Hi. 

How fucking far is this place. Ben met Her gaze, fighting his mouth tugging upwards to return her smile. This was serious. Fucking serious. He had to glare so She knew that. We’ve been driving for a million damn years. 

It’s been twenty minutes, Benjamin. We’ll be there soon. She gave him a teasing grin. You fucking toddler. 

Ben rolled his eyes. I am not a fucking toddler. I’m a fucking grown man, who’s doesn’t have the goddamn time for this shit. 

Really. She raised her brows, still grinning. It was getting a lot fucking harder to not grin back at Her. We have the same schedule, and I’ve got time for it. 

No you don’t. He winked at Her, and knew she figured out where he was headed when her finger dug into his arm and her face flushed. I’ve set aside our whole night to fuck you. And I’d like to get started as soon as goddamn possible. 

She stuck her tongue out at him, and Ben stopped trying to fight his smile. Cunt. 

Brat. He kissed her, pulling her fully into his lap and leaning over her body. She smiled against Ben’s lips, making a small sound from her throat, and the Thing was going to fucking explode and kill him. The only way out was to tell Her. Ben still wasn’t sure what the fuck the Thing thought he needed to say, but he was positive it was something for Her. Absolutely fucking certain that She needed to know that Ben- 

The car halted, the rumble of the engine going dead, and She pulled away from Ben to look around. 

“We’re here?” 

Hughie nodded, shoving the keys in his pocket. “Is everyone, uh, I guess ready?” 

“As we can be,” Annie unbuckled herself, taking a deep breath. “We should go inside. Fast.” 

She nodded, Her hands on Ben’s arm growing heated. Searing into his skin, smoke curling up into the air. 

Ben said Her name lowly, because this needed to be aloud. She needed to hear him. 

She looked up at him, her small smile not reaching her eyes. “Ben.” 

“You’re going to be fucking fine.” Ben hissed, turning Her body in his arms so she faced him fully. “I’m not going to leave your side. I’m not going to let him fucking near you. And then we’ll go home.” 

“I know,” She leaned forward, kissing him so fucking sweetly, pressing Her forehead to his. “I trust you.” 

As She started to slide out of the car, every part of Ben was telling him to grab her. To pull her back against him, commender a plane from any shitty fucking cargo airport, and leave. Get the fuck out now. The only thing that kept him from giving in was the knowledge that she’d hate him. She’d never fucking forgive him for making her leave, she’d never damn speak to him again, and Ben didn’t think he could live with that. He didn’t think that he could live without Her. He honestly wasn’t sure how he had lived without her before. He’d never needed someone like this, he’d never needed fucking anything before. He’d never cared so much what someone else thought, been so willing to do anything for just one person. One perfect fucking person. Ben had lived a whole lifetime, and then some, alone. And he’d been content. Not happy, but content. Now he was happy. Now he had Her, and she was perfect, and he never wanted to go back to just content. 

So he followed Her out of the car, shield in his hand. He’d follow her anywhere. Out of a car was barely anything when he’d move mountains and burn cities to follow her. Actually, he’d clear the cities first, then burn them. Ben was pretty certain She’d be pissed about him burning a city with people in it. Looking down at Her—beautiful and pulling his arm over her before he was at full height—Ben decided he’d probably follow her even if she was pissed. She’d probably be justified anyways, as she was rarely genuinely pissed at Ben anymore, so he’d always fix whatever he did and keep following Her. Right into hellfire, where he’d still be happy, because She’d be with him. 

The Starlight Fund was a completely desecrated fucking shithole. There was a truly fucking terrible amount of pro-Homelander graffiti—one even depicting every member of the Seven shitting on a group of Starlighters—and Ben was pretty goddamn sure the scraping he was hearing was rats. 

“This is gross,” She muttered at his side, and he snorted. 

“Lot of fucking doodles on the walls,” Ben pulled Her closer into him, speaking into her ear. “That one,” he pointed to a drawing of Fish-Boy ripping his shirt off to display disgustingly ripped gills. “Is my favorite.” 

She hummed. “Because of the gills, or the muscles?” 

“Because he looks like he just shat his damn pants.” 

She gave a small laugh, and Ben wished this could be it. That they had come here to make fun of something stupid and now they were leaving. But Hughie turned around, offering Ben his phone with a shaking hand, and Ben had to set his shield down and take it. Had to feel Her tense again, and hear her chew her lip as Ben frowned at the screen. 

“I already entered the number,” Hughie rubbed the back of his next, words soft and nervous. Part of Ben wanted to hit the idiot, because it wasn’t fucking Hughie who was in danger. If She could hold herself together, this fucking pussy should be able to as well. But Ben just grunted—hitting Hughie wouldn’t really help anything, and She’d probably just get more tense—and let him continue. “You just have to call it. Say you’re, uh, you, and ask to speak to Homelander.” 

“And no fighting, once he gets here.” Annie added. “We’re just distracting him. We can’t fight him, not now.” 

“Why the fuck not,” Ben scowled. “We’d be doing the world a damn favor, killing him-“ 

“He might leave,” She said, finger’s tapping against Ben’s own. “He might just blast into the air and go find Ryan and this would’ve been for nothing. Ben,” She looked up at him, eyes desperate. “Don’t fight him. Promise you won’t fight him.”

“Fine.” 

“Ben-“ 

“I swear I won’t kill Homelander right now, as much as he fucking deserves it.” Ben grunted, still looking at Her. “This is fucking stupid.” 

“I know,” She gave him a tight smile. “Thank you for doing it anyway.” 

“If shit starts to even look like it’s headed south-“ 

“Then we can leave and you can tell me about how you were right for a whole decade.” 

Ben nodded, still holding Her gaze. In Rome? 

In Rome, She squeezed his hand over her body. And you can fuck me every day for that decade as well. And the one after it. 

Ben kissed Her, long and slow, not giving a fuck that Hughie and Annie were watching, or that they were surrounded by rats, or that the awful graffiti and awareness of Homelander arriving soon was hanging over their heads. He kissed her like he had all the time in the world. 

“I’m ready,” She whispered against him. “I’ll be okay.” 

He didn’t move for a second, just sharing Her breath. But she pulled back first with a deep sigh and buried Her face into Ben’s chest, arms wrapped around him. Waiting. 

Ben called the number, and it picked up on the third ring. 

An overly sweet woman’s voice echoed through the room. “Thank you for calling Vought International’s Crime Tip Line! All of our operators are currently busy, please stay on the line until one becomes available! You are seventh in line.” 

The voice was sounded fucking robotic when it had said seventh, and Ben wasn’t sure that the lady had been real either. “What the fuck was that.” 

Annie sighed. “We’re on hold.” 

“The tip line?” She twisted around, still leaning against Ben, to give Hughie an exasperated look. “Really?” 

“I couldn’t find Ashely’s phone number,” Hughie muttered. “Apparently she kept getting protest calls from Starlighters, and it overwhelmed their servers.” 

“Mallory couldn’t get it?” 

“It’s being kept secret. We’d have to do a freedom of information request, and that would’ve tipped them off.” 

“Please stay on the line, your call is very important to us. You are sixth in line.” The voice disappeared again, returning so sort of too-happy fucking elevator music. She sighed, slumping slightly against Ben.  

“I guess we’re waiting.” 

It took fifteen fucking minutes. Ben’s shield was still on the floor, and he’d pick it up when he had to but right now was about holding Her properly. At some point Butcher called to yell about where the bloody hell the signal was, and Annie had to explain what was happening. Butcher called them fucking cunt idiots, and hung up. She stayed against Ben the whole time, tapping against his arm over Her stomach, staring into the distance. When that goddamn music finally came to an abrupt halt the whole room froze, Hughie and Annie looking up from where they’d been sitting against the wall. 

“Thank you for calling Vought’s crime tip line, my name is Gavin. How can I be of service.” “I’m Soldier Boy,” Ben said bluntly, ignoring Her flat look of Really, Ben? “I want to speak with Homelander.” 

“Sir, this line is not a joke. Our policy requires me to report prank calls as crimes themselves-“ 

“This isn’t a goddamn prank.” Ben hissed. “I am Soldier Boy. I need to fucking speak to Homelander now, and if you report me as a crime I will find you and fucking kill you.” 

“Sir, may I please have your location-“ 

She had turned to stand in front of Ben, tugging his arm, pointing a finger to herself. Me. She gave him an urgent look. Say you have me. Use my supe name. And my real name. 

“I have the Anomaly.” This was fucking annoying, they shouldn’t be doubting him. He grunted Her full name, and she nodded at him. “She’s with me. And I want to fucking talk to Homelander. Now.” 

The line was silent. Ben glared at Her. That didn’t fucking work. 

She shook Her head. Wait for it. 

The line clicked, and a new voice—less bored and uninterested and a lot more fearful—spoke through the speaker. “This is Ashley Barrett, CEO of Vought International. I understand you’re claiming to be Soldier Boy?” 

“I fucking am Soldier Boy. Let me fucking speak to Homelander now.” 

The line was quiet again. “And you have her?” 

“Christ on a cross, fucking yes.” Ben scowled at Her. This is goddamn stupid. 

She shrugged. I’m just impressed you haven’t totally crushed the phone yet. 

Ben looked back to his hand, and found that his grip on Hughie’s phone was starting to cause cracks to form in the screen. He glared at Her. Shut up. 

The line clicked again, and everyone froze. Her heart was going to push out of her chest, and when the static sounded again Ben wasn’t sure it was even beating anymore. 

“Soldier Boy.” Homelander’s voice was so fucking weak. Even crackling through the phone and making Her freeze, he was a fucking pathetic pussy. “Is she really there? With you?” 

Ben looked at Her, face full of goddamn fear. He could stop this. Ben could hang up and Homelander would never have to step foot near Her again. She wouldn’t have to be afraid ever again, because Ben would take her as far away as he fucking could, and She’d be safe. 

He’d never hated anything more than having to say, “Yes.” 

“I want to talk to her.” Homelander snapped. “Give me to her. Now.”

She extended her hand, and blinked at Ben once. I’ll be fine.

It was a bold faced fucking lie. Her heart was going a goddamn mile a minute, and her face was blank, eyes glazed slightly. 

Ben glowered at Her. If anything goes wrong, if he say one fucking thing out of damn line, we’re leaving. 

Her smile didn’t meet her eyes. It was barely a smile, closer to a sad, anxious grimace with upturned lips. I know. Then her face grew gentle, with adoration painting her every feature. For him. Something unending and almost dangerous crossed Her eyes, and Ben couldn’t look away from her. I trust you. 

Ben nodded. You burn, I burn. It wasn’t what the Thing wanted Ben to tell her, but it was close. Better than telling Her nothing. 

You burn, I burn. She wrapped her hand around the phone, taking it from Ben as he picked up his shield. Let’s fucking do this. 

“If someone doesn’t say something-“ 

“Homelander,” Her voice was stronger than Ben expected. Her face was painfully empty—every piece of light in her gone as she became hollow—but her voice was even and controlled. “It’s me.” 

Homelander breathed Her name, and Ben’s blood went cold. He shouldn’t be allowed to say Her name. Not fucking ever, not like that. “Where the fuck are you. What have they done to you? Why have you been hiding-“ 

“I’m okay.” She wouldn’t look at Ben, gaze fixed on the floor. Fucking empty. “They haven’t hurt me. Just, I wasn’t allowed to see you. Or talk to you. They said just this once.” 

“Tell me where the fuck they’re keeping you,” Homelander hissed Her name. Ben was pretty sure she was going to throw up. “I’ll come find you, you can come home, and we’ll be together.” 

“I can’t,” She whispered, fingers starting to curl with smoke. “They’ll get mad-“ 

“So I’ll fucking kill them! I can do whatever I want, and it’s not like people will miss them! Just tell me where you are and I’ll come save you.” 

They needed to leave, right now. Her face was bloodless, Her breaths were mechanical, and Ben knew they needed to leave. She shouldn’t be doing this, she shouldn’t have to do anything for these fucking pussies, they should just fucking leave- 

Homelander said Her name again, and his voice had gone cold. “If you don’t tell me where you are, I’ll find your pretty little sister and have her tell me. I know they’ve been making you hide. I know they’ve been hurting you. And if your sister loves you half as much as I do, she’ll want you to come back to me. Where you’re safe.”

Her eyes snapped up to Ben’s. She wasn’t trying to tell him anything, just looking at him. Her brain was turning, spinning, moving faster and faster with Her heart. Trying to find something, somewhere, that Ben didn’t understand. A way out, a way forward, some sort of fucking plan to get through this. He’d promised he’d let Her do this. No matter how much he hated it, Ben had swore. She’d do what she needed to do, and—as long as Homelander never fucking touched Her again—he’d stand with her as she did. 

Ben’s jaw clenched, and he held her gaze. I’m here. I’m right fucking here. 

There was more he needed to say. There was so much fucking more Ben needed to tell Her. But that was enough, because She nodded. I know. 

“They took me to the Starlight Fund-“ The words had barely left Her mouth when the line clicked dead. The room was silent, so painfully fucking silent, and She was staring at Ben. He needed to tell Her now, the Thing needed to get its fucking shit together and be damn clear about what it fucking was Ben needed to tell Her, so he could tell Her now- 

The roof crashed open, and Homelander dropped into the middle of the room. Cape and suit and so fucking weak. 

He breathed Her name, not even looking around the rest of the fucking room. “I fucking found you.”

Ben almost scoffed. Homelander hadn’t fucking found Her. She’d goddamn called him. Told him where she was. He must have made some sort of sound, because cold blue eyes shot to him.

“Soldier Boy. Thank you for bringing Her back to me.” 

Never in his fucking life had Ben hated someone more. She wouldn’t look at him, staring at Homelander and taking shallow breaths. Not touching Ben. Her back was too straight, all the smoke was gone from Her body, and Ben couldn’t hear Her heart. Like it has just fucking stopped.

“Homelander,” Annie stood up from the wall, a truly violent glare on Her face. It almost made Ben respect her, the contempt with which she spoke and the loathing in her eyes. “You’re not taking her. You can talk. That’s it.” 

“Oh, shut up, you boring fucking Girl Scout.” Homelander dismissed Annie with a hand, still not looking away from Her and Ben. “This is a family matter, you and Campbell can go fuck in a closet for all I care.” 

“We’re not going anywhere-“ 

“I don’t care,” Homelander finally shot Annie a bored glare. “But if you even try and interfere with this, I’ll laser Campbell’s dick off. Now,” he looked back to Her. “Let’s go.” 

She shook her head. She wasn’t fucking breathing. “I- I cant-“ 

“Yes you fucking can,” Homelander hissed. “You’re not mortal anymore, you’re a god like me. None of these weaklings could stop us. Soldier Boy,” he jerked his head at Ben. “Could even come with us. We could be a family.” 

“I’m not going fucking anywhere with you,” Ben could hear the drums. Distant, in his control, but building in time with his heart. “And we are not a fucking family.” 

“But you’re my father,” Homelander shook his head—as if he thought Ben could forget—and whined like a pathetic fucking child. “Don’t you want to meet your grandson? Be there for the birth of our,” he gestured to Her, and Ben was going to rip his fucking hand off. ”Next child? You’d never have to miss anything again. We’d be together.” 

“Homelander,” She was whispering, she was afraid, and Ben couldn’t do more than press his foot into Hers. Show Her he was there. He wasn’t going fucking anywhere. Slowly, her breathing became audible again—even if she remained frozen—and Ben didn’t take his eyes off Homelander. “Please. I just want to talk.” 

“We can talk at home.” Homelander took a step forward, and She flinched. 

“No. Please, I don’t-“ 

“What have they been telling you,” Homelander whirled on Annie and Hughie. “Have you been turning her against me? Poisoning her damn brain against me?” 

“They haven’t,” She pleaded, and that was it. Ben took a long step forward, until he was right at Her side. Homelander was too close, she was fucking breaking, and he’d stay right here until this was over. Then he’d hold Her until she smiled again, even if it took a hundred fucking years. But Homelander wasn’t going to make Her weak. Nobody was allowed to make Her weak, not as long as Ben was fucking alive. “Homelander, I just want to talk-“ 

“Fine,” he turned back to Her, face tight and furious. Glancing once at Ben, now right at Her side, before continuing. “Let’s talk. You’ve been hiding. I’ve been looking for you, and you’ve been hiding from me. They-“ a gloved hand pointed to Annie and Hughie. “Have been hiding you from me. It’s time to be a big girl and stop hiding. Time to come home so I don’t have to keep fucking cleaning up bodies while I look for you.” 

She swallowed. “Bodies?" 

“None of the workers at Tek Knight’s stupid fucking sex club would tell me where you went, so they all had to die. A bunch of fucking Firecracker supporters were demanding justice, so I had to kill them too.” 

“No-“ 

“Please,” Homelander rolled his eyes, taking another step. “It was for you. To protect you. They wanted to fucking draw and quarter you and I stopped them! I saved you, again.” 

“You didn’t save me,” She whispered, taking an unsteady step back. “You hurt me. You-“ She was shaking her head, voice growing louder. “You hurt me. You hurt me.” She was screaming, and Ben had never heard a worse sound. It was shrill, and unsure, and fucking terrified. “You hurt me-“ 

“Oh, grow the fuck up,” Homelander sneered. “You were nothing. You had no one. You’re lucky I even fucking looked at you, let alone saw something of worth! I made you everything you deserved to be, I fucking trusted you with my heart, and you just pulled it out and stomped all over it!” 

“No-“ 

Homelander raised his hand, and She fell silent. She was never fucking silent. “But I forgive you. I’m going to be the bigger person, and forgive you. We both made mistakes, I’m not blameless here, and I forgive you. We’ll get through this,” Homelander lowered his hand for her to take, saying Her name. “We’ll get through this together.” 

“No.” She breathed out. “You hurt me. I’m not going anywhere with you. Ever.” 

Homelander scoffed. “Stop being a fucking whining child,” he said Her name again, and moved forward, She moved back, and Ben blocked Homelander in his path.

Homelander blinked, but the shock on his face barely lasted a second. “You could come with us, Soldier Boy. You don’t have to keep working with those fucking idiots,” he jerked his head to Annie and Hughie in the corner. “Working for William Butcher. He betrayed you before, and he’d do it again. I’d never betray you. I’d make you fucking proud. We just have to leave together.” 

“I will never,” Ben spat, fist clenching at his side. “Be fucking proud of a pussy like you. A weak, spineless, pathetic fucking excuse for a man.” 

Something like hurt flashed across Homelander’s face. He’d thought Ben would agree. He’d thought Ben would fucking hand Her over. Homelander had truly fucking believed that Ben would ever let him fucking near Her again. 

“Fine. Have it your way.” Homelander looked past Ben, and said Her name. “Let’s fucking go. Now.” 

She must have shaken her head—Ben couldn’t turn and look, he couldn’t take his eyes off Homelander for a fucking second—because Homelander’s jaw ticked. 

“Now.” 

“Never.” She hissed. “I’m never fucking going anywhere with you again.” 

“This is your last chance to do this easy.” Homelander snapped. “We can be civilized about this. It doesn’t have to go this way.” 

“You fucking heard the woman,” Ben sneered, and Homelander looked back to him. “No.” 

Homelander sighed. “I didn’t want to do this. I told Sage it wouldn’t be necessary.” 

“Sage?” Her voice shaking. Ben hated not touching her, he hated that Her heart still was weak in her chest, he hated all of this stupid fucking shit plan. 

“I’m going to have to tell her she was right,” Homelander continued, frowning into the air. “She’s such an annoying fucking bitch when she’s right. But if you’re not going to chose the easy way, then let’s do the fucking hard way.” 

Annie was moving slowly from the corner, keeping Hughie behind her. “What the hell are you talking about.” 

“In January, after we found out you,” he gestured at Her. “Were alive, Sage said we’d need a way to eliminate Soldier Boy. I told her that was dumb, that when it came time you’d come back to the right side, to me, your son, but she was a real fucking pest until I agreed to her stupid idea.” The pussy was fucking monologuing, glaring around the room with his hands on his hips and sharp, exasperated movements. “She scheduled the meeting, said it didn’t fucking matter what actually happened as long as she got what she needed. I said you wouldn’t be that stupid, but you were. You told her exactly what that French asshole was using to stop you from going all boom without your leash there with you, and she locked herself in a lab for a whole month. It was unbelievably inconvenient. When she finally came out, she gave me this.” Homelander reached back somewhere, pulling out a small, seemingly empty vial. “And said to use it first chance. I don’t want to use it, but,” he sighed, shaking his head. “If you won’t listen to reason, I have to.” 

“Homelander,” Annie hissed. “What’s in there. What the fuck are you going to do-“ 

“Gas. It’s fucking gas. I was getting there.” Homelander rolled his eyes at Ben. “Women. Always so pushy.” 

The drums were louder. Homelander was only a half step from Ben. Holding gas. His head was pounding, hitting only a half-beat out of time with Ben’s heart. Over the rush of blood in his ears—vision stark and violent and red—Ben could barely hear Her speak. It was under her breath, and barely audible regardless. 

“No.” 

Homelander ignored Her, giving Ben a toothy, awful fucking smile. “Well, I guess I’ll see you in,” he paused, glancing back down at the vial. “Three days? I honestly just couldn't pay attention to Sage’s fucking lecture.” 

Time moved slow. Homelander’s hand went to the vial, the drums were a fraction away from taking over but still too far, and She screamed. A high, loud, raw scream that tore through the world. It might have been a word, or Ben’s name, but it didn’t matter because it was Her. Screaming, fucking breaking. 

The world broke with Her, and something exploded. A bone-rattling sound of destruction echoed through Ben, through Homelander, through everything as the room was almost blindingly lit. The vial cracked open, glass melting in Homelander’s hand, but Ben didn’t pass out. A small wisp of steam pushed into the air, Ben felt faint, and then it was gone. For a split second he could see all of Homelander’s face, with slight wrinkles and lines and wide eyes. Afraid. Homelander was afraid. Frozen, with a parted mouth and a slack face of terror, his gaze fixated just beyond Ben. 

At Her. 

Homelander was blasted backwards—fire arcing through the air and into his chest—and right through the dust-covered, paint-peeling wall. The building rumbled, the air was waving around Ben, and the whole world was electric. He didn’t have to turn to know it was Her. She was burning, and the whole world was singing for Her. It was alive, the air crackling and everything illuminated for Her. 

Ben had never seen anything like Her. All these fucking heroes pranced around like dancing fucking monkey’s, bragging about god-like power and being chosen. Homelander called himself a god. Said nobody was like him, nobody was as powerful as he was. Moaned about how nobody was his equal, how even Ben only just matched his power. Ben could wipe out Homelander’s powers, Homelander could knock out Ben, Ben could punch him and make him bleed and Homelander could leave a temporary cut on Ben’s skin. They could keep trading blows, measuring their dicks, and stand around all fucking day to argue like pussies about who was more powerful. 

Or they could just look at Her. 

Because She was a fucking god. 

Bathed in white flames tinted purple, floating off the ground, and burning. This wasn’t the bomb in Ben’s chest, running through her body like electricity in a wire. This wasn’t heat that lived in Homelander’s eyes, focused and hot but limited. This fire, bright and hot like a hurricane, ripping through the world and everything between it, was Her. Only Her. It wasn’t nuclear, or artificial, or confined. It was wild and feral and pure fucking power. Her. 

Ben had to fucking move. 

“Go!” He shouted the order to Annie and Hughie, still pressed against the wall. “Fucking move! Go!” 

Annie nodded, grabbing Hughie arm and pulling him with her to the exit. They’d start the car, but they wouldn’t leave Her. They might leave Ben, but they wouldn’t leave Her. Nobody with a heart would leave Her. Not ever, not here. Not with Homelander. 

And Ben had to fucking get Her out. Fast. 

Homelander was staggering to his feet—a few yards from the building in the broad daylight—and She had hurt him. She’d fucking marred him. Blond hair was tinted black with ash, one blue eye was milky, and his cruel face was half-melted. Twisted with scars and fucking hideous. 

And She wasn’t done.

She had landed on the ground and shrugged off her jacket—whole body still alight as the world bent and burned around her—before vaulting past Ben, out into the street. He roared Her name after her, but she didn’t look back. Homelander was almost fully stable, touching a hand to where She’d hit him, and Ben had to fucking go.

He followed Her in long, sprinting bounds, and reached them just before Her fist landed. Right on Homelander’s burns, blasting him back another twenty fucking feet. 

Christ, She was fucking perfect. 

Ben reached Her, grabbing her arms and ignoring the pain of the fire against his skin. He healed fast—faster than Homelander—and in the adrenaline he wasn’t able to be certain, but the flames felt duller than usual on his hands. Not meant to hurt him. 

He hissed Her name, trying to pull her with him. Back to the car. “We’ve got to go, right fucking now.”

She yanked Her arm from his grip. “Ryan’s not out.” 

“Ryan?” Ben gaped at Her. “What the fuck-“ 

“The signal didn’t go off. Everyone’s still in the tower. If we leave he goes back to the tower, and we’re assfucked.” 

“I don’t give a shit-“ 

“Ben,” She grabbed his face between Her burning hands, and Ben was goddamn sure it should’ve hurt. But it didn’t, it just felt warm. “This is it. This is what I need to do. And I’m fucking doing it.” 

He couldn’t stop Her. She wasn’t breaking anymore, she wasn’t in danger now—not like She had been before—and Ben was never going to fucking leave Her. “You burn, I burn.” 

She nodded. “Let’s fucking burn.” 

Ben needed to tell Her. She was dropping her arms, turning away, and he needed to tell Her. He was so fucking close to knowing, to being able to recognize that- 

Homelander blasted forward, landing only a few feet from Her and Ben. His words were low, cold. Angry. “You fucking bitch. We’re going to have a very long conversation later about trust-“ 

“Shut the fuck up.” Ben pulled out his gun and shot Homelander right in the fucking mouth. 

It didn’t kill him—they weren’t that lucky—but it worked goddamn wonders in making his words die in his throat. In giving Ben a chance to punch him in the throat, making him cough the bullet out and giving Her a chance to kick him square in the chest. It was a smooth hit, not strong but wrapped in fire that seared right through Homelander’s stupid fucking suit. Ben slammed the blunt end of his shield right into the exposed skin and revered in the sickly crunch of its contact. 

Homelander roared as his eyes began to grow red, aimed at Her, and Ben’s fist was just fucking fast enough to clock Homelander’s jaw. Hard enough to turn his head, to make the laser cut through the air into a glass building. 

She realized it at the same time Ben did, exchanging a simultaneous look of Fuck. We’re outside. 

No casualties, She narrowed her eyes at him. I back Homelander up. You blast him. 

Ben frowned, ducking under a weak punch, thrown by Homelander at what he imagined was supposed to be Ben’s face. You said not now. He didn’t know why the fuck he was arguing with Her. This wasn’t something at all damn worth it. But Ben still waited for Her answer, and the moment She gave the clear, he was going to fucking kill this pussy. 

We’re improvising, Benjamin. Her face was set, determined. Ready? 

Ben nodded, and turning to see Homelander right in his fucking face. Up close, even as the lasers built in Homelander’s eyes, the state of his wound was fucking disgusting. 

“I fucking-“ 

There was no chance to find out exactly what Homelander was fucking, because She dove at him—face wrathful, a fucking inferno—and they went flying through the air. Over the street, away from the gathered pedestrians, onto the manicured lawn of Vought Tower. People were screaming, scrambling away, and those already on the sidelines were watching through phones, flinching as Ben stalked past them. She could hold Her own, but he needed to get there. Get to Her. 

The grass of the lawn was smoking, and Ben felt like he was walking through a goddamn swamp as he approached them. She had twisted around—onto Homelander’s back with Her arms locked around his throat—and was growing brighter and brighter as his bellows turned strangled and choked. The pussy still had to fucking breathe like anyone else, but smoke was curling into his lungs as Her arms burned through his throat. 

Good. 

The drums were back, building and building, and light was starting to shine in Ben’s chest. He had a shot. A clear fucking shot. He’d hit Her, but she’d be fine, and then she’d be safe forever. 

Any hesitation—weak and fearful for Her at the top of Ben’s chest—was killed when She looked at him. 

Do it. 

The drums fell into time, and Ben’s vision went white. Homelander’s roar sounded through the air, and the world became something far away as the bomb went off. Ripping through Ben’s chest with a vengeance, through the air with an atomic boom. 

When the world became clear, Homelander wasn’t ash or a mortal body on the floor. He was gone. They were both gone. 

Ben screamed Her name. It wasn’t a roar, or a bellow, or a growl, or anything other than a scream. Where the fuck did She go. Why wasn’t She here, with him. Ben had failed Her, he had fucking failed her, and he couldn’t hear Her heart or see her beautiful face and where the goddamn fucking hell was She-

He could hear his name. Her voice, carried on the wind, was yelling his name. Ben looked up, just in time to see Her falling from the sky, a quickly dying comet, just a few feet to his left. 

Ben caught Her, shield clattering to the ground. He’d always fucking catch Her. And when their bodies collided, Ben could feel Her. Afraid. Every fiber and cell of Her body and mind, made of pure, unbridled fucking fear. Frozen fear, hollow and frigid in Her body. 

When She spoke, Her voice wasn’t full and furious anymore. “He took off, took me with him. I burned his dick and he dropped me, but he’ll be back-“ 

“Let’s fucking go,” Ben didn’t release Her, turning back to the Starlight Fund. If he was fast, fucking ran, they could get the fuck out now because Ben wasn’t going to survive another goddamn second of there being a chance he could lose Her. Not when he was certain this was Her fear in him. 

But She tugged at his arms, trying to get out of his hold. “Ryan, we need to make sure Ryan’s out-“ 

“No-“ 

“Ben, please.” She squeezed his bicep, and Ben looked down at Her. Safe, unharmed in his arms. He couldn’t fucking lose Her- “We just need to keep him occupied. I’ll be fine.” 

“You’re out of fire-“ 

“It’ll come back,” She didn’t sound sure. “I’m fine, he didn’t get me-“ 

“That was too fucking close-“ 

“Ben,” She was pleading, tugging at his shirt. “We have to. You promised-“ 

He snapped Her name. “You’re in danger-“ 

“I’ll go. I’ll go find them in the tower, and you keep Homelander here. Please. We don’t have time to argue-“ 

He wanted to tell Her no. Ben wanted to tell her that’s fucking insane, stay here, or don’t goddamn leave, don’t fucking go where I can’t follow you. But she was so fucking stubborn. It was one of the infinite things he loved about Her, but fuck it was pissing him off. She wouldn’t leave—be useless as She’d call it—and Ben couldn’t let Her fight Homelander. Not when he could feel her painful fear, and there wasn’t even smoke in the air. So he grunted, lowering Her onto the sidewalk. 

“Thank you,” She whispered, and that deep thing in Her eyes was back. It was in Ben, now, and it was peaceful and eternal in his brain. It was so strong, and wrapped around Ben’s every sense, making the world clear and everything alive. 

“Wait,” Ben grabbed Her arm, stopping her just a second. “Take this.”

She blinked at Ben’s gun, shoved into Her hand, before looking back to him with a nod. “I’ll see you soon.” 

“Stay safe.” He muttered, and She gave him a small smile. 

“I always do, Ben.” 

The thing he couldn’t understand inside of Her was bigger than the world. A world that, for a second, was just them. Her, fucking perfect, and Ben. With Her. When She started to walk away, into the tower, the whole world was going with Her. 

She looked back at him once, and Ben realized that the Thing had said it. Somewhere, when She had been in his arms, the Thing had found words and he couldn’t fucking remember what they were. He had to focus, to grab them back to him so he yell them after Her, so she could hear- 

Homelander dropped with a crack on the pavement, and the Thing’s moment of clarity was gone.

Now Ben had a fucking job to do. 

He was brutal. This wasn’t the fucking time to pull punches, to feel anything outside of hatred or a thirst for blood. Ben had to keep Homelander here, and he would. He would beat him fucking bloody until he was just a pathetic, whimpering fucking pile of bones and skin. People were filming, and he’d let them. Everyone should see Ben paint Homelander’s brain across the street with his shield—back in his hand—and there should be evidence of Ben peeling Homelander's burnt face off his skull. Everyone should witness how fucking weak Homelander really was, how fucking useless and desperate and evil. Homelander tried to jab at him—tried to mock him or ask where She’d gone—but all of Ben’s already thin patience was gone. He wanted Homelander to hurt, hurt the way Ben had felt Her hurt. He couldn’t take Her pain and put it into Homelander, so bashing his head open was the second best option. 

And Ben was winning. Homelander landed a few weak blows and Ben got scorched with one or two lasers he wasn’t able to dodge, but Ben was fucking winning. He’d have to thank Her, later, for how thoroughly she’d ruined Homelander’s face. Ben was pretty sure the fucker was—at least temporarily—blind in one eye. He was slower to block, turning his head more than he should, and it gave Ben a few extra hits right into his ugly fucking face. Homelander kept trying to grab something, scramble for a gun or some shit, but it wouldn’t matter. Ben was fucking winning. He’d knock the pussy unconscious and go home. Maybe even fucking kill him- 

Homelander’s mauled face shot up, and he was gone. Fucking blasting into the sky, fleeing like a goddamn coward, and Ben let him. He could’ve grabbed Homelander’s cape, pulled him back down, but the job was done. People were scattering away with screams at the remaining rumbles of an explosion Ben could only assume was the French Prick’s signal echoed through the city. He’d heard it go off, only a minute ago, but hadn’t fucking cared. Not when he could just keep hurting Homelander. And now Ben was left in the crowded street with a bunch of fucking idiots filming him. Flinching and scrambling away when he turned back to the Fund as part of his brain still looked for Her. In the crowd, somewhere off to the side, or in the remains of the Starlight Fund. He was searching for Her smile, her sharp eyes, just some sign she was there. 

Ben saw Her sunglasses. That was the only evidence that She had been here. There was smoldering wreckage and burnt grass, small fires clustered around the ruins and on the street, but this was evidence of Her. Of the perfect woman who laughed with him and never fucking faltered. 

They were broken. Tinted blue glass on the floor and bent frames. She was going to be really fucking pissed about that. For reasons Ben didn’t understand, She loved those stupid sunglasses. 

He’d buy Her new ones. He’d make sure Mallory finally started paying them, and Ben would buy her a million fucking off-brand Soldier Boy sunglasses. 

Annie and Hughie were in the car. Nobody had followed Ben into the ally—one very stupid kid had tried, but scrambled away at Ben’s glare—so Ben dropped into the backseat of the car. Alone. 

Hughie looked at him in the rearview mirror. “Uh, where-“ 

“She went after Butcher.” Ben snapped. “She’ll meet us there. Fucking go.” 

Annie and Hughie exchanged looks, and Annie pulled out her phone. Swiping through it, glancing up around Ben nervously until she found whatever the fuck she was looking for. 

“Butcher says they’re out with Ryan, and everyone’s heading back.” She showed the screen to Hughie, and he nodded. “We should go.” 

“That’s what I fucking said.” Ben muttered, and tried not to look at the place beside him. Where She’d usually be, rolling Her eyes or calling him a grump. 

The car ride back was long. Fucking longer than the car ride there. Time was stretching, fucking crawling so slow without Her there. Ben had been away from Her for less than a damn hour, and he missed Her. He missed Her so fucking much. A year ago, he’d have called himself a pussy. He’d have scoffed, sneered that he was fucking Soldier Boy. He shouldn’t miss anyone. People should miss him, and be thankful he ever looked at them in the first place. But Ben a year ago hadn’t met Her. He didn’t get it. That She was beautiful, and brilliant, and had the smartest fucking mouth he’d ever heard. That She felt like heaven and hell and Ben didn’t want to exist without Her. If being a pussy for this one perfect woman was the price Ben had to pay to have Her, he’d pay it. He’d pay anything. 

She wasn’t answering Ben’s texts. He’d messaged Her, asked her if everyone was in one piece or giving her shit for going off book, and She hadn’t answered. But that didn’t mean a fucking thing, because She kept her phone in Her jacket, which was currently smoldering ash in the remains of the Starlight Fund. He’d buy Her a new phone as well. And fucking punch Mallory in her wrinkled, sour face if they got any shit about Her destroying another phone. 

Annie and Hughie weren’t trying to talk to him. At some point Annie had put on Billy Joel, and Ben let her. He hadn’t hated his music, in the 80s, and knew that She just liked music. Any music. So it made it a little easier to pretend She was here. To pretend something wasn’t growing sick inside of Ben. 

Even as it started to rot. As everything started to feel wrong. 

Ben didn’t wait for the car to fully stop before opening the door. He didn’t even bother to grab his shield. Nobody else could pick it up anyway. Hughie gave a weak protest as he stepped out, but Ben saw Annie shake her head in his periphery and Hughie’s mouth snapped shut. It was a smart fucking choice. 

She’d had the keycard. The door was locked and She had taken the keycard. So Ben had to wait—glowering at the parked Pussy Mobile a few spots down from Butcher’s car—for Annie and Hughie to let him in. Stand behind them stiffly in the elevator with his arms crossed, and just fucking wait. 

“Butcher said we’d debrief in the dining hall,” Hughie mumbled. “I don't think he's happy with us. With the whole, uh, fighting Homelander thing.”

Butcher could fucking suck Ben’s dick. 

The doors opened, and Ben shoved his way out of the elevator, not waiting for Hughie or Annie to keep up. His steps were long, stomping, and fast—almost a full run—but there was no fucking time. He needed to see Her. He needed to see Her right fucking now- 

He shoved the doors open, marched into the dining hall, and froze. 

Butcher and the Kid were at the table, MM and Mallory sitting across from them, their backs to Ben. Kimiko and the French Prick were at the other end of the table, in a silent conversation. There were four empty seats between them and the larger group. Two for Annie and Hughie. Two for Ben and Her. 

But She wasn’t fucking there. 

And Ben couldn’t hear Her heart. 

“Where is she,” Ben growled, and Butcher looked up at him. 

“Good work to you too, you dumb fucking cunt-“ 

“Shut the fuck up,” Ben hissed. There wasn’t fucking time for this. “Where the fuck is she.” 

MM turned, frowning at Ben. “Who the hell-“ 

Ben roared Her name as Hughie and Annie pushed into the room, their hearts faltering behind him. Seeing what Ben saw. “Where the goddamn fucking hell is she!” 

Mallory was looking at him now, lips in a thin line, words clipped. “She was supposed to be with you-“

“I fucking know that!” Ben’s voice might be shaking the building. “She went inside the Tower, to find you fucking pussies. Where the hell is she?” 

“We,” MM blinked at him. “We haven’t seen her. She was supposed to be with you.” 

“Oh, shit.” Hughie whispered, and the room fell silent. 

The world was fucking ending. This was the judgement day, or apocalypse, or end of days or fucking something, because She was gone. She was gone. She’d disappeared into the fucking Tower, and she was in danger. Ben had let Her go into the tower, Ben had fucking failed Her. He should’ve gone with Her, he should’ve kept Her there and trusted her to fight, he should never have let Her go alone. She’d told him not to leave her alone, Ben had promised to keep Her safe, and now She was fucking gone. He’d failed. And nothing fucking mattered expect getting Her back. 

Ben turned roughly around to Hughie, extending an arm. “Give me the fucking keys.”

Hughie blinked at him. “Uh, why?” 

“To drive the damn car.” Ben snapped. He didn’t have the goddamn time for this shit. She was in fucking danger. “I’m going to get her. Fucking keys. Now.” 

Hughie was fumbling in his pocket—apparently not a complete fucking dumbass—but froze at Mallory’s cold words. “You’re going to stay here, Soldier Boy, until you receive further orders.” 

Ben didn’t bother to turn around. “Shove it up your ass, you fucking bitch. Keys.” 

“We don’t know where She is,” Annie said carefully. “She could’ve left the tower, could be coming back here-“ 

“Or she could be in fucking danger.” Ben’s voice was rising to a shout. “Give me the fucking keys-“ 

“Lad, if you give Soldier Boy my fuckin keys, I’ll shoot you.” 

Ben whirled to Butcher. “Shut the fuck up, you useless fucking pussy. Does fucking nobody,” he scowled around the room. “Give fuck about her but me? Do none of you care that you just fucking abandoned her?” 

You abandoned Her. It echoed in his brain, twisting around his throat. You failed Her. You left Her. 

“Of course we care,” MM snapped. “But I have to be with Butcher on this. She could be anywhere-“ 

“So fucking find her!” Ben bellowed. How could none of them fucking get it, fucking understand that She was lost, gone, alone, afraid. In fucking danger. “If you care, get off your asses and fucking find her!” 

“Frenchie,” Butcher stood, glaring at Ben. “Take Ryan to his room.” 

Ben looked away from Butcher just long enough to see the Kid watching him with wide, fearful eyes as the French Prick herded him past Ben, out the door. He glanced at Kimiko—still sat at the end of the table—and she was frowning at him. Signing something Ben didn’t fucking understand. She’d have understood. 

He looked back to Butcher, and spoke through gritted teeth. “I’m finding her. Good luck trying to fucking stop me.” 

“We will bloody find her,” Butcher snapped. “But we ain’t going to do it in a day. She’s probably fuckin fine-“ 

“She was in the fucking Tower. Are you that fucking stupid-“ 

“I ain’t stupid. I’m a realist.” Butcher held Ben’s murderous glare. “Like she is. We’ll find her, now sit the fuck down.” 

“Don’t pretend like you fucking know her. Like you’re fucking buddies and you know what she’d want-“ Kimiko was waving at Ben, trying to get his attention as he roared, and he shot her a withering glower. “What fuck is wrong with you?” 

She pointed to her phone, and reached it out for Ben to take. He snatched it from her hands—slightly thrown by the seemingly genuine sympathy and worry across her face—and looked at the screen. 

BREAKING NEWS: Vought Announces that the Homelander’s girlfriend has been recovered from Soldier Boy’s captivity.

He’d failed Her. In the worst possibly way, Ben had compelety fucking failed Her. 

The glass cracked in Ben’s grip, and he chucked the phone at Butcher. “Is that fucking enough to get you to move your pathetic fucking pussy asses, and fucking save her?” 

MM leaned over Butcher’s shoulder, reading the screen. “Fuck.” 

“What’s-“ 

Hughie’s confused words were cut off as Annie shuffled behind Ben, “I’ll check-“ Ben heard her swallow. “Oh, shit.” 

“Jesus,” Hughie whispered, and Ben’s skin crawled. Why the fuck were they just standing here. Why weren’t they moving. Fucking saving Her. 

Butcher only stared at the screen with a scowl, and Mallory stood to read the headline as well. 

“Butcher,” she said slowly. “This is-“ 

“Changes nothing.” Butcher tossed the phone back to Kimiko. “We keep on the fuckin track.” 

Ben’s whole world froze with wrath. Locking him in place. Spinning him around, stabbing into his chest, making the world painful. 

“Are you fucking insane?” Annie shouted from behind Ben. “She’s-“ 

“Nothing.” Butcher snapped. “We’ll get her back when Homelander’s in the bloody ground.” 

“Butcher, even for you-“ 

“This ain’t about me.” Butcher hissed over MM. “It’s about her.” 

“She’s not going to be our man on the inside, you psychopath!” Annie shouted. “She a fucking victim-“ 

“If we go now, Starlight, the bloody hell you think will happen?” Butcher leered at Annie, over Ben. Still unmoving, unable to move as the drums echoed in his head. “We’ll storm the fuckin castle and Homelander will just hand her over?” 

“We could,” Hughie protested, voice weak. “I mean, that’s kind of how we just got Ryan-“ 

“Homelander ain’t stupid, he’s not fallin for that trick two times in a row.” Butcher turned back to Ben. “If you’re that much of a whipped fucking idiot, Gov, we can go right now. I’ll even bloody drop you off. But they’ll see us comin, and Homelander will blast her far, far away. You wouldn’t ever even fuckin see her again.” 

“Butcher-“ 

“Let the man answer Grace.” Butcher held Ben’s gaze. “We ain’t going to stop him if he leaves, or goes after her. It’ll be her bloody funeral. Not ours.” 

He could. Ben could leave right fucking now, and find her, and then they’d leave together. He’d keep Her safe forever, do fucking anything to make her forgive him for failing her.

But a voice that sounded like Hers echoed through his brain. 

Don’t be a dumbass, Benjamin. Butcher’s right, which is annoying because now he’s going to be a cunt about it. But he’s right. 

You’ll find me. You’ll always find me, I trust you. 

I’ll see you soon. 

Butcher read Ben’s answer on his face, and nodded. “Right choice, Gov.” Something passed over Butcher’s feature, something a lot more human than Ben had ever seen. Almost understanding, almost pained. “She’s a clever lady. She’ll get through this.” 

She’ll get back to you. 

And Ben would be here. He’d get Her back, and be here to hold her and burn with her when she returned to him. 

He’d kill Homelander, and never fail Her again. 

——————

Something is wrong. 

Something is very, very wrong. 

Your eyes are closed, but nothing around you is warm. Everything is freezing, the blankets are silk instead of cotton, there’s a strange smell of factory-made coconut in the air, and you’re alone. Ben isn’t here. 

That’s what’s wrong. 

Ben isn’t here. 

You’re suddenly afraid to open your eyes. You don’t remember what happened, you don’t know where you are, and Ben isn’t here. Your mind is moving slower than you need it to, trying to pull back bits and pieces to figure out what happened. Rolling a loop of where are you, why isn't Ben here.

Why does everything feel so wrong. 

You ran into the Tower. You know that much, Ben had given you his gun and you’d ran into the Tower before Homelander could return. You’d almost said it, he’d looked at you like you were his whole world and you almost let yourself say Ben. Ben, I love you. But that had felt final. You didn’t want final, you wanted Ben. So you’d just left. 

You’d told Ben you’d find Butcher. You’d meant to find Butcher. You swear, now, in this strange cold place, that you’d really meant to just find Butcher. But you hadn’t. The blueprints of Vought tower had flashed in your head, along with a small, persistent voice asking you Where was Sage? In all of this, with you and Ben destroying the front lawn, where was Sage? 

There was a security room on the first floor. Actually, there were two security rooms on the first floor. One was labeled such, with faded notes about electrical wiring scratched onto the copy Mallory had shown everyone. The other was identical, with no notes but the same design, labeled office 2. 

You hadn’t been able to find an office 1. Only an office 2. 

So you’d headed there first. 

The door was locked, and your fire wasn’t coming. Homelander had taken you into the sky, higher and higher and away with hands gripping your arm around him, and everything had frozen. It wasn’t the chill of the high wind, it was your blood, your skin, your head. Everything became cold and the fire had started to flicker, all your control over it waning. You’d told Ben you’d hit Homelander’s dick, but he’d just dropped you. He’d made a surprised sound from his throat you’d never heard, and his arms had grown slack around you. You’d pushed off of him and fallen, any fire left dying as you’d dropped through the air. And now it was asleep. Not gone. Still under your skin, still running through your body in the way you’d come to trust, but dormant. Unwilling to come out, even when you’d desperately needed it. 

So you’d shot the handle off. 

You remember that clearly. You’d looked around the hallway, empty as people either hid from Ben and Homelander or went to watch them, thought fuck it, and shot Ben’s gun. 

The door had swung open, and Sage had been right where you expected her. 

She hadn’t turned from the monitors, and said your name in a bored tone. “You’re early.” 

“I’m early,” you’d repeated, raising the gun to a mediocre aim at Sage’s head. You remember wondering if Ben would cum on the spot if you asked him to teach you how to properly use a gun. “There’s no possible way you planned this.” 

Sage had shrugged. “It was more of an outline. A hypothetical. One of many. I honestly didn’t think you’d go with this option, but here we are.”

“Which one did you think we’d go with?” You’d been unable to help yourself from asking. You’d had to know just how predictable your plans were, so you could adjust. Be more erratic. Maybe you’d put Butcher in a dress, really have fun with it. 

She’d turned, spun in her chair to look at you with a small, cold smile. “My money was on you sacrificing yourself, trading yourself in. Didn’t anticipate Soldier Boy stopping you, but I’ve adapted. And now we’re here.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about.” Your hands had been shaking, and you’d looked behind Sage at the monitors. You could see Ben and Homelander on the lawn, and—running through a polished hallway—your team. With Ryan Butcher, failing to shoot at a single camera. You'd yell at Butcher about that later, when this was done. This was almost done.

“In January, when we met for the first time, you confused me.” Sage had tilted her head at you. “That’s impressive. Nobody confuses me. Once I’d found out who exactly you were, Homelander selectively filling in pieces as I figured out the rest myself, I still didn’t fully understand. Once again, impressive.” 

“Oh, gee, thanks.” You’d kept your eyes on Sage, but clocked every movement on the monitors. So close. “You really know how to make a girl blush.” 

“I’m serious. I couldn’t figure you out. You should’ve run when you got out. You’re a smart woman, you should’ve run. But you didn’t, which displays remarkable stupidity. You’d aligned with William Butcher, but seemed to hold qualms with his methods. And your deal with Soldier Boy, the cherry on top. In January you were,” She’d paused, frowned at you before continuing. “Strange. Not friends, not quite, but not simply hateful. Certainly not apathetic. Enough for me to worry about Soldier Boy truly being a problem. And then, by the end of the same month, he seemed to truly care for you. If anything, you managed to baffle me more.” 

“If you say impressive again,” you’d snapped at her. “I’ll fucking shot you.” 

“And you’re much more violent than I anticipated. Yet another thing that threw me, because all signs would point to you being a pacifist. But I figured it out. I found the thing I’d been missing. The club-“ She sighed at your shocked expression. “Please don’t get caught on that. I was separated from Vought for over a decade, I am well aware of the Renegade Room. I haven’t told Homelander about it, I won’t, but I’m aware. Of the club, and your plan with Butcher. That helped me figure it out. You care. About humans, about everyone. No matter how they treat you, how they collectively wrong you and fail you, you care.” 

You’d shrugged. “Kant said never to treat people as means to an end.” 

“Kant also said man must be disciplined.” Sage had shot back. “But you’re not interested in that. You’re forgiving. You tried to discipline Soldier Boy, but then you let him stop you. I didn’t think anything would stop you. I’m still trying to piece that part together fully, but I know how to adapt to an empty picture. I know, for all your care, something with Soldier Boy is different. And you can stop looking at the monitors.” 

You’d blinked at her. “The monitors-“ 

“I know Butcher has Homelander’s son. I’ve sent people to collect them. Right now this is about you. You, Homelander, and Soldier Boy. See,” she’d looked at the monitors with narrowed eyes. “Sometimes I outdo even myself. When I developed the gas for Soldier Boy, I didn’t think it would be this important. But, fuck, those months in the lab around about to pay off. Because-“ 

Hindsight coming to you now, you probably should’ve let Sage finish her speech. Figured out how this was going to pay off for her, and how it probably wasn’t in your favor. But you remember hearing people to collect them and gas for Soldier Boy and a ringing sound starting in your ears. So you’d shot Sage in the face. 

This part was harder to remember. This part felt painful. 

You think you’d sat in the chair. Pushed Sage’s body to the floor and sat. Or maybe you’d just stood at her side. Or behind the chair. 

No matter what, you’d looked at the monitors. You’d seen Noir and The Deep. Not being distracted by A-Train, but running through a hall that looked far too similar to the one your team was in. You’d stopped them. Somehow you’d stopped them because you remember the relief when they turned around. It might have been a phone call, maybe there was a walkie talkie, but it didn’t matter because you’d stopped them. And Ryan had gotten out. 

Then you’d seen Ben and Homelander, still fighting. Ben throwing steady, powerful punches and slamming his shield into Homelander’s body. Then you’d see Homelander reach for something. 

The gas. 

Homelander had been reaching for more gas. And Ben hadn’t been seeing it. 

You’d screamed. You’d grabbed Sage’s phone, or walkie talkie, or just screamed louder. Loud enough to be heard. 

You were in the Vought building. Alone. Homelander could come find you. 

And then Sage had stood up, and you’d been confused. You’d definitely just shot her. 

She’d pulled out a vial. 

And now you were here. 

In Vought Tower. Or a warehouse. Or a lab. Or underground.

Cold. 

Alone. 

You aren’t chained to anything. Your mouth has a gag around it, so you can’t speak, but you can move. You’re dressed. No shoes, but a shirt, loose pants. Underwear. You can’t hear anyone, only the hum of a fan. A lot of fans. It’s really, really cold. 

If Sage sent you here, she should know better. She should know cold doesn't matter. Your fire came from you, not the air around you. You could, if you tried, burn all of the arctic circle while standing at the north pole. But it was still so cold. 

And bright. When you peel your eyes open, blinking and wiping at them—your hands are cuffed and wrapped in big red mittens, so you can’t really accomplish much with them—the room is almost blinding. It might be because of how long you were out, how your head was pounding and aching when you’d woken, but it was so bright. 

You don’t recognize the room. Your eyes adjust quickly, the pounding is already gone and your exhaustion is leaving fast, but you can’t figure out where you are. It wasn’t the white room, or a new lab, but an apartment. A truly awfully decorated apartment, where everything was glossy marble and silk and sleek furniture that didn’t look usable in any way. The bed you’re on is low, the frame made of iron and the mattress feeling like it’s sinking into the floor. It’s not bright anymore, not as the effects of Sage’s gas—what you were assuming was Sage’s gas—were dissipating by the second. It’s low lit, too low lit. Everything is cast in a yellow glow, and the lamps and ceiling lights feel like they’re more for pure decoration than actual practical use. Another part of this hideous, unnerving picture. There’s a lot of red. A lot of white. A lot of blue.

Your heart drops. Deep into your stomach where it churns around with bile and fear. You know where you are. You know exactly where you are. Everything is too clean, too modern, and too impractical. Like it’s been designed to be gaudy, high-brow, and ostentatious. There’s a white marble statue of a bald eagle, and a painting of George Washington on the Delaware that you hope isn’t an original. 

But it could be. Because this is Homelander’s room. 

You need to run. Your hands are confined and your fire is asleep, but your feet aren’t chained. So you can run. Or jump out a window. Homelander’s room is on 99—you remember from the blueprints: floor 99, south facing quadrant, next to Maeve’s old room and Noirs’ current one—but you’d survive the fall. You’d survive anything. But you have to go. You have to push through the sick and crippling feeling that’s growing like mold in your body, through the sheer cold in your blood that’s trying to root you in place, and run. 

Rolling off the bed is easy. Getting your legs to stop shaking is harder, and taking steps without collapsing is near impossible. But you have to run. You can break when you’re home, when you’re safe and Homelander can’t find you again. 

You can fucking do this. You steady your body, and take a long breath. You’re strong. You’ve escaped him once before. And done a lot of other, crazier shit. At this point it’s just another Tuesday. 

It’s a Friday. A small voice—bored and petulant—reminds you. And you were in a lab upstate. This is Vought Tower. You’ve never escaped Vought Tower.  

Shut the fuck up. This voice isn’t yours. It’s deep, and always a little gruff, even as it encourages you. You’re strong, Sunshine. You’re a spiteful, brilliant, angry pain in the ass. You can fucking do this. 

You’re strong. You can fucking do this. 

You’re going to jump out the window. 

Getting out of the room is simple but difficult, and getting down the stairs is fast. You fall, tumbling down the steps and landing on the floor with a crunch, but the adrenaline makes it painless and whatever broke is already healed. You half-crawl, half stumble to the windows. Wide, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the New York skyline. You can’t really see the street below you. 

This is going to really fucking hurt. 

Two steps back. Actually, four steps back. Enough to get a running start. Breathe in, out. You’ll be fine. And if it kills you, it kills you. 

Anything would be better than this. 

You’ve taken three steps when something grabs the back of your shirt, halting you. You scream into the gag, and a red gloved hand covers your mouth. 

“It’s just me,” Homelander hisses in your ear, and you stop fighting. Your whole body shuts down into the cold, and you can’t scream, or sob, or do anything but let Homelander drag you back and throw you onto the long, stiff couch.  

You can’t look at him. Looking at him makes this real. 

He notices, and jerks your chin to force your eyes to meet his. Colder than the room, full of malice and something that might be his version of hurt. Blue. You fucking hate blue. 

“You weren’t going to try and jump?” Homelander’s voice sounds genuinely disbelieving. “I mean,” he laughs your name, and you want to throw up. “Even for you that’s drastic.” 

He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t know what’s drastic for you and what’s not. But you can’t even glare at him, because all your energy is starting to fade, weighing you down like stones filling up your lungs. 

Homelander sighs. “I mean, you’ve already hurt my feelings enough for today.” His grip on your face might crack bone. “Stealing my son,” he gestures to his face, still bubbling with burn scars. “Doing fucking this to me. I mean, what did they do to you? To make you do this to me?” 

He sounds like he’s going to cry. You don’t care.

“Well,” he stands up, releasing your face and frowning down at you with his hands on his hips. “It doesn’t matter now. We’ll fix it. It’s fine your little plan worked, because it brought you back to me. And we’ll get Ryan back, together, once you’re less,” he sighs, waving a hand. “Fucking broken. This time will be different, I won’t keep you two apart. That was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

You just look at him, and his face twists into a sneer. 

“I said I’m sorry. It’s your turn.” 

You have a fucking gag over your mouth. And, even with the fear making everything too loud and bright and blurry, you’d never apologize to Homelander. He’ll have to kill you first. 

His glower fades in a second when he remembers the gag. “Oh, well, I’m going to pretend you apologized, because I can’t really take your gag off. Not while you’re still,” he spins a finger around near his head with a whistle. “Cuckoo. You get it, it’s just a precaution. I mean,” he laughs. “We can’t have you doing your little reality warping trick when you’re still loosing your fucking mind!” 

It’s not reality warping. It’s sensory manipulation. And for some reason that starts to set steel in your body. You’re not losing your mind. You’re not unstable or drastic. It’s fucking sensory manipulation, and your plan worked. Homelander had said Ryan was gone, and you’d done that—ruined Homelander’s picture perfect, all-American face—because you hated him. The fear wasn’t leaving, but it wasn’t growing anymore. And you could glare at Homelander. Let all your hatred, your hatred, not anyone else’s but yours, show across your face. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look!” Homelander huffs with an eye roll. “It’s temporary. Just until I can trust you again! We’re going to do this right this time, we’re going to do us right this time, and once we’ve rebuilt our trust I won’t have to take these kind of precautions. They’re fucking annoying for me, too. This isn’t just about you.” 

You just glare. 

“I mean, you can’t be that mad. You’d do the same thing, if you were in my shoes.” Homelander leans over you, studying your face. “I’m not letting you go this time. Everyone’s going to know you fucking belong to me. I mean, we’re made for each other.” He laughs again, and it’s horrible. It’s joyless and mocking and scraping around your insides painfully. “I mean, you were a good option for me before the V. Smart, pretty, good genetics, more compliant than Becca Butcher, less annoying and weird than Stormfront. You’d never be as mean to me as they were. For Christ’s sake, Stormfront killed herself on my fucking birthday! Did I tell you that? How fucking mean!” 

He’d told you that. Homelander had visited you that day, and asked you if you’d ever do that him. You’d said you would, because you had to and part of you had hoped he’d just leave. He hadn’t. 

“But you’d never do that to me. And after the V?” He grins at you, and it makes the scars look uglier. “You’re almost as strong as me! All those fucking nerds said one shot was going to kill you, but you survived four!” He leans over you, making you crane your neck with a rough hand. “Did I ever tell you that? One V shot should’ve killed you, and you definitely shouldn’t have lived through two. One of those scientists kept trying to tell me that you were growing more powerful and unstable each time, that we should fucking quit while we’re ahead, but I believed in you. And now look at you. My equal.” He shrugs. “Or at least fucking close to it. Closer than Maeve, closer than Stormfront, closer than anyone. Which is why I forgive you, and now I’m going to do this right.” 

He keeps saying that. Keeps saying he’s going to do this right. You don’t know what that means. 

“Sage already announced you’ve come home. I would’ve done it, but,” he gestures to his face, and some sort of twisted satisfaction runs through you. “I could just wait it out, but you’re up before we thought you’d be, so you can fix it.” He grabs one of your hands and starts to undo the cuff, but pauses. “If you need an incentive to behave, let me just remind you that you won’t make it out the door. You’re strong, but I’m fucking stronger. You can run, but I’ll knock you down. You’re staying with me. All the fucking worms who tried to keep you away from me won’t be able to this time. Butcher can try and come get you, but I’ll just kill him and his whole merry band of idiots. They send Soldier Boy, and we’ll knock him out. Sage has wired the whole building for it, just in case. You don’t have to worry about that, but you should know. Trust.” Homelander pulls off the wrapping on one hand, raising to his face. “You’re never fucking getting away from me again. Now fix what you did.” 

The fire is back. It’s woken up—not at full power but more than enough—coursing through your whole body as Homelander words rattled around your head. They’ll knock Ben out. They’ll kill your team. 

You could run. Homelander’s moving your hand against his skin, and you could burn him and run. 

But you touch him, your skin on his, and suddenly you’re afraid. 

It’s not your fear. Your fear is freezing, made of panic and memories. This fear is foreign, hostile in your body, made of something vile and strange. This fear is buried deep, deep down, and strong. This fear is parasitic. This is Homelander’s fear. 

Homelander’s afraid. 

Of you. 

And in a split second, you make a choice. 

You had a plan for this. In the back of your head, you’d buried a plan. You’d never wanted to use it, you’d never told anyone you had it, you’d even pretended it wasn’t there so you could sleep at night. 

You could run. You could leave and go back to Ben and warn him that they had more gas, warn Butcher that Sage was planning something, because you were certain she was. But you didn’t know what. 

And you had a plan. 

Ben was going to kill you. You were going to kill you. As Homelander’s face healed under your hands and your own face grew raw and painful, you hated yourself. You wanted to leave. You wanted to go home, back to Ben, and just leave. But the fire was settling quietly back into your body, silent and cold once more as your choice became set. 

Homelander was right. This wasn’t about you. This was about the world, and making it safe. This was about trusting that Butcher wouldn’t let Ben come find you, as much as you wanted him to. Every part of your heart wanted Ben to burst through the door, pick you up, and take you away. Anywhere that wasn’t here, and you’d tell him you loved him and he wouldn’t leave. But you’d promised to keep him awake, and if he came to save you he’d go under. He wasn’t going under. And, as much of a prick as Butcher was, he’d know to keep Ben away. And you’d get back to Ben. Soon. But right now this wasn’t about you. 

Here were the cards you’d been dealt. Here was your shot at the devil. 

You weren’t going to miss.

End Note: I know y’all hate me now, but please let me cook. I swear I'm not a sadist and this is going somewhere. Remember the agreement we made that you didn’t know about; you GOTTA trust. 

Please, please, please leave a comment if you want to! Never be afraid it’s too long or too short and think I won’t read it. Every single one means the whole world to me, whether it’s a thought on an older chapter or a predication about the next one. No matter what you’re telling me, feedback or jokes or opinions, you will ALWAYS make my day. Cuss me out for this chapter, ask my why the hell I hate love, tell me about your day, no matter what I want to hear it <3. See you in Angst-town USA, population us, for chapter 17.

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It had pushed so close to the surface, when Violet had almost said it for you. That you only silently communicated with people you loved. But you’d rationalized. You’d been doing that with Ben for months now. Love had nothing to do with it. You just understood each other. That was all it was. Not love. Just the implicit knowledge that Ben had you. Got you.

Then he’d held you again. He’d moved you and danced with you, still touching you so gently. He had been everything around you, the song, and the rhythm, and his chest rising and falling as your head had pressed into it. And it was all so painfully obvious that it was love. You loved Ben.

You loved his stupid face. His stupid, handsome, stoic face that starred in your dreams. It was a little mean, actually, that he was so attractive. That his jaw was sharp and his lips were full and his eyes were pretty and green and boundless. It would be unfathomably easy to just get lost into his eyes forever. So easy it was downright cruel. Nobody should be allowed to have eyes like that. To look like that. But Ben did. When he slept his face would grow slack and peaceful as his lips parted and his hair fell across his face, and you’d always need to brush it away so it didn’t have a chance to wake him. When he was focused his brows would knit and his eyes would grow intent, and you’d always need to be the thing he was watching and picking apart. When he scowled at stupid things his nose scrunched slightly and all the lines on his face deepened, and you’d always need to run a hand over them until he smiled again. Because Ben’s smile was the most amazing thing you’d ever seen. It was so rare, because he’d wink and smirk and grin all the time—and it would always make you want him more—but his smile was rare. The wide, toothy, carefree smile that made his whole stupid face happy and brighter than any star. And when he laughed with his smile, he might as well have just shot you. It would make your heart stop, ruin and implode your world, and spill your heart out of your chest faster.

Nobody’s laugh had ever sounded as powerful and consuming as Ben’s. He made a lot of sounds that drove you insane—grunts and moans and snorts and low growls that always moved through you—but his laugh, his real, full laugh, was like a song. Full and deep and loud, filled with genuine amusement and digging into your brain. It moved mountains, it parted oceans, it made you warm and happy and love him so much more. Impossibly more. Because it meant he was happy, and he was the most handsome, idiotic, amazing person in history when he was happy. And it made your whole world solid and clear to feel his joy, made you feel just a little more real yourself when it was you making him happy. When he laughed at your joke or completed a task you’d set for him or you did something for him. Just for him. To make him happy. You’d do anything to make him happy. If he was happy he might stay with you, so you’d do anything. There were frighteningly few lines you wouldn’t cross for him. You’d be more worried about it if you didn’t trust him so completely. If you weren’t full of so much faith that Ben wouldn’t throw you across those lines, or even bring you anywhere near them. You wouldn’t love him if you thought he would. He might not love you, but he understood you, and understood what things you’d never do. And you’d make that enough. You make him staying with you and caring for you and keeping you safe worth his time. You’d keep holding his head and healing his PTSD, even when he bitched and moaned about not needing it. Because he was noticeably less paranoid, more often at ease. He didn’t have as many nightmares anymore, you didn’t feel the drums pound inside him when someone said Russia or sleep. It was the very least you could do for him, when he chased away your nightmares just by existing in your orbit. By surrounding you with his body and smell and making you fly out of your mind with desire, chasing away every shadow in the night and stifling every hateful part of you.

He was everywhere around you. Everywhere you looked was just Ben. Everywhere you looked would always be Ben. That was one of the more detrimental parts of living with him, was that every corner of your home was Ben. The fridge was full of strawberry cream cheese and the freezer had three pints of malt vanilla because he’d tear through one in a day. There were apples instead of oranges on the counter because oranges were a goddamn disgusting ass of a fruit. The carpet in your bedroom was there because Ben asked for it, and the bathroom had a razor because Ben needed to shave. His shield rested at your bedroom door, and there was a page bookmarked in your cookbook for pancakes. His clothes were mixed in with yours, so even when you wore one of your shirts they smelled like him, and when you showered you had to stare at his half-used shampoo that was evidence. Evidence Ben existed here, with you.

He was woven all through the world as well. You saw Ben everywhere in the world. You’d look at the map of the United States hanging in the dining hall and frown at Florida. You’d eat lunch with Annie, and she’d serve you strawberries and your whole body would start to search for him. You’d glance out a window and see the sky and a voice in the back of your head would go Blue. Pussy fucking color. You’d never be able to go outside again. Because you’d look at the grass and the trees and the bushes and only think Ben. Ben’s eyes are green like that. You’d never be able to do a lot of things again, especially if you lost him. Nobody would be allowed to address you, because it would just make you think that Ben had said your name better. The sun would have to stop shining because sunshine wouldn’t be allowed to exist anymore, and everyone would have to stop swearing because nobody would do it as well as he did. And nobody would touch you again. They wouldn’t do it like Ben did it. They wouldn’t wreck you just with hands on skin or names hummed into mouths. If someone held you, it wouldn’t be like you were holy. They wouldn’t be everything.

It wasn’t healthy. You weren’t stupid, you knew it wasn’t healthy. But you didn’t care. Healthy was a privilege. Healthy was for people who budgeted out their months and worked semi-stable jobs and had been born half-sane. Healthy was for people you could get their heart broken and have enough of themselves left to heal it. Healthy was for people who had a heart that was capable of remolding to fit in place with a new, different one after the heartbreak was over. Your heart was for Ben. It didn’t fit anywhere else. It could either be in your chest, or in his hands. It wouldn’t survive anywhere else. You’d survive without Ben. If you lost him, the world would keep spinning and your heart would keep beating and you’d heal after a very, very long and lonely time. But that would be it. It would just be you. No one else. If Ben left you’d let him and mourn it for the rest of your life, alone. If he went back to sleep, you’d burn everything to wake him up, and not just because you’d promised. Because you wanted him awake and happy and holding you. You wanted him. You needed him. You loved him.

And now you have to live with that. You’d have to learn how to love Ben like this. In this way that sat in your brain and made everything clear as your whole body was wrapped in some kind of cocoon, some sort of shield that kept you warm and alive because you loved Ben. You have to learn how to love him in this infinite way and never let it show.

You’ll keep going like you have been. Because you’ve loved him for a long time, if you think for just a second about it. You don’t know when it began, and you’re a little afraid to search for the exact moment where it became something of no return. The turning point, the moment that made your thoughts and feelings about Ben change from understanding and friendship into love. Horrible and loud and glorious love. Because it feels a lot less recent than it probably should be. It doesn’t feel like something that happened last week, or two weeks ago, or even a month. If you concentrate and comb through the past maybe you’d find when this became love, but it doesn’t really matter. Because it feels old. It feels like it’s something ancient that was dormant and now will never stop raging inside you. Just because you’re aware of it now doesn’t mean it wasn’t strong and fixed like this before. 

So you’ll love him like you have been. Because you have been. Nothing needs to change because you have been loving him in secret for a while, it’s only just no longer a secret from you as well.

The only difference is now that chorus of Ben that runs through your brain all the time is followed by I love you. You wake up the morning after Violet’s visit, with Ben’s body heavy and secure over yours—his head pressed into your neck and his snores reverberating through your bones—and your mind goes Ben. Ben, I love you. You lay there for a while, waiting for him to wake up because you could. You had all the time in the world to lay in bed with the man you loved, letting his hands drift in sleep to the hem of your shirt and his legs tangle thoughtlessly in yours. To let your brain go Ben, I love you over and over until he made that small grunt that always preceded his waking.

Ben’s eyes open slowly, looking at you from underneath his eyelashes, and even those are pretty. You’d never stood a chance.

“Mornin,” he grumbles, and you smile at him.

“Good morning, Benjamin.” Your voice is soft, barely above a whisper. Already, acting normal is not going well.

“Benjamin?” He drawls, smirking up at you. “The fuck did I do to earn a Benjamin this early in the day?”

You wrinkle your nose at him, pushing your knee up into his gut. “It’s your name. Am I not allowed to call you your name?”

“Not when I’ve barely opened my damn eyes.” Trying to knee him was fully ineffective, because he's completely unaffected and now your calf is brushing against his half-hard cock. And he’s still looking at you. “You only call me that when I’ve pissed you off. Tell me what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything.” Ben, I love you. “You’re doing something, right now. But I was just saying your name.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “Then say it again.”

“What?”

Ben grins, shifting up on his arms and hanging over you. His face only a slight movement from yours. “Say my name again. My full name.”

“Why-“

“Because I want to hear it when you’re not mad at me for some shit reason.” His breath is moving from his mouth into yours. “Say it.”

You swallow, his lust sitting somewhere with your own in your chest and throat, but still manage to say, “Ask nicely.”

“Brat.”

“I’ll never say your name again-“

He kisses you, sloppy with his tongue falling into your mouth and his hand coming up to cup your face. He’s groaning your name, and his voice is so deep and he smells like pine and his body is warm and he tastes like mint-

You push up on his chest, gaping at him slightly. “Did you fucking brush your teeth?”

He scowls. “Shut up.”

“No, you brushed your teeth!” You grin at him, feeling the closest thing you’ve ever felt to embarrassment course through him. It’s sore and hot, crawling along his skin as he avoids your gaze. “I can taste it, Benjamin, so don’t even think about lying to me.”

“I wasn’t goddamn going to lie to you.”

“Because you’re not a pussy.”

“Because I’m not a fucking pussy.”

“But you brushed your teeth?”

Ben’s still glaring at you, but there’s nothing cold or sharp behind his eyes, or in his body. You can feel more of a sour annoyance, like he’s mad he got caught. “Brat.”

“Cunt.” You whack his chest lightly. “Are you just not going to admit it? Or am I going to have to get up and check your toothbru-“

You choke on your words as Ben drops back to your neck, sucking a line up your jaw.

“Ben-“

“I fucking brushed my teeth,” he growls into your ear, and somehow it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. “Are you happy now?”

You want to say yes, or very, or Ben, I love you, but all you can manage is a strained, desperate sound that’s half-sigh and half-moan.

“Good. Now say my name and I’ll-“

You’re moving so fast to grab Ben’s face and pull him back against yours that whatever he was about to promise you is lost in a groan down your throat. You don’t care, because it can’t be better than this. It can't be better than Ben over you, his hand kneading the skin at your hip and his teeth making your lips swell. It can’t be better than the heat of him around you, the power of his hunger in you.

It’s so easy to moan, “Benjamin-“

He’s gone, hauling himself off of you in a second, so fast you can’t grab his arm and yank him back down.

“You asshole-“

“If you had let me finish my fucking sentence,” Ben grins down what’s meant to be your murderous glare but—based purely on his amused expression and teasing tone—is more likely a pout. “You’d have heard the part where I’m making you breakfast now.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” you grumble. “Get your ass back down here.”

Ben hums. “No.”

“Benjamin-“

“There she is,” he leans down, pulling you up just enough that he can kiss the top of your head. “That’s how you always fucking say it.”

Before he can draw back up again, you grab his wrist with one hand, pushing your jaw up into the air to try and move his mouth to yours. He lets you, kissing you far too sweetly for the thirst to be overflowing like this, for the ache between your legs to be growing painful.

When Ben moves away once more, he presses another kiss to your forehead and all your thoughts become clear. It’s only Ben. Ben, I love you.

“Pancakes?” He mumbles against your skin, and you nod.

“Of course I want pancakes, but you-“ His mouth is gone again, hands still holding your face as he draws to his full height. “Ben-“

“I’m going to pick you up.” He says firmly, watching you carefully. It’s not a question, but he doesn’t move. Towering over you, waiting for you to prompt him. You nod, and the rough feeling in his chest pulses slightly as his arms drop under your knees, pulling you up into him.

“I hate you.” Your tone, quiet and gentle, isn’t convincing. Your movement isn’t convincing, arms wrapping around Ben’s neck and body leaning into his hold.

He chuckles, “No, you don’t.” 

And you don’t. You love him. But you still glare at him, and revere in the complete concrete safety of Ben touching you. The strength of his body, the power of his resolve coursing through your bloodstream. The way you barely jostle against him when he walks down the stairs, how carefully he sets you down. How—once the coffee is brewed—he pours your mug first and places it in front of you. Shooting you a sharp glare when you start and stand up to help him.

“Get your fucking ass back in the chair, Sunshine,” he snaps. “I can cook my goddamn self.”

“I know,” you walk over to his side, holding his glower with an overly sweet smile. “But I want to cook with you.”

He’s still frowning, looking you up and down. “Why.”

“It’s fun,” you shrug. Ben, I love you. “You get mad at some really stupid shit. I’ve never seen someone snap a bowl in half before, I didn’t know you could snap a bowl in half.”

“It was broken already,” he grumbles. “Wasn’t fucking mixing the batter.”

“That’s not how bowls work, and you know it.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Shut up and get the milk or sit the hell back down.”

You smile at him, wide and light, and start to turn to the fridge. You don’t even take a step before Ben’s hand catches the top of your arm and spins you around, his lips crashing into yours in a long, needy, marked kiss. Walking you back into the kitchen counter, going and going until you’re breathless and moaning his name.

He smirks against your lips, sucking slowly on your top lip before moving away. Staring at you with the lust shining in his eyes. The lust and another, louder, fiery thing that’s roaring somewhere near his lungs. He says your name, voice hoarse, and you think it might kill you. “You’re a real fucking pain in my ass.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I can really tell how hard all this is on you.”

He groans, because your words were carefully chosen. “Fucking hell-”

“Is there a problem, Pretty Boy?” You smile at him, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’re lucky you’re beautiful.” He kisses just the tip of your nose, and your whole body sings. “Get the milk.”

“Cunt,” you mutter under your breath as he walks away, and his laugh echoes through you. Ben, I love you.

This will work. You’ll love him like this. Keeping your lines set in stone rather than sand, because as much as you need him to walk back over to you—to pick you up again and just fuck you—you can’t. Knowing you love him made it easier to not chase after him, easier to stop yourself from giving him everything as you were now certain he couldn’t return it. But it made you want everything so much more. So you had to keep your head on your shoulders, and let him call you beautiful and kiss him until he was hard and you were wet, and never let it go further. You can love him like this. And it will be fine.

You master it, over the next three days. You get in stupid fights about nothing—Ben uses an abominable amount of toothpaste per brushing for someone who probably hasn’t done any sort of dental care in almost a century—and they either end with you winning, Ben’s tongue down your throat, or some combination of the two. And your brain always goes Ben, I love you, and you turn it into a whack of his arm or a wordless moan into his mouth or against his skin. You snark at him, and he chuckles and teases you, and instead of climbing on top of him and grabbing his face in your hands and screaming Ben, I love you, you make him laugh. You savor the sound as it fills the apartment, and squeeze your thighs together because everything this insufferable ass of a man does turns you on. It was a problem before, and now it might be starting to actively hinder your life. You’re training with him—Ben has insisted you learn how to coordinate fire in with your combat so you don’t rely wholly on your power, saying any supe worth their goddamn salt can do more than just party tricks, Sunshine—and your task is to knock him down.

It’s not going well. 

“You did this better when you hated me,” Ben taunts, side-stepping you again.

“Fuck you.”

He laughs. “Maybe I will, once you’ve earned it.” 

You scowl, lunging at him again. This time, when Ben doges, he moves right into the column of flame you’d risen in his path.

“Fucking Christ-“ He jumps away, shooting you a glare and snapping your name.

You don’t let him keep going, rushing another wall of flame at him. You’d learned to control the temperature—hot enough for Ben to feel, not hot enough for it to burn—and he takes a stumbling step back.

“That’s more fucking like it,” he’s grinning now, fists up. “Keep it coming, at this rate you’ll get me down by April.”

You flip him off, wrapping your hand in fire and throwing a punch right at his stupid, handsome face. “I’m going to wipe the floor with you Pretty Boy.”

He fakes left, the fire shooting up to block him in the wrong spot when he ducks right, under your arm. You recover fast, but Ben’s already grabbing you by the hook of your elbow, pinning you against his chest.

“Those are some big words,” he mutters, lips brushing your ear as his arm snakes around your waist. “For someone who can’t even land one damn punch.” 

You angle your head back and kiss him. Rough, sudden, and harsh. It catches him off guard, and his grip loosens just enough for you to turn and jump up. He catches you as your legs wrap around him—you knew he would—and growls into your mouth as your hands pull at his hair. You keep going, Ben matching every bite of his lips with a bite of yours. Every groan you pull from him makes him harder and harder against you, makes his hold on you like steel and his hunger start to burn in your body. You lean your chest forward slightly—still holding his mouth against yours—and he moans. Ben moans, and your whole plan almost goes entirely out the window. The only thing that keeps you on track is the fact that if you don’t move now he’ll moan again and not a thing in the universe could stop you from fucking him. 

You shove down on Ben’s shoulders, your whole body going up in flames. It does the trick, and Ben loses his balance just enough for you to push harder. Make him drop down to the floor as you straddle his chest, grinning triumphantly at his adorable, befuddled frown.

“I win.”

The disbelief and shock dies in Ben fast, and suddenly the hunger is bigger. Everything in him is bigger. Hunger and affection and a strange feeling that makes you light-headed and giddy. 

“Dirty fucking trick, beautiful.” He says, smiling widely up at you as his hands find your hips. “Don’t think that’ll work on the average opponent.” 

“Worked on you,” you say smugly, and the feelings somehow grow in him. In you. It makes you blink, your whole body consumed by it, and you don’t see or feel Ben grab your wrists until it’s too late and he’s flipping you over. 

He’s above you, he’s everything, and nothing in you wants to try and get him away. You’d won already, and even if you hadn’t you can’t think of a way out of this. Not when his face is so happy, not when you can feel all of him. His body and his desire and his care. 

“Fucking brat,” he mutters, mouth lowering just over yours. “Too smart for your own damn good.” 

“You love it,” you mumble. I love you. 

Ben snorts, and your whole world is just that sound. Content and moving through and around you. Just Ben, kissing you until your back is arching off the floor. Picking you up and dropping you both on the couch, going and going until you’re both out of breath. Then just touching you. Thumbs tracing circles on your skin, head resting against yours, all just Ben. 

You look up at him, and he’s watching you. He’s always watching you. You don’t ever want him to look away. You move your hands up into his hair, palms pressed against his head, and his brows raise. 

“I feel goddamn fine,” he drawls your name. “You don’t have to keep fucking doing this.” 

“You had a nightmare last night,” you glare at him. “I decide when I stop doing this.” 

Ben scowls, but doesn’t move your hands away. Sulking as your grip tightens and you set to work. You’re grateful for it, because his nightmare had scared you. It had been the first in a while, and while he hadn’t fallen into the drums and exploded, the pain he’d felt was still sitting in your bones. The strained sounds of suffering and fear that he’d made were rattling around in your head. It was wrong. He wasn’t supposed to make those sounds. Ben wasn’t made to make those sounds. So you’d keep doing this until he never had to make them again. It wasn’t hurting you at all anyway, you felt fine. Were shadows a little darker in corners and sounds a little louder at night? Maybe, but you were fine. And this wasn’t about you. It was about Ben.

It was about how soft his hair was in your hands, and how handsome his face looked when it was relaxed. It was about making him keep looking at you. All the time.

“We have dinner in an hour,” you say after a while, mostly to try and drown out the song in your head of Ben. Ben, I love you.

“I know,” he grunts. “It’s the same time every fucking night.” 

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Someone’s grumpy.” 

“Shut up.” 

“What, not looking forward to Butcher’s nightly interrogations about if we’re fucking yet?” 

Ben smirks at you. “You’d think he’d realize that the moment we start fucking we’d stop coming to dinner.” 

“We’d still go to dinner-“

“You wouldn’t leave the bed for a week,” his voice is low, taunting, and your nails start digging into his scalp. “Longer if you wanted.” 

Ben, I love you. “Someone’s real cocky.” 

“And one day,” he winks. “You’ll find out why.” 

You snort, even as your whole body starts to feel like putty. “Okay, Pretty Boy.”

“Are you fucking doubting me?”

“No,” you scoff. “Before we met, about 85% of the things I heard about you were that you were an asshole manwhore. I don’t think I ever doubted that you could fuck.”

“An asshole manwhore?” Ben scowls. “Who called me an asshole manwhore?”

“I think that asshole manwhore was Butcher.” 

Ben grunts, “fucking pussy.”

“If it helps,” Ben, I love you. “You are an asshole manwhore. But you’re also the most aggressively caring person I’ve met.”

“Aggressively caring?”

“You give a shit about me. More than anyone ever really has. In a very violent, mean, asshole manwhore way.” Ben, I love you. “But it, it means a lot.”

“You mean a lot,” Ben grumbles. “And of course I give a shit about you. It’s not like you don’t give a shit about me.”

“Yeah but that’s not my point-”

“Sunshine, just take the fucking compliment.” 

You stick your tongue out at him. “Asshole.”

Ben winks, still watching you. So full of lust you might pass out from it. “You need to shower.”

“You need to shower.” You mutter, and he grins.

“We could do it together-“

“Fuck off,” you mutter, face heating and eyes moving to stare at his forehead. Looking at him right now—with his face alight and the hunger and want painting his every feature—would be counterproductive. “Once I’m done with this you’re showering, without me, and then we’re going to dinner.”

“You’re going first.” 

“Ben-“ 

“I take longer showers than you,” his tone is firm, and you can feel his eyes on you. “So your options are going first and having warm water, or going second and freezing your beautiful fucking face off.” 

“But-“ 

“You could always just shower with me,” he continues, and your eyes drop back to his against your will. They’re bright, and so green, and boring right through you in a way that makes you think he can see your thoughts. See the way your whole mind is just going Ben. I love you. “Eliminate the damn problem altogether.” 

“Shut up,” you mumble, and Ben chuckles, pulling your hands down from his head. 

“Then you should get a fucking move on,” he says your name, eyes never leaving yours. “Don’t want to be late to our stupid dinner, do we?” 

“Cunt.” 

He kisses your knuckles, and your whole brain is Ben. “Brat.” 

You shoot him one last glare as you stand, and try not to let your whole body feel cold without him as you climb up the stairs. You turn the shower handle so steam fills the room and the water is scalding. It doesn’t hurt, heat never hurts anymore, but the sensation still exists. You know it’s hot, you know it burns and would’ve hurt before, but now it just feels good. It would’ve, once, been used to wipe your head clear of him, used to chase the thoughts of Ben away into the water and down the drain at your feet. But now it just amplifies them. You don’t know how long you can keep this up, when everything Ben does is like a river that sweeps you up into him, that’s started to smooth rules you’d carved into stone about not going everywhere with him. It’s only been three days. Three long days of knowing you love him. How you managed this before you knew is a mystery, how you didn’t know for so long is even more baffling. Maybe it’s because you didn’t understand that love could feel like this. You’d been in love before, sure. And it had swept you away and made you smile, but it had never been a part of you. It had never been something that felt bigger than you, something that was only building and building by the second. You’d only fallen in love after sex, after months of casual dating and messing around until it grew deeper. You think you might have loved Ben before he even kissed you. You think you might love Ben until the universe is wiped away in fire. 

You think the fire might be yours. You think what might destroy the universe is this love for Ben, pouring out of you until it’s everywhere and still only a fraction of what he is.

And it’s only been three days. 

You’d had forty-five minutes when you’d entered the shower. Wallowing in the fog and warmth of the water might’ve taken up five. Ben took half-hour showers, but you could cut it down to twenty-five if you really got on his ass about it. 

Ten minutes was more than enough to get yourself off.

The good thing about the rain showers was that they were relaxing. The bad thing was that there was no removable shower head to work with, but you could improvise. You lean back against the wall, planting your feet firmly on the floor as you arch your hips, angling them so that the water falls right between your thighs. You move your fingers down slowly, and part the lips of your pussy so that your clit is exposed to the air and the stream of the shower lands steadily against it. The effect is immediate, your whole body seizing for a fraction of a second at the sensitivity before you adjust, completely relaxing against the wall. All your thoughts are wrapped in the steam, wrapped in the sensation of the heavy beat of falling water on your clit, and you don’t even try to stop the moan that escapes your mouth.

Ben. If you were a little weaker—or stronger—it could be him doing this. He could be holding you up against his muscled chest instead of you leaning against tile, it could be his rough hand squeezing your breasts instead of your own, and he could be devouring your high, needy sounds into his body. Holding your chin up so he can lean over you and kiss you until you feel like you’re going to pass out. Wrapping his arm over your hips to keep them from bucking as his hand dives between your legs. Rubbing large, strong fingers over your clit in a fast, mind-numbing pace and rhythm. Head lowering so he’s sucking on your neck as he moves down, down, down and plunges inside you, palm still bumping your nerves as he moves in and out at a brutal pace. Going and going until you’re screaming his name, muttering filth and praise against your skin, bringing your over the edge-

Your legs almost give out when you cum, and as your wits return you realize your own fingers have stilled inside you, and your throat is aching. You were screaming his name.

Any hopes that he might not have heard are dashed when you exit the bathroom and Ben’s sitting on the bed, smirking at you.

“Have fun?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, walking around the bed to where your phone is plugged in. 

“There better still be hot water-“ 

“If there’s not,” you glare at him. “Then maybe you won’t take a year to shower. For once.” 

He winks. “You’re real mouthy for having just been screaming my name, Sunshine.”

“Fuck you.” 

“I could’ve. If you’d let me in the damn shower.” 

“Well I didn’t,” you stick your tongue out at him. “So haul ass.” 

He leans across the bed, grabbing your forearm and yanking you down with a yelp. You land right in his lap, and the lust in him is so strong that, combined with how your whole body is still alight from your orgasm, you don’t even think to squirm away as he kisses you until you’re grinding against his thigh. 

“This fucking needy already?” He hums, nipping at the corner of your mouth. “I’ll have to make it two damn weeks.” 

I love you. “Benjamin, you dick-“ 

He chuckles, gently rolling you off his body. “The moment you say the word, my dick is all yours.” Ben smirks at your slack expression, kissing your cheek before growling in your ear. “But you’re going to have to beg for it.” 

When he stands and walks into the bathroom, leaving you panting slightly on the bed, you realize this is going to kill you. It’s only been three days, and this love for Ben is going to kill you. 

How some people do this for years will never cease to amaze you. 

Nobody’s caught on yet. Tonight, just like the past three nights, dinner will be weird, but normal weird. The biggest thing that changed was two nights ago, when Ben called Annie Annie instead of Starlight for the first time. The reaction had been similar to the switch from Cocksucker to Hughie, with everyone starting slightly in their seats before rushing to continue the conversation and gloss over the change. You’d asked him, later that night when you’d returned to your room, what had done it. 

“Done what?” He’d grumbled. 

“Don’t play stupid, Ben-“ 

“I don’t know what you’re fucking taking about.” 

“Yes, you do.” You’d narrowed your eyes at him. “What made Annie earn name privileges?” 

He’d glared at you, but grunted, “She’s not being a damn bitch anymore. Finally got off her fucking high horse.” 

You’d nodded and dropped it, but didn’t miss the way he didn’t glare at Annie when she talked to you anymore. Now, as you walked into the dining hall with his arm hanging over your shoulders, he even gave her a curt nod when she smiled at you, and no rush of angered protectiveness surged through him. 

Annie had asked you, the day after Violet left, how the meeting had gone. You’d been standing downstairs at the doorway, and Ben had been upstairs, but there was no way he hadn’t heard. Annie’s voice had been slightly hushed, and the door had been closed, but Ben had the ears of a moth. You’d told him that once and he’d shaken his heard, grumbling about you being a too fucking hot for a walking encyclopedia. But he did. He heard everything. There was no way he hadn’t heard Annie. 

And he’d called her Annie that same night. 

When you drop across from Annie and Hughie, Frenchie and Kimiko are nowhere to be seen—despite a jacket you recognize to be Frenchie’s tossed on one of the seats—and MM and Butcher are shuffling over from the kitchen doors. 

“Where’s-“ 

“Kimiko’s making Frenchie listen to some songs she just found on Spotify.” Annie smiles at you with a shrug, and you smile back. “It’s a lot of J-Pop and showtunes.”

“If it’s Kimiko showing them to Frenchie, he’ll love them.” You lean slightly across the table, Ben sitting silently at your side with hand resting on your lower back. “What’s on the menu?” 

“I dunno, we just got here.” Hughie cranes his neck to look at Butcher and MM. “Hey guys-“

“Pizza.” MM sits next to Hughie, angling his plate for display. “They got Hawaiian, pepperoni, cheese, and broccoli.” 

You nod, starting to rise from your seat, but Ben pulls your wrist slightly. “I’ll get it.” 

“Okay, can you get-“ 

“I know what you fucking want.” He mutters, and you blink at him.

“Really?”

“We have pizza every damn Friday,” Ben shrugs, standing. “You always chose the same thing.”

He stalks past Butcher, still standing with a scowl at the head of the table, and pushes roughly through the doors. 

“He’s, uh, he’s right.” Hughie’s staring after Ben, a small frown on his face. “They do give us pizza every Friday.” 

“Like we’re fuckin babies,” Butcher’s holding his plate with white knuckles, glowering the two remaining seats. Next to Annie, and next to you.

“Babies don’t eat fuckin pizza, Butcher.” MM mutters. “It’s bad for their guts, and they can’t chew it.”

“It’s more like we’re teenagers,” you nod. “My high school cafeteria definitely had pizza Fridays.”

Annie hums. “Actually, mine did too.”

“That makes three,” Hughie takes a large bite of his pizza, a little cheese hanging out his mouth, and you all look expectantly at MM. 

He sighs. “Mine did as well.”

“Well ain’t that just bloody fantastic for all you.” 

“Butcher,” Annie sighs. “Just eat your pizza or go sit alone.” 

This happens every night. Butcher stands at the table, making jeering comments until someone—usually Annie or MM—tells him to sit and eat, with them or by himself. He always sits down, usually next to Hughie or MM, sometimes next to Frenchie, once next to a very stiff bodied Ben and once next to a wide-eyed Kimiko. Never next to Annie. Never next to you.

You think tonight will be the first night he sits alone, right up until he’s marching around the table and sitting down at your side so aggressively it shakes the bench. The shocked silence only lasts a second before Hughie jumps frantically into a conversation about some movie he and Annie watched last night at MM’s suggestion, you and Butcher both refusing to look at each other.

The kitchen doors swing back open, Ben reappearing with two plates in hand. His eyes narrow when he sees Butcher at your side, a scowl overtaking his face. The fuck is he doing?

Sitting, apparently. Your shrug is so small that anyone except Ben wouldn’t have caught it. Don’t say anything about it. I think he’s like a reverse Tinkerbell. 

Ben raises his eyebrows. The fuck does that mean. 

If you give him attention, he dies.

Snorting, Ben sits back at your side, and you grin at him as he slides your plate in front of you before dropping his hand to your thigh. Letting it rest there as you glance at his serving—five slices of pepperoni—and then yours. He’d gotten it right, and you blink up at him. 

He frowns. What? 

Ben, I love you, is what you want to tell him. You even know what that face would look like. A full smile, all teeth and joy, with your eyes shining with all your love for him as you just look at him.

But you only give him a smaller smile, still happy, but not everything. Thank you. 

Don’t. He squeezes your thigh, rolling his eyes. Never fucking thank me. 

You wish Ben would let you thank him, but a small part of you knows it’s a mercy he doesn’t know he’s giving you. You’d never stop thanking him if he didn’t get all grumpy when you did. You’d thank him for every stupid, handsome smile and every brush of his skin against yours and every teasing jab that meets and spars with yours. You’d thank him for holding you under the table for the whole dinner, Butcher eating at your side without a word. You’d thank him for leaning back slightly when Kimiko sits at Annie’s side so you can talking to her in sign about the music she’d been showing Frenchie. You’d thank him for staying silent and grounding when Butcher launches into a briefing, despite everyone’s glares. 

“Grace says Edgar’s almost ready,” he’s looking around, meeting everyone’s eyes to ensure they’re listening. “We got a plan for when he makes good.”

“A plan?” Annie frowns. “Can you be more specific-“

“No.”

You’d thank Ben for rolling his eyes at you. Fucking pussy probably doesn’t even have a fucking plan. 

I’m sure we can improvise. You shrug, and he scowls. 

You always have to improvise. If they want you to keep fucking improvising for them, they better start paying us both what we damn deserve.

You raise your brows at him. We? When have you ever improvised for them? 

This whole plan was my goddamn idea. 

That’s a plan. It’s the exact opposite of improvisation. 

Brat, Ben grins at you. We’re a package fucking deal. They want your services, they pay us both. 

You wrinkle your nose at him. I did not agree to that.

I go where you go, beautiful. Ben winks. 

You’d thank him for the flush of your face, and the smile you have to physically fight off your face. 

You’d thank him for clearing both your plates when Butcher’s doing the same so you don’t have to be alone with Butcher beside you, and you’d thank him for bringing you back a fistful of chocolate when he returns from the kitchen with his own full pint of ice cream. You’d thank him for holding your hand all the way back to your apartment, and up the stairs, and into bed. You’d thank him for kissing you until you’re scraping at his back, and for doing that annoying thing where he tells you you’re tired and you suddenly are.

You’d thank him for staying—at your side—every day, every time you so much as saw him. You’d thank him for humming terribly as you drift off to sleep, you’d thank him for the way his heart pounds softly against his chest until the world is dark and peaceful.

The world had taken a turn. You’d been somewhere that was full of sunlight and life, Ben holding you against him, and suddenly it was dark. So dark you couldn’t see your own hands. Your body is lit in flames and it’s somehow still so very dark. And cold. There’s wind and it’s freezing your skin and guts, even as you burn. You call for Ben, your voice turning from nervous shouts of his name into screams. Loud, panicked screams for Ben to find you, to shout back and tell you he’s there, that he’s okay, that he’s searching for you as well. 

There’s only silence, your name swallowed in a vacuum of the cold darkness. And it’s silent and cold for so long. So very long where you’re burning and can’t find Ben. He’s in danger, you know, you can feel it. Something’s keeping him from you, because that’s the only reason he wouldn’t be roaring for you to return to him. And he’s in pain. You’re certain he’s in pain. Ben is in pain, somewhere in the dark, because you can feel something ripping you open and flaying you alive and drowning you. Something is drowning you. Something is drowning Ben. And it’s all you can feel, for a long, long time, until a voice sounds through the world, screeching in your ears.

Run. 

You’re gone. You’re sprinting through nothing and it’s like falling. There’s no end, and it’s so fast, and where’s Ben. You have to go faster, you have to find him. You have to crash into whatever that’s doing this, causing this pain, and destroy it. You have to find it, you have to find him, and you can hear something. Breaking through the fire around you and your own screams for Ben, there’s something running at you. Behind you. Faster than you, gaining pace, a cruel cackling sound that’s becoming louder and louder.

There’s a light. Far away there’s a warm light that’s growing and growing with drums. Loud, heavy, bloody drums. It’s Ben, chest alight as the drums become all you can hear. He’s facing you, and the danger behind you is closer, closer, closer as Ben grows brighter, brighter, brighter. 

The danger tears past you. It’s not going for you anymore. It’s headed for Ben. Faster, and the drums aren’t loud enough, and there’s a fraction of a second where you could’ve held it back. Where it ripped through the space between you and Ben and you could’ve struck it down. You could’ve redrawn its attention to you. 

But Ben is doing what you should’ve done. His eyes lock with yours, right as the danger hits him. And suddenly there’s nothing, not pain or danger or drums or any sign that Ben was ever there. Just cold nothing.

The world floods with light.

Fluorescent, blinding, painful light. Everything smells like hand sanitizer and the air is too clean. Artificial. 

When you can see again, everything in you dies. 

You’re back. You’d swore you’d never to go back. To this white room with the too bright lights and everything deep cleaned so there’s no proof. No proof you exist. You’re just another decoration in this horrible, horrible place.

It’s changed though. There’s no longer a steel door with a small slat that meals were once pushed through. There’s nothing. Not even glass. You could just walk out, right into the lab.

The white room and the lab had been different though. You’d never existed in both at the same time. And this lab isn’t the same as yours. At the surface level, it’s an identical copy with bleached floors and a lot of tools that make your blood run cold. But the vials are all full of nothing. Just air. There’s a large one, connected to an IV that doesn’t run into a body, but a tube. 

A large, metal tube. More like a box. With a single clear panel that’s just too high for you to look into. You don’t need to though. When the box shakes slightly, something in you pulses and thrashes against your chest and you know. When the box is still, and the thing dies out a fraction of a heartbeat, you know. 

Ben is there. Asleep in the box. And you’re burning everything to try to get him out, but the box isn’t even shaking again. It’s still and silent as you scream, and it echoes through the ashes and smoke around you. You’re burning the world and everything between it, but Ben is still asleep. Gone.

You hadn’t been smart enough. You hadn’t been fast enough. You hadn’t done whatever it took, and now Ben was gone. You’d failed him. 

You’d failed Ben. 

You’re still burning when you wake up. You’re still screaming when you wake up. Your voice is hoarse, your throat feels raw, but you can’t stop screaming. The world is on your back, pushing down on your shoulders and snapping your spine in two. You’d failed him, you’d lost him, and now Ben was gone-

“I’m right fucking here,” the most familiar voice in the world moves through your body, saying your name, but all you can think is Ben. He’s gone. 

You’d lost him. 

“You didn’t lose me,” it’s the same voice. Low and forceful. “I’m here,” it’s saying your name. You need to listen, because it’s making your name sound important. Like it’s the only thing in the world worth saying. “I’m right fucking here.” 

That’s Ben’s voice. As you’re coming down you know it’s Ben voice, because he says fucking like that. You think his voice was built to say fucking, with the spitting sound on the f and the deep growl of the uh. The speed at which he tears through the king.

Ben’s here. You didn’t lose him. He’s here. Suddenly you can feel him all around you, and it’s not just the feeling of his resolve like a shield around you that’s pulling you back down. It’s him. It’s just Ben. It’s the heat of his body, the way he’s holding you with real, strong hands. It’s the sound of his voice, and the rumble of his heart where you think your head is pressed into his ribs. It’s the smell of him. Pine and vanilla and Ben. All Ben. Real, with you, not gone.

Your screams turn into sobs, and your breathing grows faster until you’re lightheaded. Until gentle, calloused hands are on your face, pulling you back from where you’ve buried yourself.

Ben’s face is drawn, focused, and the frown on his face isn’t at you. It’s for you. You can feel the way in which his anger is blowing, and it’s up and around and everywhere until he can find something to turn bloody and beat to a pulp. But for now he’s holding you. Searching your eyes for his answer.

“Fucking breathe,” he says your name again. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You sob again, hands flying up to keep his on your face. In case this is another lie. In case your mind is truly that hateful and would do this to you again.

“I’m not going fucking anywhere.” He hisses. “You need to know that, Sunshine. I’m never going anywhere without you.”

Your breathing slows, and the blood pounding in your ears with it. Soon it’s just Ben. You and Ben.

He must read it on your face somewhere—that you’re here, in your mind, without the fear and panic—because he kisses your brow, still holding your face as he speaks. “What happened.” 

You shake your head. “Just a nightmare.” 

“You haven’t had a nightmare like that since damn Neuman.” 

He’s right. You’d had bad dreams, one or two, but not nightmares. No fire had torn through this room before, Ben hadn’t had to bring you back from some sort of ledge on this mattress.

“I don’t know where it came from,” you whisper. “I’m sor-” 

“No apologies.” He pulls your face up just a little further. “You’re okay.” 

Not a question. “I’m okay.” 

Ben grunts, thumb drawing circles on your cheekbones. “Swear it.” 

“Promise.” You pause, looking up at him. Ben. Ben, I love you. I can’t lose you. I can’t fail you. I can’t fail anyone, but if I fail you it’ll destroy me and the world. “Ben?”

He hums your name, and you run your hands from over his to hang off his forearms.

“You trust me?”

“Of course I fucking trust you.” 

“Can you promise me something?” 

Ben grunts. “What.” 

“I don’t know what Butcher and Mallory are planning,” your voice is still choked, and it hurts to speak. But you keep going. You have to keep going. “But if it falls through, I need you to promise that you’ll let me do what I need to do.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Ben’s hold on your face tightens, and you swallow. 

“If whatever Butcher and Mallory have-“ 

“That’s not what I’m asking.” He’s irritated. You can hear it in his voice, you can feel it on his fingertips. There’s something else, the bitter thing has wrapped around his throat, combined with something bellowing inside his chest. “What the fucking hell do you mean what you need to do.”

“To finish this,” it’s painful to look at him. It’s painful to see his jaw clenched and mouth frowning when he’d been gone from you, even if it hadn't been real. It’s painful to see the intensity of his gaze when you’re asking this of him. “To do what needs to be done.”

“What needs to be done?” Ben hisses. “If you don’t speak more fucking clearly, I’m not promising you shit. If you’re talking about your god awful plan-“ 

“I’m not,” you squeeze his arm, and he relaxes slightly. The bitter thing becomes easier to breathe through. “Just, what I need to do.”

“That's not nearly goddamn clear enough.” Ben says your name, and his voice is becoming strained. There’s gruff pain to it, like someone is trying to claw out of his airway. “What will you possibly fucking need to do.” 

You can’t answer. Because you don’t know. You don’t know what the plan is, how it could go sideways, what will need to be done. You’re not even certain you know if you’re talking about the mission or not. But you need to be able to do it. Whatever it is that needs to be done, you have to do it. You have to be able to keep Ben here, you have to save Ryan Butcher, you have to kill Homelander, this has to be over. You’re so tired. Whatever needs to be done to just rest, for the world to rest, you need to be able to do. And you can’t let Ben stop you, or hold you back. You can’t let him take all the danger for you, it’s not fair. You love him.

But you can’t say that. So you say, “I don’t know.” No lies. “But I need you to promise me you’ll let me do it.” 

“No, I’m not promising that when I don’t fucking know what-“ 

“That doesn’t matter,” you’re begging now, head shaking frantically between Ben’s hands. You don’t care. He needs to give you this, he needs to understand and promise. “It doesn’t matter what it could mean, Ben. I just, please, I need you to promise, please promise-“ 

He pulls you forward. Back into his chest until the drum of his heart makes breathing easier again. When he speaks, his voice is everywhere. Around your body and making a home in your brain. “It fucking matters. It always fucking matters. I’m not promising something fucking stupid like that.” 

Your hands fist against his shirt, word muffled. “Please. I need, Ben, please.” You’re not crying anymore, you’re trying to climb into him. To keep the safety and everything of Ben around you, even as you push. “I need to help, I need to help, I can’t be useless, I need to help and it needs to matter-“

“Shut up.” Ben has one hand in your hair, one wrapped around your back and resting on your hips. It’s the way he’s holding you so diligently—as if this is his whole purpose, to touch you—and the way his voice and body are wholly devoid of anger, and how it all makes your brain clear to Ben, Ben I love you, that makes you fall silent and let him continue. “You matter. You’re helping more than any other fucking pussy in this damn building. And you are the least useless person I have ever fucking met. So I’m not promising that.”

You pull your head back through sheer force of will, because you need to look at him. Even if it’s painful. “Please.” You could use a favor, you have a few left, but it needs to be Ben that promises. He needs to understand, you need him to mean it. “Please, Ben. I need you-“ a sob wracks your body, and you almost leave the sentence there. You need Ben. You love him. “Promise. Please promise, I need you to promise. Just this,” you tug at his shirt, and your body is smoking. When you pull back his skin is redder, but he hasn’t flinched. Only holding you, only watching you. “Just this one thing. I’ll never ask you for anything again. Please.”

He stiffens. For the most horrid, long moment of your life, you think you’ve shown too much. You think you’ve said the thing you’d promised not to say, found the line you’d been trying to toe so carefully. That keeps him beside you and never wondering why you’re clawing so desperately to do so. You don’t know which part of your pleas were the thing, which part turned your cards around for him to see and which card is going to be the one that makes you lose him-

“Fine.” His words are through gritted teeth, and you can see the tick of his jaw, but he’s nodding once, roughly, and you know you haven’t misheard him. “I promise.” 

His voice is so hollow. You’ve never heard Ben’s voice hollow before, and it’s wrong. “Swear it?” You whisper, because you need him to look less like a statue. You need him to move with a chuckle or a frown or an eye roll. 

You get a small twitch of his mouth. That’s enough. “Fucking swear it.” 

“Thank you,” you breathe. And Ben doesn’t stop or correct you about it. He lets you burrow back into his chest, pulling you up a little farther so he can shift back against the headboard. Your head lies somewhere between his ribs and stomach, arms around his torso, and he just stays there. Real and solid, and you’re no longer sure whose heart is pounding. You just know it’s steady, and that Ben is here. 

He holds you until the sun rises, and well after. You don’t want to move, you can’t move, so Ben just holds you. Holds you until you tug at his arm and ask quietly for coffee. Then he kisses the top of your head and hauls you up from between his legs to against his chest. 

“I’m going to carry you,” he grunts, and you just curl further into him.

When he sets you down on the couch he kisses the top of your head before walking to the kitchen, and you sink into the cushions. You don’t know how long he’s away—away meaning five feet away, shuffling loudly around the kitchen—but only when he returns to the couch, sinking into the spot by your feet, do you realize how cold you’d grown. 

“Thank you,” you mumble as he passes you a mug of coffee. 

“Don’t.” 

You smile softly, staring at the dark liquid in the cup. “Are we doing fire later or-“ 

“You are not fucking training today,” Ben snaps, and you look up to find him glaring at you. “Or doing your stupid brain magic.”

“Brain magic?” Your smile feels a little more real, and you’re not going to fight with him about training or healing. You’ve battled with him over more pointless things, but you’re just so tired. So you’ll just tease him, pushing and pulling with him about nothing.

Ben gives you a flat look. “What would you call it, smartass?” 

“Healing.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

You give a small giggle, and Ben’s whole face is still stoic, still drawn, but there’s less tension along it. “Grumpy old man.” 

“I said shut the fuck up.” 

“Make me.”

The speed at which Ben sets his own mug on the coffee table and climbs over you is truly remarkable. “You know very well,” his voice is gruff, the weight of his hunger crashing through you. “That I am not a fucking old man.”

“Well,” you hum, grinning widely up at him. “Just in terms of chronology, you are an incredibly old man-“ 

It’s amazing how good he is at this. How Ben is so easily capable of dragging you up from the worst pits and holes of your own head and throwing you into this thirst. How fast he can make your mind go from spinning and finding every nook and cranny or your life, your self, that is evil and hopeless, to just singing Ben. Ben, I love you. It’s why you don’t fight back when he falls onto you, his arm around your waist pulling you up into him and his mouth destroying your whole body in the most amazing way. He’s only against your own lips for a second, and the moment you open for him, moaning his name, he’s gone. Biting and sucking along your jaw, and your neck, up to your ear to tug it between his teeth, then down to your collarbone. Going until the sounds rising from your throat aren’t Ben or please or fuck, but only incoherent whines. Then he’s back on your mouth, and you give everything back to him. Your hands in his hair, your legs wrapped around him as you grind up, and your tongue running along his lips. Trying to get him as impossibly close as you can without crossing the line.

You say it. You know somewhere in the haze, your brain still slightly hazy from the pain of the night and your will weakened by all of him, you say it. Ben, I love you. It comes out a high, breathy whimper, but you know that’s what it was supposed to be. You know he doesn’t pick up on it, because nothing in him changes. He doesn’t waver or push further, he just goes the same as he had been. Letting you try and devour him as he does the same. So you moan it again—this one from somewhere deeper in your chest—because you’re allowed to say it like this. You’re allowed to say Ben, I love you, when it’s just another plea for him that he can’t understand the power of. Just like how you’re allowed to try and make him part of you when there’s not a chance he will be.

He hisses your name into your mouth when you yank his hair hard enough for his head to move up. His beard scratches along your cheeks and lips, but it’s Ben, so it’s everything. And he lets you drop down to his neck, lower, biting into his shoulder slightly. You don’t break skin, you’re not that strong, but he groans against your ear as your teeth scrape his skin and that’s enough. It’s more than enough—it’s the whole world—when Ben starts to knead at your skin under his hands, and he’s still making sounds that echo through your blood and bones. It’s everything, when he pushes you further down, down, moving his mouth back to yours and burying you between him and the sofa. Safe. Strong. Real. 

Ben. Ben, I love you. 

He’s hard. You can feel him bumping against your lower thigh, and it makes your moans louder. It makes your legs tighten around him, trying to move him up into you without you telling them to. You find another thing you’d thank Ben for, when he stops this for you. It makes you feel a little empty, but he doesn’t leave. He just drops his lower body down, pinning you to the couch so that you can’t keep bucking up into him. Resting his forehead against yours until your breath is steady, and your brain can manage to control your body.

“Better?” Ben mutters, and you blink up at him. It is better. Everything is better now. 

“Better.” You whisper, and he nods. “If we’re not training today, what-“ 

“I need to clean my shield. We’ve got dinner with the Pussy Brigade. I have to shit. You said we’d watch something called The Mummy a few nights ago. And you have your stupid fucking lunch with Annie and Hughie.” 

You grin at him. “In that order?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he kisses your nose, and you think this might destroy you more than anything else could. How easy this is. To love him, to let his voice move through you and settle your nerves. To let him just touch you all the time in the most simple and boring and mind-numbingly good ways. “Go get dressed, Sunshine.” 

You push up on your forearms, grabbing Ben around his neck and pulling him down to you one last time before he can stand. One longer, gentler kiss, where neither of you are trying to take it further, take it right up to the edge. Just kissing him because you love him, because you can. Because he’s real. 

Ben carries your mugs up into the kitchen, and you climb up the stairs, allowing yourself to turn back and look at him once. The most attractive, stupid man you’ve ever seen in your life. Glaring at the mugs as he dumps the now-cold coffee in the sinks. Turning on the sink to wash them with so much force you’re surprised the knob doesn’t snap off. But still doing it. His handsome scowl and rough movements not stopping him from doing it. You love him. You love Ben so much. It’s everything. There’s been blood on his hands and darkness in his head and life that should be unforgivable, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when he’s become the most dependable, insufferable, important person in your life. Not when you love him like this. Not when you know he’s trying. In his own angry, violent, and sullen way, Ben is trying so hard. You’re not sure why he’s trying, or if he even knows he’s trying, but he is. He’s washing the mugs without you asking, because that’s what he does. Everything for you, without you needing to ever ask. And you’ll never stop loving him for it. 

Annie’s early for lunch today. She collects you around eleven, mentioning that she and Hughie have something planned for the afternoon as Ben opens the door, snapping at her that she's too fucking early. You tell Ben to let it go—you’ll be gone the same amount of time regardless—and he does his angry, half-pouting frown about it but kisses you lightly and sulks upstairs. 

“Something?” You tilt your head at Annie as you walk down the hall. 

“What? 

“You and Hughie have something planned?” You almost nudge her shoulder like you would with Ben but stop yourself. “Did you just not want to tell Ben, or is it-“ 

“My mom.” Annie says softly, staring down the hall. “She agreed to visit last week. Mallory’s bringing her today.” 

“Oh, shit.” You want to hug her. She looks like she needs some sort of comfort. So you give her your most reassuring expression, holding your hands behind your back. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah.” Annie sighs. “I mean, I asked her to come. But I haven’t talked to her since-“ 

“Firecracker.” Something clenches around your heart. Something that is all bones and burnt flesh. 

Something grabs your wrist, and you freeze. Anxiety and tension and exhaustion run through your body—it’s different from your own—and you realize it’s Annie’s. She’s touching you on purpose.

When you look at her, she’s watching you carefully. You blink at her, eyes wide, afraid to move. Afraid to ruin this and make her let go.

“I never thanked you for that,” Annie’s voice wasn’t joyful, but it was lighter. Even as the anxiety tightened around your skull. 

“For what?” 

“Killing that bitch.” She gives you a small, close-lipped smile. “I don’t ever really condone murder, but if anyone deserved it, she did.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” you say before you can stop yourself. You’re not a sadist, this might be a test, maybe Annie’s not really grateful but trying to see if you’re remorseful. “It was an accident.” 

“I know. I’m still thanking you.” 

“Oh.” You swallow, trying not to give the emotions you can feel through Annie’s hand any attention. “You’re welcome.” 

Annie nods, and just before she lets go something like relief spins through her. 

Hughie made pancakes and eggs. Well, Hughie tried to make pancakes and eggs. He burnt the eggs, twice apparently, so now it’s pancakes and a fruit salad. It’s still good—you add honey to the fruit, as well as strawberries and syrup to the pancakes because you’re a masochist and miss Ben—and sit at their dining room table. Annie brings out hot chocolate, and it’s comfortable. Especially after Annie tells Hughie you know about her mom visiting, because any nervous tension dissipates into the air and it’s fully, genuinely comfortable.

All three of you silently agree not to talk about family, because none of you have amazing relationships with your mothers, Hughie’s wound from his father’s death is still open and fresh, and fear still occasionally grips your heart that Homelander will find Violet and use her against you. So, you talk about frivolous things instead. Annie and Hughie want your opinion on a hideous throw pillow Hughie bought. You burn it, and Annie laughs as Hughie sighs, grinning as well. You debate with Hughie about Billy Joel songs, because his love for the man makes him blind to the fact that We Didn’t Start the Fire is just a truly terrible song. You win by pulling out a video of Billy Joel himself echoing your point, and Hughie throws his hands up in mock exasperation. Annie asks you if you need any help buying decorations for your apartment, or continuing to decorate, full stop, given your roommate—she hesitates before labeling Ben, and you don’t blame her in the slightest—not exactly being the most aesthetically oriented man in the world.

“Ben’s actually been shockingly helpful,” you shrug. “He chose the rug in our room, and aggressively vetoed plates with his face on them.” 

Hughie gapes at you. “Plates with his face on them?” 

“Limited Edition Soldier Boy Dining Set, manufactured and sold by Vought International,” you grin, and miss Ben more. This is really becoming a problem, that you get this dopey just thinking about him. “I thought his jaw was going to break.” 

Annie and Hughie exchange a glance, and Annie says slowly, “What, what exactly is going on with you guys?” 

“What do you mean?” You know what she means. You’re just hoping you can get out of this conversation if she’s not willing to say it.

“You live together, you sleep in the same bed,” Annie watches you carefully, and it’s an active effort to hold her gaze. “You kiss-“ 

“Make out,” Hughie corrects. “I’ve never seen two people make out like you two do. And that’s how you make out in front of us.” 

“Well-“ 

“He’s right,” Annie cuts you off. “You make out. And do heart-eyes at each other all the time. But you’re,” she pauses, looking to Hughie for help. 

“Not fucking?” He offers nervously, and Annie nods, turning back to you. 

“You’re making out, but not fucking.” 

You glance between them. “Is that a question?”

“Kinda,” Hughie mumbles. “It’s just confusing to see, if you’re really not fucking.” 

“We’re not.” 

“Okay,” Annie sighs. “But you do get how that’s a lot more confusing, yeah?” 

You tap your fingers on the table, wondering if you do it loud enough Ben will hear and come save you from this conversation. “It’s complicated. We’re just, we’re not fucking.”

“And he’s,” Annie frowns. “He’s not-“ 

“No.” Your voice is a little harsher than it maybe needs to be. But it feels appropriate. Ben wouldn’t do that. “He’s not. I mean,” you bite the inside of your mouth, searching for the words. “I was surprised as well. I still don’t fully understand why he’s not trying to get me to do more. But, I don’t know. He’s not.” 

“I’m not,” Hughie says, so simply for how both you and Annie are looking at him. Like he’s grown a third head. “What?” 

“What are you talking about?” You frown. “You’re not what?” 

“Oh, uh,” Hughie blinks at you. “I’m not, I’m not surprised.”

“Surprised?” 

“It’s like,” Hughie looks at Annie, likely for aid, but her expression is just as befuddled as yours. “It just makes sense to me. I dunno.” 

“What makes sense to you?” You push, because you need to know what he means. What he’s trying to say, in case it’s what you think. 

“I mean, in all this fucked up shit,” Hughie stumbles over his words, rubbing the back of his neck. “You two seem to get each other. In a weird, kinda gross way. I think Soldier Boy would give you the moon if you asked for it.” 

Annie nods cautiously, and suddenly you’re the only one still lost in this conversation. “You’re right, I don’t think he would’ve agreed to that deal with Mallory if it was just like, physical.” 

“Deal with Mallory,” you say, looking between them in jerked, half-controlled movements. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“When we brought him to make the deal with Edgar,” Annie frowns. “And Mallory told him that-“ 

“You don’t know,” Hughie cuts Annie off, scanning over your frown and overly tight posture. “I don’t, I don’t think he told you.”

“Told me what.” Your voice is rising into panic. “What didn’t Ben tell me?”

“Um, I don’t know if it’s our place-“ 

“We agreed to stop pushing you into dangerous positions, like Tek Knight’s club.” Annie’s voice is blunt, but her face remains hesitant. “If he stayed in line.” 

Something cold is freezing your bones. Everything’s a little blurry. It’s a labor to speak. “Or?” 

“Um,” Hughie takes over for Annie, even as he looks at her reluctantly. “He’d go back to sleep? That part wasn’t our idea-“ 

You raise a hand, and Hughie falls silent as you stare ahead into nothing. Everything is becoming sharp, your blood is rushing hot and wild through you, and you’re regaining control over your thoughts. And all of them are circling around the same thing. 

“I need to go,” you stand, pushing the chair back. “Thank you for lunch, and uh, good luck with your mom.” 

Annie calls your name after you, but you’re gone. There will be time for guilt later, and you’ll apologize for your abrupt departure. Right now it’s about the thought in your head, pushing up your throat so violently that you’re yelling it the moment your door slides open, before your even fully through it. 

“Why would you do that?!” You almost scream into the apartment, before you can even see him. “Benjamin, why the fuck would you do that?!” 

He sits up from the couch, just a handsome, stupid head frowning at you. “What the hell is wrong with you?” 

You stalk over to him. “What fuck possessed you to do that? To fucking agree to that?!” 

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking abo-“ 

“Mallory!” You’re screaming now, and he’s standing up, glaring at you. You hold your line, you’ll continue to hold it until he explains. “Why the fuck would you agree to that?” 

Ben’s shouting your name, and if you weren’t so blinded by your anger you’d focus on the strain in his voice. “You need to stop speaking in fucking riddles! What the fucking hell has got you losing your damn mind?” 

“They’re going to put you back under!” You’re hugging into yourself, nails digging your skin. “If you step out of line Mallory and Butcher are going to put you back under!” 

“That was always fucking true-“

“No it wasn’t!” You think you might start to cry. You can’t pull rank. “That was never true! If you stepped out of line I would handle it! I would make the call! That was the whole fucking point! Why didn’t you fucking tell me-“ 

“What the fuck could you have done?!” Ben snaps, and you can see his fists clench as he marches around the couch to tower above you. “It wasn’t a fucking secret! And I wasn’t going to step out of their stupid goddamn line-“ 

“But why would you do that?” You scream, refusing to touch him, even to shove him. If you touch him you’ll crumble. “Why would you agree to let them threaten that just to keep me away from stupid fucking shit that doesn’t matter?” 

“It matters more than anything.” He growls. “Stop fucking saying that it doesn’t.” 

“No, it really doesn’t!” You feel so small. You’re caving in, shattering in a way that’s worse than when he didn’t care, when this was about trust and not about losing him. Ben being taken away from you. “I’m fine! You didn’t need to do that!”

“That’s real fucking easy for you to say, Sunshine!” Ben roars. “You don’t have to fucking watch you break. Again and again over the worst fucking plans in the world when those fucking pussies throw you to the goddamn wolves and in front of their shitty fucking trains! I have to! I’m the one that has to watch you be fucking afraid!” 

“But why would you do that,” you’re definitely crying now. But you keep screaming, even as your voice becomes raw. “I’m always fine-“ 

“Because it fucking kills me! You are fucking everything to me, and every time you break its the worst thing I’ve never fucking seen!” You don’t think your heart is beating anymore, not as his voice grows louder. “Because I can never just fucking fix it, and you always break. And I mean it more than you can possibly fucking imagine when I say that I will do whatever it fucking takes to keep you safe! I’d rather go back to Russia right fucking now than just stand aside like a fucking pussy and let you keep breaking!” 

Ben’s face contorts, and you think he’s only just realized what he’s said. What it means. But he doesn’t take it back, doesn’t walk away, and you won’t pull rank. 

“Do you think,” you hiss through tears, fear building and morphing into some sort of love-born fury. “That it wouldn’t fucking destroy me if you went back under? That I wouldn’t do fucking anything to get you back to me?”

“That’s not fucking the same.” 

You almost laugh. “It’s the exact same-“ 

“No, it’s not.” 

“I adore you, Benjamin!” you scream. “Every good, and bad, and ugly part of you, I fucking adore you.” His whole body stills, and you keep going. You say everything but the thing. “And I made a promise as well. I might not be going back to Homelander, but you aren’t going back under. You’re not burning without me right there, by your side. It is the exact fucking same, because you are fucking everything to me!” You take a deep breath, trying to bring yourself down as your words become pleading. “There are so many beautiful things in the world, but I’d destroy them all to keep you awake. To keep you here. So don’t say it’s not the exact fucking same.” 

You can feel him. You’re not touching him—you're still trying to cave into your own body—but as the last words hang in the air you can feel Ben. This is hunger, not thirst. This is something rioting around and clawing out of your chest, not the love that’s resting for him in your head. This is Ben, not you.

This is Ben and you. Together. He’s not leaving. You’re not leaving. You’re everything to him and he’s everything to you. 

Ben. Ben, I love you. 

You almost say it. You’re seconds from saying it. It’s going to fall out of you and the only way to stop it is Ben. And you lunge at him just a fraction of a second before it’s too late. 

He catches you. He always catches you. And when you slam your lips into his, he doesn’t hesitate. 

This is different. This kiss is different. You can’t distinguish Ben from you anymore. Touching him has completely razed whatever remainder of a line existed, and now it’s just us. It’s you and Ben inside your body, even if everything around you is Ben. Kissing you with his tongue and teeth, pulling your lip into his mouth, making deep sounds from his throat that make you grind against his muscled torso. Sounds spurred by your hands pushing him further into you by his jaw—his beard rough against your fingers—and pulling at his shirt until the only space between your bodies is two thin stretches of fabric. One of his arms was secured below your thighs, holding you up with a hand on your ass, squeezing and making you moan into his mouth. The other is holding you under your own arm with a hand on the back of your neck, fingers pulling light at your hair. Touching you with a reverence. Always with a reverence, a furious care that makes you feel safe. Always with an attentive fire and ardor running through your blood. Ben’s blood. Someone’s blood who you can taste on your teeth because you think you might have bitten his tongue slightly, but Ben didn’t pull back or flinch so now there’s a slightly metal flavor that mixes and fades with Ben. Salt and coffee and strawberries and Ben.

You need more.

Whatever he’ll give you. You’ll take it. You’ll take every single part of Ben he’s capable of offering and plant them in you, grow them and tend to them until he pulls them out so that the roots remain. You need him. You love him.

“Ben-“ 

“All the way?” His words roll through your body, down and into your core. 

You only whine into him, and suddenly he’s moving. Walking backwards, mouth never leaving yours. Holding you tight enough that you can’t continue to rub against him, looking for friction. You’re desperate for it, the sounds escaping you growing louder and louder as his steps offer you something, and then giving a needy, long moan when you manage to adjust just enough to bump against his cock. Still in his pants, hard and long. Then Ben spins, slamming you between his body and the wall, hoisting you up by his hold on your ass and thighs so your faces are level. At some point you’d begun to scrape at his back, and he chuckles as you start to grind against him once more.

Ben’s holding your face firmly, angling you for his mouth to devour yours, grinning against your lips. 

“What do you want, beautiful.” 

You run your nail back up between his shoulders, unable to break skin but trying to sink into him. “Please.“ 

“Please what,” even as he teases you, Ben’s never separating from you. You’re not sure how either of you are breathing, whether the lightheaded feeling is from Ben or just lack of oxygen. If it’s the way all your air is trading between your lungs and Ben’s, or the way he’s started to rut up into you. “Whatever you want, I’ll give you. But you have to use your words.” 

“Ben, just-” 

His head drops down to your neck, finding the one soft spot that makes you whimper and focusing all his efforts on it until your grip on his hair is tight, your sounds a string of pleas. Then he moves up, right to your ear. “Beg. Say my name and beg and I’ll give you the fucking world.”

“Ben,” You look down at him, and you don’t think anything could’ve prepared you for what you see. He’s staring at you, and every part of his face is alive. His lips are parted, and his eyes are almost black, and he’s relaxed. Full of lust and hunger but so completely at ease in every feature of his handsome face. “Please.” 

“Please what.” 

“Fuck me.” 

A low growl escapes him, and his cock twitches against your thigh, but he still doesn’t move. “Whole thing.” 

“Benjamin,” You grind back against him. “Fuck me now.” 

That snaps something in him. Ben’s mouth crashes back into yours, and he doesn’t even have to push before you’re opening for him. Nipping at his upper lip, letting him take whatever he asks for. Anything that keeps him doing this, dropping a hand down and back up through your shirt. Ben’s hand is dropping down and back up through your shirt. Squeezing your breast once, then—when you make a high sound—leaning away from your mouth and doing it again. Then once more, running his thumb over your nipple slowly, so focused you’d think he’s doing surgery. 

He looks back up at you, watching him, breathing heavily with a little bit of droll falling from your mouth. “You like that?”

You nod, head pushing back against the wall when he does it again. “Ben, you ass-“ 

“That’s not very fucking nice, Sunshine.” He leans forward, pushing you further into the wall and bringing his lips just over yours, moving back every time you try to bring him closer. “Manners.” 

“Fuck you,” the moan from your mouth is captured by his, sucking it down with another whine into him. “Ben-“ 

“You never begged,” he says your name against your mouth, moving against your breast once more. “Fucking beg.”

“Cunt-“ 

“I’ll get there.” He chuckles as you buck into his chest. “But you have to tell me that you want this.” 

Somewhere in the daze of Ben’s hands and his mouth and the power of him, your love for him somehow grows again. Becomes something purer and more sweet than it had been. 

Ben, I love you. “I want this,” you breathe. “I want you.” 

He grunts, and he twists your nipple between his thumb and forefinger once before starting to run his hand slowly and lightly down your stomach.

“Ben, please-“ 

Your words become a strangled whine when Ben bites your lower lip gently at the same time his hand drops into your shorts. Palm pressing against the ache through your underwear. 

“Ben-“ He starts to rub in circles, fingers dancing lightly against your slit through the fabric. “Fuck-“ 

“You have too much clothes,” he mutters, and you moan. 

“Too many-“ He pulls his mouth away, and you bury your head into his shoulder. “Ben-“ 

“Fucking smartass,” you can hear the smile on his voice, feel the amusement running up his spine and colliding with whatever is bouncing around his ribs. “You want me to fuck you?” 

“Yes, you asshole-“ 

Ben kisses you again, and your protests turn into a long noise of want. He chews at your lip for a second before moving away once more. “I’m taking off your shorts. I can do it fast or careful. You don’t get both.” 

“Please-“ 

He presses his hips back with a groan, forcing you to stop grinding. “Words.” 

“Fast-“ 

The choice had barely left your mouth when Ben was ripping them off your body. Tossing them on the floor without a thought before looking back up at you. Raising his brows in a silent question as his hand rested between your thighs, over your underwear. 

“Yes,” your nods are frantic, bordering on pathetic. But he’s so close. “Ben, please.” 

He runs his hand over you once, still not just doing it. “So fucking wet, just through the damn fabric.” he smirks at you. “All for me, brat?” 

You whimper, trying to drop all of your weight into Ben’s hand as you clench around nothing. He knew what that word would do, there’s no way he didn’t. Not with his smug expression and the way he won’t let you bring his lips back to yours. “Cunt-“

“Answer my damn question,” he growls your name. “Or I’m not fucking you.”

It’s a bluff. You know it’s a bluff because you can feel how vast and insatiable his hunger is. You know it’s a bluff because, as good as a liar Ben is, he’s rock hard against you and keeps bucking up when you kiss his neck. You don’t call it though. You just meet his eyes and hiss, “It’s for you, Ben. Now are you going to fucking do something about it?”

You see Ben’s grin for only a second before his mouth is pushing your head against the wall with the force of his kiss. You feel him tear off your underwear in one, fluid movement, and the cold of the air has barely hit you before his hand is back. And everything is just Ben. 

He’s teasing you. The base of his palm is bumping against your clit, but never for more than a second. His fingers are running between you, over you but never in. You’re going to kill him. You’re going to wipe that smug and cocky grin you can feel against you off his perfect, handsome stupid face- 

“You think I can make you cum just like this?” Ben hums against your lips, pulling his head back just a fraction. “Without even properly fucking touching you?”

“Fuck you, Benjamin.“ 

“I know you want that,” he drawls your name, rolling his palm one firm time, and your hands start to scratch across his neck and shoulders. “But you need to tell me if you think I can make you cum on just my fucking fingers.” 

“Cunt.” 

“That’s what I’m asking. Do you think I can make your pretty cunt cum here, without even fucking you like you deserve?” 

“Like I-“ Ben pushes one finger in ever so slightly, and stills it completely. You take a long breath. “Fucking dick. Like I deserve?” 

His lips bruise against yours, and his palm fully presses against your clit. Rubbing once, twice, fingers still not moving. “Like the beautiful fucking brat you are. Until all your fancy words are just my name and you’re so fucked out you couldn’t even think to be worried about dumb fucking shit. Until you’re fucking stupid.” 

His finger sinks all the way in, and you press your forehead against his, arms fully wrapping around his neck. “Do that.” 

“Fucking words, Sunshine.” He growls, pulling out slowly, and you shake your head desperately against his. 

“Ben, please-“ 

His finger pushes back in, fast, and you don’t know if you moan or scream or whine because Ben is eating any sounds that leave your mouth. Moving his finger faster and faster until you’re trying to chase it when he pulls away, his deep groan rumbling through you when your thighs brush against his cock, still in his pants because life is unfair. 

“That’s more fucking like it,” he grunts, moving his head down in sloppy kisses to your neck. “Want some fucking more, beautiful?” 

“Fuck, yes-“ 

He latches onto your neck—sucking in a way that would leave a mark if either of you were capable of being marked—and just as the second finger pushes in his palm finds a pattern. A steady rhythm that turns whatever remaining sanity you had into just Ben. Ben, I love you. You impossible asshole, you’re everything in the fucking world. Ben. 

He’s not letting you over the edge. Every time you get close he slows just enough and rises back to your mouth. You might have been here for a lifetime, or just a millisecond, but it’s all just Ben. Hissing your name against your skin and making everything just good. This is so good. Why did you deny yourself this? Why did you ever deny yourself Ben when he’s making everything so good like this. So warm and easy and so fucking good. 

“You're so fucking tight,” he hisses in your ear, and you try and tug him closer by your legs. Try and make his dick just brush against you. “Think you can do three?” 

You cannot do three. You think three might kill you in the best possible way. Ben’s huge, his hands are rough and broad like every other insufferable, amazing part of him, so three would make you explode. But he’s watching you with so much hunger, so much adoration as you pant and whimper his name, and he’s still not just fucking you, so three will have to be a suitable substitute until he stops toying with you. You nod, and he chuckles against your skin.

“What did we say about words-“ 

“Just fucking do it, Benjamin, now-“ 

You are going to die. This love for him is going to kill you, and the murder weapon will be the way he’s finding every single thing that makes you scream his name like he’s been studying for it. How his fingers get so deep in you and find that spongy, electric part every single time he plunges back in. Crooking against it for just long enough to make you moan before yanking his hands back down and pressing his palm against your clit until you're keening, before repeating in all again. You’re going to turn into just flames that sing the same song of Ben over and over.

“Want to fucking cum?” He mutters against your lips, and you whine again, high and needy and barely a breath. 

“Ben, yes-“ 

“Beg.”

“Asshole-“ you choke on your own words, because he’s going faster, it’s all going faster, and you can’t think of anything outside of Ben. Ben, I love you. 

“Fucking beg.” His words echo through your body, and you’re vaguely aware of smoke rising around you. But he’s not stopping, if anything there’s a vigor to him now. A brutal, rough pace that’s just one move away from making you find release. A move he won’t make until you ask for it. 

Dignity is overrated. Dignity is for people who don’t have Ben making them feel like the whole world is just him, touching them like he’s touching you and groaning their name like he’s growling yours. 

“Please, Ben, please.” You make yourself look at him fully, hungry and cocky and watching you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen and he’s so handsome and stupid and Ben and you love him- “Fucking please-“

Any sounds or screams or moans of Ben are captured in his mouth when he presses you so far back against the wall with a kiss you think you hear it crack. When he twists his fingers in you and his palm draws one long, heavy circle over your clit and everything is reborn inside you. It’s just Ben, Ben, fire and life and love and Ben. Your orgasm hits you like a train, your vision going white and your hands trying to pull Ben further against your body. He’s still in you, fingers resting inside you as you clench around him, palm rubbing slowly against you until you fall back to earth, back to him. 

You blink at him, mouth hanging open and all of your mind and body completely made of love and need for him. Everything is full of Ben. There’s a thick cloud of smoke through the room, but he’s so close it doesn’t matter. You can see him, his jaw clenched and nostrils flaring. His whole face is made of—if you know anything about him, and you do—devotion. Ben pulls his fingers out of you slowly—never breaking his gaze from yours—leaving you empty and sensitive and trying not to just start grinding against where you can still feel him, somehow harder in his pants. Then his fingers rise into his mouth, and he sucks on the wetness still falling off of them, and any attempt at control is gone. His gaze is lidded as he tastes you, and you start trying to pull him down to you with scrambling movements against his neck. 

He doesn’t budge, only grinning at you as you whine again. “Fucking needy, beautiful.” He brings two fingers—the same ones that had just been in his mouth—to brush against your mouth. Pressing them lightly until your lips part. “Taste.” 

You let him push his thumb into you, and you become a woman on a mission. Sucking and licking at his fingers until you can feel him twitching against your thighs, going with a fervor until he’s groaning and pulling them away with a pop. When you lean forward to kiss him gently he lets you, taking every moan you give him with a squeeze of your skin under his hand and a trace of your cheekbones with his fingers. 

When he rests his head against your shoulder, you’re both breathing heavily and Ben’s words are hissed against your skin. 

“I’m going to fuck you for a whole year,” he grunts your name, rutting up against you. “And I’m going to make you fucking scream and beg for two.” 

You’ve never been more on board with a plan in your life. You’re going to tell him. You shouldn’t, not when it might make this go away, not when you just got this, but you want to. You want him to know that when he fucks you for a year the only thing you’ll be thinking is Ben. Ben, I love you. You want to be able to moan it into his mouth and against his skin and around his cock and scream it when he makes you cum, in a way that he can hear and know about.

Your mouth falls open, your hand moving to his face to pull him up to look at you, and the door to the apartment bangs open.

Ben’s faster than you, but in your defense most of your thoughts and instincts are being covered by the daze of your orgasm. He doesn’t drop you or turn you, but slides you down his chest and twists you around so your arms are wrapped on his torso, your feet back on the ground. When he whips around you realize he’s blocking your half-naked body from view, keeping you secure against him with a hand on your forearm. Stupid, handsome, perfect, safe fucking man. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ben barks, and you lean around him to see Butcher in the doorway, smirking at the scene before him. 

“Well, Gov,” Butcher drawls. “I was coming to congratulate you on your awful fuckin plan working, let you know Edgar delivered, but now,” he winks at you. “I’m just chock full of other questions.” 

“How did you get in?” You ask with a frown. “Only I have a keycard.”

“Mallory unlocked all you cunts doors for me,” Butcher shrugs. “We got a meetin, I’ve been sent to collect you since you weren’t answering your fuckin phone.” 

You flush, because your phone is indeed long forgotten somewhere near the couch. “Can we have five, please?” 

“What, only five?” Butcher’s mocking smile turns to Ben. “You that fast, gov? Because I can give you ten if you wanna take care of your,” his eyes flick down. “Problem.” 

You can feel Ben’s anger, and tighten your grip around him until he looks at you. Don’t kill him, please. 

Why the fuck shouldn’t I. 

You give him a small smile. Murder is a crime. Also, it’ll ruin the mood. 

Whatever, Ben rolls his eyes, but you can see the tug of his lips, feel the amusement dart through him. 

“You two done?” Butcher snaps, and you both look back to him with frowns. “Care to have an out-loud conversation, share with the fuckin class?” 

“No.” You give him a sickly sweet smile. “Are we meeting in the cafeteria?” 

Butcher nods with a grunt, and you sigh. 

“Can you please leave so I can get dressed?” 

“I’m waitin outside, and if you two horny twats aren’t outside by then I’m coming back in.” 

“Fine. Go.” 

Butcher slams the door behind him, and you squeeze out from behind Ben to start to run upstairs and put on clothing that isn’t completely destroyed. You pause though, doubling back to Ben and pulling his face down for one last, long kiss. 

“We’ll fuck later,” you whisper against his lips, and he grunts. “Thank you.” 

You yelp as Ben picks you up, carrying you up the stairs in long, quick steps. “Stop fucking thanking me.” 

You smile at him, all teeth and joy because you fucking love him. “Make me.” 

“Brat,” he snorts, kissing you again as he lowers you onto the bed. “Keep it up and I won’t let you cum again.” 

“You don’t let me do anything.” 

“You’re real fucking sure of that,” he taunts, marching over to the dresser to toss you a new pair of underwear and sweats. “But you sure were goddamn begging me less than ten minutes ago.”

“Cunt,” you mumble, catching the clothes. You don’t have a good comeback, because your brain is still a little addled, and you can see that Ben’s still hard, and nothing about his deep voice and word is making you less horny. 

“You love it.” He stops above you again, watching with heavy eyes as you pull the clothing on.

I do. I love you, dumbass. “Shut the fuck up.” 

Ben laughs, pulling you up the moment you’re dressed. “Later. Later we can shut each other up as hard as fucking possible.” 

“Deal,” you whisper, because he’s holding you so lightly and close to his body and it’s not helping. “Ben?” 

He raises his brows at you, a small frown on his face. You think he can hear the nerves in your voice. “What.” 

“Edgar-“

“We’ll make it work.” He says firmly. “Whatever it is, whatever stupid shit Mallory and Butcher are planning, we’ll make it fucking work for us.” 

“You promised-“ 

“And that won’t fucking matter, because we’ll make it work.” 

“Ben,” you squeeze his hand, tangling his fingers between yours. You feel him everywhere now, all the time—the clenching in his chest and around this throat and the sour taste of it—and that might be something to worry about later. But for now you just want to touch him. “Please. Just say you promise.” 

He sighs, jaw ticking, but nods. “I swore it. I meant it. But that doesn’t fucking mean-“ 

You kiss him, and every part of his body falls into yours as the grip against your hands loosens. When you pull away, smiling at him, he’s looking at you with that same devotion. “Thank you.” 

Ben grunts, slinging his arm around you as you walk back downstairs. Kissing the top of your head once, and this is right. This is you and Ben and it’s right. It’s everything, and he’s yours. You love him more than you’ve ever loved anything and now, for whatever amount of time he’ll give you, you’re his.

—————

Ben had learned there was a hierarchy in the promises he made Her. There weren’t many—neither of them threw around those words with ease or carelessness—but his promises of staying here and no more lies were secondary to keeping her away from Homelander. There was nothing as fucking important in the world, and that meant that Ben would let Her do what she needed to do—like he’d promised—but not if it meant she went back to Homelander. He’d have done anything to keep Her safe before, he’d have gone back under if it meant she’d be free, and now Ben was fucking certain he’d goddamn die before he lost Her like that. If he had any fucking say in anything at all, nothing was ever going to break Her again. If she tried to throw herself in front of him to take whatever bullets Homelander or Mallory were aiming at them, Ben would be faster. He’d move to let them hit him first. 

He’d let Butcher hit him with a goddamn bomb to keep Her safe. Because She was fucking perfect, and Ben wasn’t going to allow anything to hurt her again. She was leaning into him as they walked to the dining hall, and Ben might have to take a detour to the bathroom to get himself under fucking control if She kept tugging and tapping at his hand around her shoulder. Her hair was still messy, and her lips were still a little red, and Ben could still fucking taste her, lingering in his mouth. And that was his shirt. She was wearing his fucking shirt, and holding his hand that had just been inside her, and chewing the inside of her mouth that had just been screaming his name. The Thing didn’t need to tell Ben She was perfect. He had fucking eyes, and a fucking brain. And a very hard dick that was becoming slightly painful, straining against his pants for Her. For Her beautiful face and the perfect sounds she’d made when she came. On his hand.

Ben didn’t have to hold himself back anymore. He didn’t have to keep waiting until She was keening against him and moaning his name before ripping himself away from her. Before he came in his jeans from just the feel and taste of Her mouth like a fucking teenager. He could fuck Her, she’d let him fuck her, and he was going to. Ben was going to fuck Her so hard and good that she might stay with him and keep looking at him forever. He was going to make Her cum until she said Ben, I adore you again. Until She told him she wanted him again.

That had made the Thing roar inside of him. Her perfect, breathless, needy voice telling him she wanted him. Nothing could take that away from him now. She fucking wanted him. People had wanted him before. Countless forgotten pretty faces had wanted Ben. But none of them had been perfect. And none of them had said it like She had. They had wanted the power of him, they had wanted Ben to fuck them and give them more than he cared to. All those pretty faces had wanted to be the one’s on billboards and red carpets with him, to fuck Soldier Boy and be a good enough fuck that he decided to keep them. When She said he wanted him, it wasn’t just to fuck her. There had been something that made the Thing climb into Ben’s brain and consume him in Her voice. 

She wanted him. She wanted every part of him. She had every part of him, She’d had it for what felt like a lifetime, and he’d never have taken it away from her. When She one day left Ben, she’d take every part of him that was worth a fucking thing with Her. And no one else would ever get to have him, not like She did. Not like he was going to give Her. Ben was going to fucking worship every perfect part of Her, until he could maybe ask her to stay with him and there was a single goddamn chance She might say yes. 

Every member of the Pussy Brigade looked up when they entered the Dining Hall. Butcher had marched in brisk, pissy fucking steps ahead of Her and Ben, and apparently hadn’t been just bitching when he’d grumbled that everyone was just waiting on them. 

“Is everything okay?” Starlight was watching Her, under Ben’s arm, nervously. “You weren’t answering your phone-“ 

“The cunts were fucking,” Butcher snapped, stopping next to Mallory at the head of the table. “In the middle of the goddamn room.” 

Ben bit his tongue, because She has to handle this. He needed to hear what She told her pussy fucking team, so he could figure out what she wanted from him. 

“It’s our apartment, you ass,” She glared at Butcher. “It’s not like we were in the hallway.” 

“So you admit you were fucking, Love?” 

“Not yet.” She shrugged. “Some dickwad fucking cunt interrupted us.” 

“But,” Cocksucker looked between them nervously, not fully meeting Ben’s eyes. “You were going to fuck?” 

She sighed. “This really doesn’t feel like an important conversation to have right now.” 

“It’s not,” MM grunted. “I’m already gonna to need to wash out my fucking ears. Any more and I’m going to have to cut them off.” 

Ben disagreed. He thought they all needed to fucking know, that this was the only conversation worth having right now. Ever. She wanted him, and every single pussy fucker in the world should know that. But She shot him a small look, important meeting, don’t be a fucking idiot, Pretty Boy. And Ben let Her pull him onto the bench. 

Later, he’d fuck Her until she screamed so loud everyone could hear it, hear his name and Her moans falling out of her perfect mouth. 

“Can we get started?” Mallory stood—arms crossed with a thin scowl—at the head of the table. “Or do you need another ten minutes to discuss your sex lives?” 

“Jesus, no.” MM snapped. “Just fuckin talk, Grace.” 

“Stan Edgar sent files over to me last night, and we’ve just finished clearing them for use,” Mallory launched into her explanation with the most monotone, boring voice Ben had ever fucking heard. “Butcher and I have been working on a plan-“ 

“What are the files?” Starlight asked, raising her hand like a damn child. “Will they work?” 

“They’ll work a fuckin charm,” Butcher winked. “They’re everything we could’ve bloody asked for, times two. Keep goin, Grace.” 

Ben felt Her relax slightly against him, along with Butcher’s eyes on them both. Cold, tense, but not mocking. For once in his goddamn life, the pussy seemed to have some sort of mind to not be an instigating piece of shit, and he was better for it. Ben would’ve thrown a stray plastic fork into Butcher’s eyes and ripped off his dick if the asshole had said even a single fucking detail of Edgar’s files. A single detail about Her. 

“Thanks to Marvin,” Grace gave MM a small nod. “A-Train has agreed to clear a path for us into Vought tower. We’ll ensure Homelander is away, dealing with something else, and retrieve Ryan Butcher.”

Ben could hear the tapping begin, and covered Her hand with his. 

She looked up at him with a frown, What’s wrong? 

This is going to fucking work. Ben held Her gaze. You’re going to be fine. 

She smiled at him, and every time she did it like that—gentle and comfortable—the Thing doubled in size. I know. 

“How are you going to get Homelander away?” Cocksucker asked with an anxious frown. “I mean, this might not be quick and if he arrives back at the tower-“ 

“Frenchie,” Butcher nodded at the French Prick. “Will be causing a diversion.” 

“By diversion,” Starlight said slowly. “You mean-“ 

“A massive, glorious fucking explosion.” The French Prick grinned. “It will be impossible for the Homelander to ignore.” 

“No.” Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw Her lean forward across the table, shaking her head. Why the hell was she talking. Why could Ben hear her damn thinking. What the fuck was she planning- 

“No?” Mallory asked, looking at her with slight curiosity. Saying Her last name in clipped words. “Please elaborate.” 

“He’s on alert, right?” She looked around the table. “After Neuman, he won’t just fall for something like that. Especially not with Sage whispering actual coherent thoughts in his ear.” 

“Maybe,” Mallory nodded, still looking at Her. Ben needed Mallory to stop looking at her like that. Like she was a fucking toy. “But it’s our best bet, and we’ve already lost too much time to waiting for Edgar.” 

“I have an idea-“ 

“No,” Ben cut Her off with a grunt. He knew what type of ideas She always had. Mallory and Butcher always knew what type of ideas she had. Genius, stupid fucking ideas that always worked—so everyone went along with them—and always put her in the line of fire. 

“No?” She glared at him. “What do you mean no?” 

“You lost your idea privileges a while ago, Sunshine.” Ben snapped. “So no.” 

“Oh, fuck you Benjamin.” She kicked him under the table and looked back at Mallory. “Ignore him. I have an idea.” 

Ben gave Mallory his most menacing, violent scowl that the woman knew signaled he wanted to kill someone. But she ignored him, giving Her a nod. “Go on.” 

“He’s looking for me. Let’s show him what he wants.” She took a deep breath, and every fiber of Ben, from the Thing to his brain, was telling him to shut Her up now. Before she said what he knew she was going to. “Let’s show him me.” 

The room was silent, and blood was roaring in Ben’s ears. He glared around at the Pussy Brigade daring any one of them to speak. 

MM was the idiot who volunteered for Ben to kill him first. 

“The hell you mean show him you,” MM said Her name slowly, and the fact that he didn’t seem to be agreeing to it was the only thing that kept Ben rigid in his seat. 

“Bait,” She answered, quiet and soft and Ben was going to kill someone- “Offer him me. Draw him out to a fight to get me. He’ll go, and he’ll leave Ryan behind. He didn’t want Ryan to meet me until I was-“ She made a small choking sound, and that was it. 

“No.” Ben said firmly, daring anyone to fucking disagree with him. “There’s not a chance in fucking hell you’re doing that.” 

“You’d go with me,” She looked at him with wide, sharp, desperate eyes. “Please, Ben. It would work.” 

“Doesn’t fucking matter if it would work. They,” Ben jabbed a finger at Butcher and Mallory. “Swore you weren’t doing stupid fucking dangerous shit anymore.” 

“We did promise him that,” Starlight says Her name gently. “Promised you. That’s, doing that’s too far. Too risky.” 

“It would work,” She was pleading, and if Ben didn’t know better he’d think she fucking wanted to die. “You wouldn’t be giving me to him. We’d escape. We’d go in public, Homelander would see it, we’d keep him there until Ryan was out, and then we would escape.” 

“How?” MM frowned at Her. “The motherfuckers got X-ray vision and super speed. He won’t just lose you in a crowd.” 

“He won’t lose us. We’ll,” She paused, fingers tapping under Ben's hands. “We’ll call him. We won’t go in public, for a fight, that was dumb. We’ll call him, tell him I want to meet him, play right into his fantasy. Annie and Hughie will come with us, because he can’t kill either of them without ruining the narrative. We’ll keep him there until Ryan’s out, then Frenchie will do the explosion. We’ll play it off as a mistake, bad timing, and he’ll go to investigate. By the time he realizes what’s happened, we’ll be gone."

“That’s still a dumb fucking plan,” Ben growled Her name. “What if he doesn’t go. What if he tries to fucking take you.” 

She looked at him, Her beautiful face so sad and determined. “He won’t.” I won’t let him. You won’t let him. 

“It’s a good idea,” Mallory mused. “Where would you meet him?” 

“Old Starlight Fund,” She turned back to the group. “Ben will call him. He’ll take a call from Ben. And then I’ll take the phone and tell him I convinced you to let me see him.” She looked fucking sick—her heartbeat panicked in her chest—and it made the Thing twist inside of Ben. Made Ben sick. “But that you won’t let me meet with him without you there.” 

“The Starlight Fund was where they wanted that first meeting,” MM said to Mallory. “And it’s right fuckin across from the tower. He won’t think we’re trying anything in his backyard.” 

“We’ll vote-“ 

“No!” Ben almost roared. “You fucking pussies goddamn swore-“ 

“Ben,” Her voice was gentle, too fucking gentle. To perfect and kind for this goddamn fucking bullshit, for how fast her heart was inside her. Trust me. Her face pleaded. Just please trust me. 

This is fucking insane, Ben glared at Her. Even for you, this is a fucking stupid, insane plan. 

You promised. She flipped her hand under his, folding her finger between his. You promised me you’d let me do what I needed to. 

You don’t fucking need to do this. 

Yes, She gave him a small smile. I do, Ben. You know that. Please. 

Ben cursed himself in every vulgar, lewd and angry way he knew. “Fine.” He grunted aloud. “But if anything,” he hissed around the table. “Goes fucking south-“ 

“It won’t, Gov.” Butcher winked at him, but there wasn’t anything crude or sneering in his voice. “We’ll get you both home in time for a nice fuckin dinner and dessert.” 

Mallory sighed. “Ready to vote?” After several nods from around the table, she continued. “All in favor?” 

Her hand shot up just as fast as Butcher’s, Kimiko’s close behind them and the French Prick’s right after. For one long second, Ben watched MM frown at Her. Studying Her, before looking at Ben and narrowing his eyes. He looked back at her—hand high in the air and feature determined—and MM’s hand went up. Five fucking idiots in favor. 

“All against?” 

Ben raised his hand, and She glared at him. Benjamin-

I won’t fucking stop you, Ben glared right back. But I’m not in any form of goddamn favor for this shit. 

She sighed, and Ben glanced around the table to see Cocksucker and Starlight both raising their hands with him. Three people who seemed to give a single shit about Her. 

Too fucking little to stop this. 

“Alright,” Mallory nodded. “We’ll move tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” Hughie blinked. “Don’t you, uh, need to plan-“ 

“We wasted too much fuckin time, Lad.” Butcher shrugged. “A-Train’s ready, we move tomorrow.” 

“Are we fucking done here?” Ben grunted, and barely saw Mallory’s nod before he was standing, hauling Her up with him, and marching out of the door. He heard her call some goodbyes—running after him with Her heartbeat unsteady—and pulling Ben’s arm until he slowed down. 

“Are you mad at me?” She whispered, and he shook his head. He wasn’t, he was furious with himself. For being a weak fucking pussy who was allowing this to happen. 

Nothing’s going to hurt Her, he reminded himself, reminded the Thing to try stopping it from tearing his tissues and guts apart. No fucking thing is allowed to hurt Her. I’ll be there. If it comes to it, I’ll do whatever it fucking takes to keep Homelander away from Her. Even if she hates me for it. 

“Then can you look at me?” She pleaded, and Ben couldn’t help himself. He glared down at Her, and felt a twist in his stomach at the desperation in Her eyes. “I’m sorry-“ 

“Don’t,” he snapped. The only thing worse than Her being sad and weak and broken was Her apologizing. Thinking she was a problem for him, and not the most perfect thing in the fucking world. “I’m not fucking mad, Sunshine. I’m just-“ He ground his teeth, pushing the words out between them. “I fucking hate this.” 

“I know you do,” She took a small step forward. “But it’ll be fine. I promise.” 

It would be fine. Because Ben wasn’t going to allow it not to be. So he just picked Her up into his arms—if She kept moving so hesitantly and tentatively around him he’d fucking explode—and carried her down the hall. She didn’t push against him or protest, only wrapped Her arms around his neck as Her heartbeat slowed. 

“Ben?” She asked, voice muffled by where she’d pressed into his shoulder, her warm breath fanning against his skin. 

“What.” He glanced down at Her—perfect face turning up to him—and the Thing clenched inside him at her nervous expression. “Are you-“ 

“I’m okay,” She shook her head slightly and Ben grunted, unable to hide his stupid relief. “I, um,” She swallowed. “Do you-“ 

“Spit it out,” he muttered, hunching slightly so She could scan the badge. She’d needed that—needed not lose Herself in a spiral of her too quick head—because she nodded, fingers scratching light against the nape Ben’s neck. She took a deep breath, and Ben turned to push the door with his back. 

“Do you still want me?” 

She was the smartest fucking person Ben had ever met. She was a goddamn genius, it was insufferable and impossibly fucking hot how smart she was. How clever she was, how well she understood other people. Which is why Ben snorted aloud, because for the brilliant woman she was that was such a stupid fucking question. 

“Ben-“ 

“Of course I still fucking want you,” Ben scoffed, walking up the stairs. “You have no fucking idea how much I want you. I’ve wanted you through a lot of your stupid plans, another one isn’t going to make me stop fucking wanting you.” 

Nothing could make me stop wanting you, Ben’s head hummed in time with the Thing. If I ever stop wanting you, it’s because I’m fucking dead. 

“Oh,” She mumbled, and Ben wished She would just look at him so he could figure out what she was thinking. “Good. Is that why-“ 

“I’m not fucking you,” Ben drawled Her name as he pushed open the door to their bedroom. “Not tonight.”

“Okay,” Ben glanced down to find the saddest look he’d ever witnessed on Her face. If the Thing wasn’t fucking whining at the sight of it, he might have been smug about her looking so morose at the idea of not fucking him. “That’s fine.” 

“I’m not fucking you,” Ben grabbed her chin, gently with a firm hand. To make Her look at him. “Because I want to take time when I fuck you. I want to make you scream and make it hurt when you sit down. And you need to be able to walk with full damn mobility tomorrow. So later. When I can keep you in bed for a decade without anyone fucking interrupting.” 

Her heart sped up, and Ben smirked at her. “You started with a week,” She told him, even as she leaned into his hand. “Then it became a year. Now a decade?”

Ben winked. “If you want a century, just fucking ask, beautiful.” 

“Cunt.” 

“Brat.” 

She looked over him, eyes resting where Ben knew she could feel his dick straining against his pants. “What about hand stuff?” 

Ben snorted. “I’ll allow it."

“Oh, well if his majesty allows it-“ 

Her words turned in a yelp as Ben tossed Her onto the bed, grinning down at Her. How fucking perfect she was, looking up at him with wide, pretty eyes that were so soft. For him. Right now, every part of Her was for Ben. 

He started to lean down, planning to move across the bed until he over Her. Test what different sounds She would make in a bed instead of against a wall. But She sat up before he could, crawling across the blankets with her perfect fucking ass in the air. Drawing up on Her knees when she reached Ben at the foot of the bed, smiling at him with all such an ease and adoration. She adored him. 

Ben grabbed Her face between his hands, her back straightening as she grabbed at his shirt. Yanking him closer. Ben attacked her mouth, revering in the way it fit so well against his, the way she tasted like honey and chocolate and Her. That taste of Her he’d gotten early, that wasn’t sweet but strong. The best thing he’d ever had on his tongue, a little weaker in her mouth but still there. The proper fucking taste of pussy. Of Her. Ben didn’t think he could live without it now that he’d had it. 

But there would be time to deal with that later. Right now everything was Her. The way she moaned into his mouth, and one of her hands tracing down Ben’s chest to palm him through his pants. 

He pulled back with a grunt of Her name. “You don’t-“ 

“I want to,” She chased his mouth, but paused. Look up at him with some sort of apprehension that made the Thing itch. “But if you don’t-“ 

“Don’t be fucking stupid.” Ben snapped. And he was going to add something about this not being about him right now. Something saying how this was about Her, about making her understand how perfect she was and making her scream his name again. But She nodded with a hum, and squeezed Ben through his pants and suddenly that really didn’t fucking seem worth saying anymore. He’d say it later. If She wanted this—wanted him like this—he couldn’t deny her. Ben wouldn’t be able to deny Her his whole fucking brain or heart or lungs if she asked for them. And what type of fucking pussy would he be to deny the most perfect woman in the world his cock. 

“Off, please.” She nodded to his pants, and Ben almost chuckled because she could’ve called him every vulgar name under the sun and he still would’ve taken his pants off. A please was in no way damn necessary.

“Fine,” he pulled down his pants, watching Her carefully as his boxers followed. “But after this, beautiful, it’s my fucking turn.” 

She swallowed, staring at Ben’s dick—now fully exposed—and Ben had never felt so smug in his fucking life. A lot of women had been impressed by him, but none had looked at him like that. Like they needed to touch him. Ben had never needed to touch them. Not like he was pretty sure he’d have died somewhere in the next few seconds if She hadn’t looked back up at him—with parted lips and a flushed face that Ben needed to burn into his eyes so he’d never stop seeing them—and kissed him so eagerly that he groaned. 

Then She started touching him, and Ben realized he had been right. As he tangled his hands in her hair and started buck into her hand—trying to keep his mouth on hers so she would catch every sound she was causing him to make like he’d eaten hers—Ben knew this would kill him. She would kill him, because nobody should be allowed to so fucking perfect in every possible way. Nobody should be capable making him feel like this with just their hand, just by stroking him and somehow finding such a painfully good fucking pace. Nobody should be allowed to read him well enough that they adjusted for every rut of Ben into their hand, to make him feel like he was high. But She could, because she was perfect, and was trying to kill him. She had to be, or she wouldn’t be pulling back to look at Ben like she was, with something so deep and impossibly caring in her eyes as she pulled him apart. He was supposed to look at Her like that. She was the one supposed to be wrecked. Ben didn’t get wrecked. 

But it’s not like She liked listening to him. Or allowing him to just follow the rules he’d set for himself decades ago. Every single thing Ben had known and understood she’d destroyed, then rebuilt, just by smiling at him and never wavering. Like she was now.

So Ben buried his face in Her neck—finding the spot that he knew would make Her feel half of what he felt—and started to fuck her hand. Faster, faster until she moaned, and he grinned against her. 

“When you’re done,” Ben started to kiss up Her neck until he was growling in her ears. “I’m going to make you scream. Got it?” 

She nodded, and the small sound she made just made Ben go faster. 

“You’re so fucking good,” he kept talking, because Ben hadn’t missed that every time Ben spoke She’d fall a little further into him, her free hand tugging at his hair. “Your hand’s fucking made for this, beautiful.” 

“Ben-“ 

He grinned. There it was. If anyone tried to say his name again—in a way that wasn’t breathless and passionate and falling from their mouth—he’d rip their tongue out. “So fucking perfect.” He pulled Her closer, one hand cupping the back of Her head and the other kneading at the soft skin of her stomach, arm fully around her waist. She squeezed him just fucking right, and Ben hissed against her skin. “Fucking perfect. Too fucking good at this, too fucking beautiful, too fucking-“ 

She turned Her head, moving Ben to her lips, just as she moaned down his throat and made one, long movement—nails running lightly against his balls with another squeeze—that did it. Ben groaned Her name into her wide, perfect mouth, swearing as he jerked forward. She didn’t stop, didn’t pull back, just stayed exactly where Ben needed her until the bare parts of her legs were covered in cum. Ben’s cum. On Her. 

Ben kissed Her roughly, waiting right up until she whined to pull his mouth away slowly. Panting slightly, he kissed the top of Her head and waited for her to look up at him. 

“My turn.” 

He didn’t wait for Her to speak before leaning over her, moving her down until she was flat on the bed below him. Letting her grind against his chest and wrap her legs around him, moan his name and claw at his hair and back, for just long enough to build Her up and up. Ben moved his hands down from her face to her thighs, squeezing once. 

“Please,” she whimpered into his mouth, and the only sound better than that was what followed it. “Ben.” 

He gave Her one last, wet kiss, and dropped down to the edge of bed, kneeling on the floor and using his hold on her thighs to pull Her forward. As Ben hooked her legs over his shoulders—tossing her underwear and shorts away into some corner of the room—he saw Her sitting up on her elbows, frowning down at him. 

“We said hand stuff, Benjamin.“ 

He raised his brows at Her. “Do you want me to stop?” 

”No, but you’re cheating-“ 

Ben didn’t give her an opportunity to keep talking. He’d have a long time—if he was lucky—to listen to Her talk about whatever she fucking wanted. Right now he needed to make her scream. 

It was almost immediate. Ben dove forward, sucking on Her clit one long time, and she whined, high and loud. 

“Fuck, Ben-“ 

That was good. He liked that. Ben liked everything about Her, but that—the sound of Her feeling good with his name—was one of the fucking best things he’d ever known. 

She needed to do it again. He needed to find every way she could do it. This was his fucking job now. Everything else could fucking wait until she came all over Ben’s face, until she felt so good she’d never be in danger of breaking again. 

So Ben set to work. Sucking and licking and goddamn eating Her alive. Tracing rough patterns with his hands against her thighs and ass, bracing an arm over her hips to keep her still. To allow Ben to fuck her with his tongue until the taste of Her, that real, powerful taste was drowning him as she screamed his name. He’d die for this. She wouldn’t have to kill him because he’d give everything to keep Her like this forever. To keep her blissfully whining and moaning, to make her never have to feel fear again because she was too busy being tended to under him. For there to be even the slimmest fucking chance that She’d want him to do this forever. Want him forever. 

For now, though, Ben would settle for this. He’d settle for him being the one who made Her squirm in this moment. Ben got to see this, Ben got to cause this. Right now She adored him, right now she wanted Ben. Nothing else. Just Ben. 

So he’d give Her everything he had. 

He focused fully on Her clit, puffed and red, and dedicated himself to it. Pulled it into his mouth until her screams turned to breathless begs and sounds that might be Ben’s name—tangled with other noises he didn’t understand—and then let his teeth brush it, groaning against Her at the same time. She managed to scream one last time—hoarse and deafening and the most amazing sound in the fucking world—as She came. Squeezing around his tongue as Ben lowered to taste it all, as she pushed up into his face to give him it all. Back arched off the bed and thighs trapping Ben against Her as if he was so much of a fucking pussy idiot he’d even damn think to try and leave.

When She was done—shaking and breathing heavily as she relaxed fully around him—Ben rose up, wiping the remaining wetness clinging to his beard with one hand. Watching Her, pulled apart and reaching for him, just him. So thoroughly wrecked at his efforts, heart hamming against her chest. So fucking beautiful. 

Ben started to walk to the bathroom—quickly pulling his pants back on—but She made a needy sound for her throat that made him pause. 

“Are you-“ 

“Where are you going?” She whispered, and Ben felt the Thing rip inside of him. Torn between making Her smile and taking care of her. 

“Getting a towel.” He grunted, still rooted in place. “Need to clean you up.” 

“No,” Her voice was hoarse, and she was starting to sit up. “I’m fine, just stay-“ 

That won the war inside of him. Ben crossed back to Her in two long steps. Dropping next to her on the bed and rolling her onto his chest. Lying with her until her heart slowed, her breaths became easy against him. 

“Ben?” She whispered into the air, the room having fallen dark at some point. Ben hadn’t noticed really, unable to be fucked to pay attention to anything but Her, against him. Safe and happy and warm. 

He hummed Her name, and waited for her to continue. 

“When it’s over, I’ll go with you.” 

Time stopped. Everything stopped. Nothing fucking mattered except Ben knowing exactly what She fucking meant. If it was what he thought—fucking hoped—she meant. “With me?” 

“Wherever they send you off to, when this is done. I’ll go with you.” 

Ben nodded slowly at nothing, trying to act like he was unaffected. Like the Thing wasn’t bellowing and scraping at his ribs and brain, trying to tell him something really important, make Ben tell Her something important, but he couldn’t figure out what it was- 

“If you, um, if you still want that.” 

He blinked, glaring down at Her in the dark. “Did I ever fucking tell you I didn’t?” 

“No, but you haven’t said anything-“ 

“You’re coming with me,” Ben said, firmly. She wasn’t allowed to think anything else, not if She wanted this. Wanted him. “Nothing in the world will goddamn stop me taking you with me, not if that’s what you’re choosing.” 

“I chose that,” Ben could feel Her smile against the base of his neck. “I chose you.” 

The Thing needed something. Something earth-shaking and impossibly fucking vital for Ben to know if he was going to keep living. Something She had to know or Ben might explode. 

“I’ll let you fuck me on the beach,” She hummed, and Ben just decided to ignore the Thing. She was more important. “And in the ocean and in a bed and wherever else you want.” 

“Wherever I want?” Ben chuckled into the dark. “Dangerous fucking promises, beautiful.” 

She yawned, and Ben kissed Her head as her voice turned sleepy. “That’s the point, Pretty Boy.” 

As She pulled herself further into him—breathing turning slow and body relaxing further under Ben’s hands—Ben said Her name softly. 

“Yeah?” 

“If this doesn’t work,” Ben said slowly. “I want to fucking leave anyway. If we don’t get the kid, me and you are gone, Sunshine. We’ll go wherever you want, and we’ll go together. Somewhere with a beach for me to fuck you on, or somewhere in the mountains so you can scream even louder. But we’ll be gone.” 

She sighed, but didn’t protest. Ben had expected Her to push back—tell him they had a job and responsibility and had to finish this—and even as he’d thought the words he’d known she’d tell him no, but she didn’t. 

“I’ll think about it,” She said after a long, silent minute, and Ben wasn’t sure if it was Her or the haze of the sleep overtook her only seconds later. He didn’t know if she’d even remember him asking, or was just too tired to try and convince him that they couldn’t just leave. 

But Ben decided to believe Her. To allow himself to think that she’d really consider it. Either way she’d go with him. No matter what, she’d stay with him. That was all that fucking matters. 

It was the steady beat of Her heart, paired with the lingering taste of her and sound of Her wanting him, that allowed Ben to sleep soundly through the night.

End Note: I’ve made the unprecedented and totally out of left field executive decision to make Ben a top. Crazy. I’m sure this is really shocking news, but we’ll get through this like we always do. Together and horny.

Leave a comment, if you want! Any and all thoughts, feedback, jokes, and predications are always welcome, and will make my day. Also I'm thinking of giving you guys a playlist? Idk lemme know if that's something you'd want. Thank you so much for reading, and see you soon <3!

If you like this story, reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

@lordofthunderthr @kritara @sukunassfinger, @justiceforquentin @acciditties

@c1gs-coffee @manicjk @artemys-ackles, @a-cup-of-nightshade, @bitchykittenconnoisseur

@fghj18 @n-o-p-e-never @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @marisha-3 @stvrniolo

@deansbbyx @s0urw00lf @ciuguapa @ilyaasansaif @whimsicalcherry

His arm wraps fully around your body, the other hand leaving the wall to tangle in your hair, raising you slightly off the ground. You moan, and suddenly the arm around your waist drops to right below your ass, lifting you completely before all but slamming you back into the wall with a groan.

“Ben,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around him as his teeth pull at your lip. “Fuck, please-“

 He chuckles, leaning back slightly. “You want me to fuck you, Sunshine?”

You whine, trying to return his mouth from where it’s torturing you—just a breath away—to where it belongs. Against yours, forever. Things like talking can be secondary, because this can never stop. “Ben, please-“

“Words,” He teases, and when he says your name it vibrates through his chest, through your blood. “I know you know how to use them.”

“Fuck,” you gasp, still trying to pull him back forwards. “Please.”

“I’ve never seen you speechless before. If this is all it took I’d have kissed you months ago.”

“Ben-“

“Words.”

Your indigence manages to push through your desperation. “That is a word, fuck-“ you hiss, because Ben’s pushed his knee up to rest between your thighs. “It’s a proper noun.”

His head drops to your neck, kissing bruises that vanish in seconds. “Can’t stand being wrong, can we?”

“Wasn’t wrong, you-“ Your head can’t fall further back, so he’s moving up, up. Kissing at your ear, your cheek, your forehead and nose and everywhere else but your mouth. “Fuck, Ben.”

“That’s what you want?” He teases. “Say it.” 

You’re past dignity. “Please fuck me, Ben. You absolute cu-“

He cuts you off, kissing you long and heavy until there's no breath in your lungs to keep going.

“Bed?” He grunts, and you nod frantically.

You blink, and suddenly you’re on your back, still between Ben, still resting your legs on his hips, but the surface behind you is now soft. The bed is already squeaking slightly as Ben kisses you into the mattress, and you don’t realize that you’ve started to grind against him until he pulls back with a groan. 

“Fucking quit that, or you won’t get what you want,” Ben snaps, and you can feel him, long and hard against your leg. You test your luck, pushing up into him one more time, making him moan against your ear.

“Plea-“

The word isn’t fully out of your mouth before Ben’s pulling away from you, weight moving off your body and making you push up on your elbows to try and bring him back. You barely have a chance to see him kneeling at the edge of bed—your lower body having somehow gotten exposed along the way—before you fall back with a strangled gasp as his mouth finds your pussy.

His beard is scraping at your inner thighs, his tongue is pushing inside you, his nose keeps brushing against your clit, and one large hand is managing to hold you still as you try to buck off the bed.

“Fuck, Ben, please-“ you moan and he growls against you, moving faster-

A snore tore through the air, yanking you from the hands of sleep in an instant. Still in bed, still on your back, and, torturously, still pinned down by Ben, who was all but passed out above you. 

You were starting to lose your mind. Over the past week, Ben had solidified his habit of pulling you under him in the night, tangling your legs together and pushing his head into your shoulder as his arms covered your chest. It would’ve been sweet if—over the past week—you hadn’t been waking up every morning with an ache between your legs, covered in sweat and filled with an insatiable need for the very man sleeping above you.

You never moved. You couldn’t move. Ben looked so peaceful when he slept, and it made the Feeling warm and easy. His voice would roll through your body as he grumbled incoherently under his breath, his face would bury into you as he held you tightly, and you just weren’t cruel enough—to Ben or yourself—to wake him. You always waited until he let out the low sound that signaled he was leaving sleep, and then you’d start whispering his name, pushing at his arm slightly until Ben woke himself.

The pitfall to this plan was that you’d be trapped under Ben—horny and still half asleep—trying to fight yourself from doing something really, really stupid. Like kissing his pouting lips that looked really soft, or tracing his sharp jaw from his chin to his hair, or pulling him further into you just to be closer, feel his warmth and strength as he breathed against you. This was not a plausible long term way to exist. It was starting to become distracting, how much you wanted him. Yesterday morning he’d reached over you in the kitchen and you set the orange in your hand on fire. You’d somehow managed to play it off as being startled, but all you could think about for the rest of the day was Ben’s body and how it had pressed against yours in that split second. The thoughts followed you into your dreams, and the current position you were in wasn’t doing you any favors.

Time began to move in a cruelly slow passage. You might have been held under Ben for days or mere minutes, but it felt the same. He was right there, touching you so casually, and you couldn’t do anything about it. It had clicked, when you’d woken up from a safe and peaceful sleep last week, that the Feeling didn’t feel inseparable from your own self anymore. It was Ben. Your… attachment and care and ease with him. You were an adult, and you could admit that maybe it was just Ben. That you wanted him matching you step-for-step, holding you peacefully, and fighting that consuming thirst for just him, him, him forever.

And you knew where the catalyst lay, in that very thought. That was too much. It was more than infatuation, it was something deeper you didn’t really have a word for. And you knew that Ben wasn’t capable of that feeling that now sat under your skin with the fire. He didn’t want it—not with you—and you don’t blame him. But you don’t think you could do anything else, anything that wasn’t everything. You were an adult, a grown woman who had a PhD and was perfectly capable of living with the man she liked not liking her back. It would fade, or pass, or change back into something neutral and platonic. And if it kept growing and growing to affection and fervor and desire and undying-

You’d live. You’d find a way to live.

When Ben finally started to move, that low sound from his chest rolling through yours, it felt like mercy. You might have exploded—burst into a million pieces of want and desperation—if he hadn’t.

“Ben,” you whisper, tapping his arm where it holds you. “Wake up.”

His response is a low, muffled grumble. “No.”

“It’s noon.”

“So?”

“I’m hungry.”

 “Go fucking eat, then.”

You sigh. “I can’t, not until you move.”

“Tough shit.” Ben doesn’t move, if anything he might be holding you tighter.

“Please,” you poke his shoulder. “I need to shower.”

 “That’s not my fucking problem.” His words are becoming more firm—less slurred with sleep—and you can feel the tight content sitting in his chest. “You should’ve showered last night.”

“All the hot water was gone,” you frown at the ceiling, poking him again. “Because someone took their sweet fucking time.”

“You could’ve just used the damn guest bathroom.”

“You could’ve just used the guest bathroom. It’s not my shower that’s broken.” You almost jump when you look down at him, finding his eyes open and watching you with a heavy look. Your words stumble a little, mouth suddenly dry. “I’ve told you I can just call Mallory-“

“I don’t need the CIA in my shit any more then they already fucking are,” Ben mutters. “It’s not worth it.”

“Easy to say when you’re the one who gets to take hour long showers in my bathroom-“

“Our bathroom, Sunshine.”

You snort. “Our bathroom? Seriously?”

“It’s my bedroom too now, my fucking bathroom as well.” He sits up slightly when you giggle again, “what’s so fucking funny-“

“Nothing,” you shrug.

“Liar.” Ben’s propped up on an elbow, slightly over your body as he glares down at you. It’s not doing you any favors. “You have that shit-eating grin when you get to teach me something fucking dumb. What.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m not a sensitive pussy, I can fucking handle-“

“Communism, Ben. I’m laughing because ‘our’ is a communist sentiment.”

You feel irritation strain against him, but there’s no drums, no fury. “I ain’t no fucking commu-“

 “I know. That’s the joke.” Still on your back, you stick your tongue out at him. “Jokes are funnier when you explain them, you know.”

Ben drops back to his side of the mattress, and you mourn the loss of his warmth. “Just for that shit, I’m not cooking tonight.”

“It’s my night anyways, dumbass.”

“And you’ll be blowing up the kitchen alone.”

You roll your eyes. “A girl blows up the kitchen one fucking time, and suddenly it’s all she’s ever done.”

“Twice,” Ben’s smirking when you look at him. “Pizza.”

He’s right. Five nights ago you’d tried to bake a pizza by hand, and destroyed the counter and several cabinets. And he knows he’s right, because he’s already got the cocky told you so look in his eyes, the one that appears when he wins an argument.

“Shut up,” you mumble, climbing out of the bed as Ben laughs behind you. “It’s not my fault pizza is so easily flammable.”

Ben sits up against the headboard, and you can feel him watching you move around the room. “I think you’d find a way to make stone ‘flammable’.”

“Everything in the world is flammable, Ben. That’s how melting temperatures work.” 

“Fuck off, brat.”

You flip him off, moving to the bathroom and closing the door with a lock.

Ben had, in a remarkably short amount of time, made himself at home in your space. His razor was near the sink, shampoo next to yours in the shower, and his shield was—for reasons you still didn’t fully understand—sitting against the wall.

“Why does it have to be in the bathroom?” You’d asked, and he’d scoffed as if it were an insane question.

“Because.”

“That clears absolutely nothing up.”

“Don’t fucking worry about it.”

You’d frowned, following him into his own bathroom for the last of his items. “See, I wasn’t worried, but now I am. This is a big house, there’s definitely space-“

“I want it close.” He’d grunted, stepping into the shower for toiletries. “That’s it.”

“Close to where you shit?”

“Shut the fuck up.” He’d turned back to you, arms full. “This is everything.”

You’d looked around the room. “What about your toothbrush?”

“I don’t brush my teeth.” He’d pushed past you, and you’d followed his long strides back down the hall, gaping at his back.

“You don’t brush your teeth? For what possible fucking reason?”

“Don’t need to. Waste of fucking time.” Ben had glanced down at you, expression almost confused. “You don’t need to do that shit either, now. You have a better healing factor than I do.” 

You’d blinked. “It’s a good habit.”

“Whatever,” he’d shrugged. “Not my damn time you’re wasting.”

After that conversation, you’d bought him a toothbrush. It was still sitting—bristle and dry—next yours, but it made all of it, made Ben, feel more concrete. Like some form of evidence that you were sharing a room, and he wasn’t sick of you yet. That he’d forgiven you enough to only roll his eyes when you suggested he use it.

He’d forgiven you. By some miracle, he’d completely and totally forgiven you. You’d played it all in your head a million times, trying to see if there had been a break in his words, a falter in what you’d felt from him, any sort of evidence that he was lying. But he wasn’t. You’d watch him bend a knife in half because it “wasn’t working properly” or make snarky comments at the show you’d be watching, and all you could feel from him when you grabbed his hands or your legs brushed together was ease. His words, his offer, looped and looped in your brain, and began to carve a groove.

Do you seriously fucking believe that Homelander would take you and I wouldn’t fucking burn everything to get you away from him.

You can always fucking be around me.

I trust you. I give a shit about you.

You picked the words apart. Trying to find a divot or crack to show that Ben was lying, that you needed to have doubt and tread carefully.

To get you away from him.

Away from Homelander. Not back to Ben, away from Homelander.

You can always fucking be around me.

Always.

I trust you. I give a shit about you.

He’d forgiven you. Fully, completely. And you didn’t know what that meant.

I give a shit about you.

You’d expected him to be gone from the bedroom when you finished your shower, so you changed slowly in the lingering, humid steam. But you open the door to the bedroom and find him exactly where you’d left him, looking bored and sullen.

“Who takes long fucking showers now?” He mutters under his breath, and you blink at him.

“I thought you’d just go downstairs,” you say blankly, trying to read his face. “If I’d known you were waiting-“

“I wasn’t waiting.” Ben snaps, standing in one quick, abrupt movement. “I needed to shit.”

He pushes past you, into the bathroom, and you call as he closes the door, “there are like, four other bathrooms!”

You hear his shouted response through the door. “Shut the fuck up!”

Taking a step to the hall, you hesitate, glancing back at the bathroom door. “Is it a long shit?!”

There’s a pause, and then, “What?!”

“I’m going downstairs! If it’s not a long shit, I can wait-”

“I can shit by my goddamn self.” You can almost see his frown through the door. “I don’t need fucking help.”

“I wasn’t offering help, you asshole, I was offering to wait. So we can go downstairs together.” It sounds stupid as you say it, but you can’t bring yourself to take it back. 

There’s another second of silence, then a gruff, “Fine.”

You hum, glad Ben can’t see the heat on your face, and drop back onto the bed. You expect to wait a few minutes at least, but the toilet flushes almost immediately and Ben pulls the door open with a grunt.

“I’m hungry.” He snaps, and you stand off the bed with a shrug.

“Join the club.”

“Fuck off.”

You laugh to yourself, following him down the stairs. “Thoughts on dumplings?”

“What?”

“For lunch. I saw a recipe in the book yesterday.”

He makes a tight face at you from the bottom of the steps. “I don’t fucking want oriental food.”

“Jesus Christ, Ben.” You sigh, shaking your head as you move a pace ahead.

“What? The fuck is wrong with-“

You stop at the counter, turning back to face him. “Do you still have my racist grandpa list?” You ask, half joking with your brows raised.

He stills in the doorway, and you could swear he’s almost blushing. “Yes.”

“Oh,” you blink, having expected it to find its way to the trash weeks ago. Shaking your head slightly, you say, “Add ‘oriental’ to it.”

“It’s upstairs. I’m not going all the fucking way back upstairs just for a stupid damn list.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to actually use your brain for once,” you walk to where the cookbook—a few pages burnt and heavily beaten but still in one piece—is laying near the sink. “Think that old man memory can retain one word until you go upstairs again?”

“Brat.” Ben sits down at the counter, and you flip him off.

“Cunt.

“Any word from the pussy-squad?” He asks, and you throw your phone into his chest.

“Check yourself.” You sigh, turning back to push through the cabinets for flour and salt. “We should really just get you your own phone.”

“I’m fine using yours.” 

“Yeah, you’re really making a huge sacrifice, using my phone.” You turn around, watching him glare at the screen, tapping it aggressively with a single finger. “Need some help there, Pretty Boy?”

“This thing is fucking stupid,” he grunts, eyes scanning the screen. “And I’m doing damn well fine on my own, Sunshine.” He looks up at you with a cocky grin. “Starlight says they’ve got something.”

You tense, feeling air become tight around your body. “Something?”

“She says there’s a lead- goddamnit!”

You move forward, pulling the phone from Ben’s hand. “Oh, shove it up your ass.”

“I was using it-“

“My phone,” you snap. “I reserve the right to take it back whenever.”

“It’s fucking rude-“

You blow a raspberry at him, ignoring his indigent expression to read the message on the display.

Annie January: Arm Wrestling Champion

MM got a lead a few days ago from A-Train, Hughie just confirmed it. We’ll be over tonight, need to move fast.

You look up at Ben. “They’ve got a lead. They’ll be here tonight.”

“What time?”

You re-read the message. “Doesn’t say.”

“Assholes.” Ben grunts, standing up to walk to your side. “Do we have all the shit?”

 “What?”

“For the dumplings.” He says, voice bored as he scans the cookbook. “I’ve fucking starving.”

 “Aren’t you worried-“

“Worried is a little fucking dramatic. I’m vigilant, because I don’t trust those fuckers, or whatever goddamn ‘lead’ they have.” Ben looks over at you, eyes narrowed. “But we’re not about to whine and fret about it all day like pussies. We’re going to make shit-ass fucking dumplings, and you’re going to stay out of your own fucking head.”

“I wasn’t going to whine,” you grumble, even though he’s right. You’d already begun to spiral into what confirmed meant, and why the lead was from A-Train, or what about made you need to move fast.

“Sure, Sunshine.” Ben says dryly, nudging you with his shoulder. “Go get me some fucking rice wine.” He scowls at the page. “What the living fuck is rice wine.”

You lean over him, ignoring the rush of warmth when you touch him, and read where he’s pointing. “I’ll look it up. Can you start-“

Before you finish your sentence, Ben is roughly turning the oven dials, heating the front burner.

“Thanks,” you give him a smile, and he waves you off. As he walks past you to the fridge your arms brush, and your heart does a somersault into your stomach.

Rice wine, as it turns out, was an incredibly self-descriptive name for an alcohol that was fermented in rice. Given that the CIA hadn’t deemed it necessary to provide any and a grocery run wasn’t really in the cards, you made the executive call to use white wine instead. Ben supported your decision, informing you flatly that “booze is booze, Sunshine, and I'm not going to be a fucking pussy about it.”

In the week you and Ben had been trying to cook, this was the first time neither of you tried to break something in frustration. There was one close call, where Ben had failed to crimp the fifth dumpling in a row, but managed to restrain himself from smashing them all in vengeful fury. You offered him to take five—saying you were capable of doing this part yourself and he’d done more cabbage squeezing than you had—and though he’d taken a step back with a scowl, he didn’t leave the kitchen.

“I thought you could go set up the TV?” You look up at him, raising your brows. “I can do the rest myself.”

“Do you want me to go?” Ben says your name, eyes narrowed at where you were fixing the lines on one of his dumplings.

You shrug. “Doesn’t really make a difference. You just don’t have to stay here.”

He doesn’t respond, only leaning against the counter and watching you in a silence neither of you try to fill. You can feel Ben’s eyes following you, and trying to dissect what that means is more than enough to keep your mind off the lead.

When you turn to move the now-well-crimped dumplings into the skillet, you almost yelp when you find Ben—having moved impossibly quietly for a man of his size—right behind you. He silently takes the dumplings from your hands, dropping them into the skillet without a word and glaring at them as they cook.

“Plates,” he grunts, and you snap out of your state of mindlessly watching Ben to walk to the cabinets.

Setting them down next to the oven, you stand at Ben’s side with your arms crossed. “How’s the bomb?” You tap his chest, and he shrugs, eyes not moving from the dumplings.

“The fucking same.”

“Really?” You lean forwards slightly. “Because I can’t remember the last time it went off.”

“So?”

“It used to go off like, all the time. At least twice a week.”

Ben gives you a flat look from the corners of his eyes. “Say what you fucking mean.”

You give him a sweet smile. “I think you know what I mean.”

“Fuck you.”

“Uh huh,” you poke his shin with your foot. “Still not ready to admit I was right?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Ben drawls, picking up the skillet and turning away.

“It’s not that hard. You’ve even been sleeping better.”

“That has not a fucking thing to do with this.”

You frown at his back. “I mean, I’d say less PTSD induced nightmares is a pretty good sign-“

“Correlation isn’t fucking causation, ” Ben says your name in a mocking tone, and you huff.

“I fucking taught you that, you dick.”

Ben turns with your plate in his hands. “I’ve told you to stop teaching me shit, and you won’t fucking listen.”

“Shut up,” you grab your food, stuffing a dumpling in your mouth. “Maybe if you weren’t such a dumb-dumb I wouldn’t have to tell you everything.”

“Manners, brat. Don’t you know it’s not polite to eat with your mouth full?”

You stick your tongue out at him, and a large crumb falls from your mouth. “Cunt.” You swallow quickly. “And I still think the PTSD is getting better, no matter how much you bitch about it.”

“I’m not fucking bitching.”

“If you weren’t, you’d admit I was right.”

Ben takes a long, over dramatic sigh that ends with you receiving an impossibly strong death-stare. “Fine.”

“Fine?” You tease, even as a grin overtakes your own face. “That’s all I get? Fine? Not thank you, you queen among women. You were, as always, right, and I, Benjamin-“ you pause, frowning at him. “Do you have a last name?”

“Of course I have a fucking last name. And I’m not saying a goddamn word of that.”

You pout. “Rude.”

“Yep.” Ben starts to walk down the hall, and you follow behind, speaking through a mouthful of your second dumpling.

“Is it something embarrassing?”

 He glances back at you. “The fuck are you talking about.”

 “Your last name. Is it embarrassing?”

 “No.”

 “Is it long?”

 “No.”

 You fall back into the couch, kicking your feet up onto the cushions. “Are you not going to tell me?”

 “No.”

 “So you will tell me?”

 “No, I said-“ He pauses at your wide, cocky grin, rolling his eyes. “You’re a fucking menace.”

“Yep. Why won’t you tell me?”

“It hasn’t been my last name since the damn 40s. It died when Soldier Boy was born, and I don’t want a fucking thing to do with it.”

You tilt your head at him. “Cause of your dad?” He gives an annoyed, low sound of affirmation, so you nod. “Ok.”

He frowns. “That’s it? Just ok?”

“You don’t have to tell me, I was just curious.” You give him a half-smile. “I get it, if I had to carry my mom’s name everywhere, I’d hate it.”

“We’re both too good for them,” Ben grunts., and you wrinkle your nose in thought.

“Are we?”

“Yes, we fucking are.” He snaps. “My dad was a fucking pussy, and your mom sounds like a bitch. I’m not-“

“A fucking pussy?” You finish, and your smile is full and toothy. “Does that mean I’m not a bitch?”

He scoffs. “Of course you’re not.”

“Say the full thing.”

“What?”

You lean forward. “Say the whole sentence. Say ‘you aren’t a bitch,’” you say your own name sweetly. “So I know that you mean it.”

Ben glares at you. “I fucking mean it, Sunshine. I’m not a-“ 

“Liar, I know.” You grin. “Prove it.”

With a deep sigh, impressive scowl, and laziest voice you’ve ever heard, Ben says your name. “You aren’t a bitch.”

“Was that so hard?”

“You’re lucky I put up with you, beautiful.” Ben mutters, and your heart feels warm and full.

“I could say the same for you.” You nudge him, forcing yourself to ignore the beautiful part because you’ll go insane trying to find reason in it. “You’ve been blessed with my infinite patience, Ben. Never forget that.”

Ben looks you up and down—like he’s trying to find a piece of you he’d missed before—and when he finally meets your eyes, his own are firm. “I’m going to say something, and you have to swear not to lose your damn mind.”

“No promises.”

“Sunshine.”

“Fine.” You grumble, placing your plate on the floor. “But you have to swear that it’s not something weird.”

“You didn’t want to see your sister because of your shit fucking plan.”

You wrap your arms around your body, holding yourself tightly. “Doesn’t-“

“If you say matter I will revoke all your favors right fucking now.”

“That’s not how it works.” You mutter, keeping your eyes firmly watching your lap.

“Fucking try me.” You feel Ben’s hand rest on your shin, and something that stings your heart rushes through your body. When you look up he’s frowning, but there’s no anger behind it, and his gaze is careful. “We’re not doing your plan. You should tell her you’re not dead. She needs to know.”

“What if this doesn’t work?” You say softly, nails digging into your skin. “What if the lead is a dead end and I-“

“If it’s a dead end, we’ll find another fucking lead. And another, until we find one that does something.” He squeezes his hand against you, and heat moves through your body. “You’re not going back. That’s fucking that.”

“Okay,” you breathe, and even after Ben nods sharply, neither of you look away. You swallow, forcing yourself to speak. “I’ll think about it. About telling her.”

Ben grunts, but still doesn’t turn back to the TV. “Once this is over, you’ll fucking have to if you want a damn life.”

“Not if I go with you.” The words fall out of you before you realize you’re saying them. Your heart stumbles around in your chest, mouth falling open, but Ben’s already speaking.

“You should still fucking tell them. They can come visit.”

You blink. “Visit?”

“They aren’t going to ship me off to fucking Mars, Sunshine.”

“Yeah, I got that. I just didn’t think you’d want visitors.”

“I don’t give a shit. They’re your family.”

“They think I’m dead.” You frown. “They think you’re a terrorist. They’ll have questions.”

“Then we’ll fucking answer them.”

“We don’t know where you’ll be going, what we’ll be doing-“

“Probably some shit-ass island,” Ben grunts “And I have money. We’ll be fucking fine.”

“Well,” you frown. “We don’t know what island, and all your money is gone-”

“The fuck do you mean gone.” Ben cuts you off, sitting up rigid.

“Everyone thought you were dead,” You say carefully. “Dead people don’t get money.”

“But I wasn’t fucking dead,” He snaps, scanning your face. “I was fucking alive.”

“I know that. But I’m not the government in the 1980s.” You frown. “Did you think all your money was just, sitting around and waiting for you?”

“I didn’t fucking think about it!” Ben looks remarkably distressed. “I didn’t think anyone had laid their pussy ass hands on it!”

“I mean, it’s been like 45 years.”

“So fucking what? It’s my goddamn money!”

“Ben,” you place your hand over where he’s still holding you. “Calm the hell down.”

“I’m fucking calm!” You try to hold your amusement as his voice raises, feeling his genuine anger and shock through your body.

“I can see that,” you say dryly, and Ben scowls at you.

“Get off your fucking high horse,” he snaps. “You’d be fucking angry-“

“If my death was faked and my life was taken away from me?” You give him a bored look. “Gee, I wonder what that’s like.”

He pauses, still glaring at you. “Smartass.”

“Yep.” You shrug. “You’ll be fine, Ben. Part of the CIA deal was livable compensation. And you could get a job.”

He glowers. “A job?”

You snort. “It’s this thing normal people do, where they provide service in exchange for money-“

“Shut the fuck up,” he squeezes his hand again, and you hope he doesn’t see the flush of your face. “I know what a job is.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Brat,” he grumbles. “What fucking job could I possibly get.”

“Well,” you tilt your head in mock thought. “With the forty year gap in your resume-“

He gives a huff, but you feel the amusement shooting through him. “Not funny.”

“A little funny,” you dismiss, continuing. “You could do construction, or be a bouncer. You’d kill it at any physical labor. You be an ok birthday clown if you weren’t such a grump-“

“I am not a grump-“

You talk over him. “Now, my personal vote is escort. And if I go with you, I think I’d be an amazing pimp. We could build an empire, earn all your money back.”

Ben snorts. “Why do I have to be the whore?”

“You’re doing it for free right now,” you try and keep your face straight, but are unable to hide the delight in your voice at his adorable frown. “And I’d be a terrible whore. We’d be out of business in a week.”

“You’d be a great whore,” Ben’s voice is shockingly indigent. “You’d make a fortune.”

You frown, unsure if it’s meant to be a compliment, or why you can feel his offense so strongly in your body. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” he grunts. “And I’d be a better fucking pimp anyway.”

“Holy shit,” you laugh. “You’d be a terrible pimp.”

“And what makes you think you’d be better, Sunshine?” He sneers, and you shrug with a smile.

“For one, I don’t call escorts whores. And I’ve read about your business endeavors in the 80s. I never would’ve tried to open a Soldier Boy themed bar and grill, and if I had I wouldn't've served green-dyed rocky road ice cream as the only desert option.”

Despite the annoyance you can feel through him–proven by the tick of his jaw and glare—Ben asks, “What would you have done.”

“Mint chocolate chip.” As you’re grinning at Ben’s scowl, you realize that he’s distracted you again. For a second you’re almost resentful—not loving how easily he flashed something shiny for you to ramble about and how fast you took the bait—and then you realize his hand is still on your shin, and that you’re not gripping at your arms or cutting into your skin anymore.

“You think you’re real clever,” he mutters, and your smile widens.

“Of course I do. I’m the brains, you’re the beauty. That’s what makes the business model work.”

Ben is giving you a cocky smirk, and you don’t hear your words until his rush of smug satisfaction hits you. “I’m the beauty?”

“Well, yeah.” You try to act bored, nonchalant. Like your heart isn’t fluttering and your body isn’t warm. “We’re both the brawn, you’re definitely not the brains, and I’m not the beauty, so we divide-“

His hand on your leg tightens its hold. “The fuck do you mean you’re not the beauty?”

“I mean, I’m not ugly.” You say passively. “But I’m not-“

“Not what?” He snaps, and you blink at him.

“I don’t know, Vought level.”

“Vought level?”

“Yeah. Sparkling, jaw-dropping, brand-worthy.”

“What makes you fucking think that?” He’s glaring at you, like you’ve personally offended him. You can feel something strong, something confusing, pounding through his chest. “You’re plenty jaw-dropping.”

“I’m not being self-deprecating,” you frown. “I’m stating fact-“

“That’s not a damn fact.”

“I’m not upset about it,” you frown at him. “I’ve got other good qualities-“

“Well, you’re still fucking wrong.”

His grip on you is so tight, you’d be worried about bruising if that was possible. You can still feel his anger, and though it’s not aimed at you it’s still powerful. Tight and loud.

“Ben-“

The entrance door bangs open, and you both look up to see MM entering the house, Hughie only a few steps behind.

“Good, you’re already dressed-“ MM cuts himself off as he passes the kitchen. “The fuck happened in there?”

“Cooking,” you say sheepishly, craning your neck to see if anyone else is coming through the door. “Is it just you guys?”

“Everyone else is in the car,” Hughie explains, and you frown.

“Everyone?”

“It’s all hands on deck,” MM says shortly, still glaring at the kitchen. “It looks like a bomb went off.”

“Several almost did.” You stand, Ben’s hand falling from your leg. “What’s going on? Annie said there was a lead-“

“We’ll explain on the way,” Hughie says nervously. “It’s a little time sensitive.”

“We’re not going fucking anywhere-“ Ben rises, glowering at Hughie. “Until you tell us the goddamn deal.”

MM pulls his gaze from the kitchen. “You’re going wherever the fuck we tell you.”

“The fuck we are-”

“We are,“ you whack Ben’s arm, giving him tense look of don’t be a fucking dick. “Time sensitive, Benjamin. They’ll explain.” 

Ben shoots MM and Hughie distrustful glares. “It might be fucking stupid-“

MM scoffs. “We’re not the ones who come up with stupid plans.”

“That feels targeted,” you mumble, and Hughie gives you an apologetic look.

“I promise it’s worth something,” he says, looking between you and Ben quickly. “We wouldn’t put you in danger,” Hughie says your name gently, and you shrug.

“I know.”

Ben snorts, muttering just loud enough for you to hear. “You do that enough by your fucking self, Sunshine.”

You stomp hard on his foot, giving MM and Hughie a smile. “Let’s roll then.” As they turn, slightly confused looks on their faces, you stick your tongue out at Ben.

“You’re so fucking mean,” he complains, following you out the door.

“Shut up,” you roll your eyes. “You love it.”

Ben grunts, and you walk a little faster so he doesn’t see the flush on your face or accidentally touch you. That might send you into cardiac arrest.

MM wasn’t lying. It’s all hands on deck. Frenchie and Kimiko look up from their silent conversation as the doors open, Annie’s jittering slows as Hughie takes his spot next to her, and Butcher is glaring at you as Ben helps you climb into the van.

“Well, aren’t I just tickled that America’s golden couple decided to join us,” he sneers, and you flip him off, waving to Kimiko.

I’m glad you’re here, she signs. This is a good plan, you’ll like it.

You smile. So I shouldn’t be worried?

Only the regular amount.

You laugh, and Ben nudges your shoulder.

“The fuck did she say,” he mutters in your ear.

You keep your response quiet, walking to sit along the edge of the wall. “That I’ll like the plan.”

“Are any of you pussies going to actually fucking tell us the plan?” Ben raises his voice, and you roll your eyes.

“Drama queen,” you say under your breath, and he subtly whacks your leg.

“Remember last week,” Annie starts, leaning forwards as she addresses you. “When MM asked you about where Homelander was holding you when he started the V?”

You take a heavy breath, nodding. You’d answered his text best you could—somewhere near the Hudson, south of Albany—but at the time you’d just ran. In any direction, as far as you could without collapsing. Eventually you’d found an interstate highway and followed it until you found somewhere to rest and take stock of your surroundings, but that was miles from where you’d started.

“Well,” she continues, voice a bit softer even as the van’s engine begins to rumble. “A-Train gave us some documents about Vought-owned spaces in the region, and Vought scientists who lived near them.”

“We don’t know if Homelander was even using a Vought building-“ You protest, but Annie shakes her head.

“He probably wasn’t. But he would’ve needed easy access to Vought supplies. And we found a warehouse in Climax, New York-“ 

You feel Ben stiffen next to you, and shoot him an I heard it too, but please shut up look.

He returns it with a fucking killjoy eye roll, but stays quiet.

Annie, oblivious to the exchange, continues. “That stored compound V, along with a lot of other experimental chemicals. There were also seven Vought chemists and biologists who lived in the area, all of whom died six months ago, and each one had a close-casket funeral.”

You swallow, bile that tastes like guilt rising in your throat. You’d burned them alive. There might not have even been bodies to bury. “If you- If you show me a photo-“ Ben leans into you slightly—hand finding your thigh—and you can speak without choking. “I could identify them. They were the only people I saw for the four months after Homelander moved me.”

You can feel something sharp shot through your ribs—Ben’s ribs—living a stinging trail in its wake.

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Hughie says, glancing at Annie. “We should’ve just done that.”

“What did you do instead?” You ask, frowning.

Hughie gives you an embarrassed look. “We kind of, uh…”

“Jesus, Lad, just bloody say it.” Butcher mutters before giving you a wolfish grin. “We visited the families. Asked ‘em about what fuckery their beloved spouses and children got up to.”

“You harassed families about this?” You ask just as Ben says, “And did they fucking tell you anything?”

Butcher ignores you, answering Ben instead. “Most told us to fuck off, but one said that her dear husband always seemed fuckin guilty about something. Said he’d come back haunted.”

You feel the fire under your skin. Haunted. He’d felt guilty, for what he was doing. To you. But he’d kept doing it.

Your voice is slightly cracked. “I don’t see how that’s a lead though-“

“We asked her if she knew where he had worked,” Hughie says. “Like what town or city, and she said he never told her because of the NDA Vought made him sign, but that he always came back with donuts from this one shop. We looked it up, and it was near the warehouse.”

“From there it was real bloody easy,” Butcher drawls. “Hughie worked his fucking little geek magic, and we checked finance statements of a few shops in the area. A few cunts who were buying donuts and coffee are currently six feet under after an accident six months ago. Terrible thing, all their faces exploded, like a bloody laser hit them. Wanna guess who they fuckin worked for?”

You shake your head, but Butcher isn’t waiting. “The one and only rich bastard, Tek Knight.”

“That could be a coincidence,“ you say nervously. “I don’t think it would hold up as evidence.”

“It ain’t fucking evidence,” Butcher grins. “It’s proof that someone who ain’t Homelander or bloody dead might’ve known about project Anomaly. It’s a solid fucking lead.”

“So we’re going…” You trail off, looking around the van for someone to explain. “Where?”

“Well, Love,” Butcher leans back. “I happen to know from a few informants that Tek Knight runs a gentlemen’s club in bloody Staten Island. Real classy joint, underground, need a password to get in type shit.”

“Informants?” You give Butcher a flat look, and he rolls his eyes.

“Had to do something with all the threats I made last week. I didn’t get fucking shot just to waste a perfectly good mole.”

Hughie stares at Butcher, agape. “You got shot?”

Butcher waves a dismissive hand. “I’m fine, it ain’t a big deal.”

“Well, yeah,” you frown. “Because I healed you. It was bad,” you say to Hughie. “Big shot, right on his chest.” 

“Got blood all of the fucking floor,” Ben mutters, and you scoff.

“You’re not the one who had to clean it up, Ben.”

“I offered-“

You glare at him. “You said ‘I’ll hold the bucket’. That’s not cleaning, it’s barely helping.”

Hughie coughs, returning your attention to him. “Um, the shot?”

“Oh, yeah. It was bad.” You shrug, tapping your leg as you look at Butcher. “You never actually said what happened.”

“I was getting your fucking plan ready,” Butcher over enunciates the your, glaring around the van as he does so. “Making sure Homelander would hear about you and not think twice of it. Had my own little double agents, took a shit ton of effort to get them, too. And like I said, I ain’t about to waste all my hard work.”

“So they told you about the club?” You ask, and Butcher smirks.

“They didn’t tell me just about the club. They told me the password, and that Tek Knight’s there, right fuckin now.”

“And that’s where we’re going,” MM called from the front. “Hopefully that motherfucker will have some answers.”

You almost ask but what if he doesn’t? What if there’s nothing? but Ben squeezes your leg, and you look up to find him watching you.

This will fucking work, his face says. And because you can feel his resolve, that protective concern wrapping around your body and through your blood, you nod.

You’d been to Staten Island once. The Senator had been attending a fundraiser in New York and insisted on taking you and your siblings to the National Lighthouse Museum, because he was the most boring man in the world. You’d asked to go to the Met, or the zoo, or at least the Empire State Building, but no. The National Lighthouse Museum. Now, years later, you were slightly taken about by how similar everything looked to your hazy childhood memory. Brick and stone and trash against the curb.

“Why Staten Island?” You ask, and Hughie shrugs.

“It’s cheap, I guess.”

“Isn’t Tek Knight a billionaire?” You point out. “That’s like, his whole thing.”

“Does not stop him from being cheap,” Frenchie mutters. “Every cheap man I have known holds millions of dollars behind his back.”

“Well, if it’s a high end club, you would think he’d want some modicum of luxury in his location.” 

Butcher snorts. “I think this ain’t the type of place that requires luxury, Love.”

“You said it was a gentlemen’s club-“

“It is. Of sorts.”

“Of sorts?” You snap, wide-eyed. “I swear to god-“ 

“It’s an indulgence. For rich pricks who need to get away from their wives and have some fucking fun.”

“Butcher,” Annie says slowly, coldly. “Are we going to a sex club?”

“No,” Butcher’s face is scornful. “They don’t do the sex in the club. That’s for after.”

“After?” You gape. “After what?”

“The performances. Bunch of classy broads whose daddies didn’t love ‘em enough, competing to get the richest cunt pay to take them home and do coke off their tits.” He winks at Ben. “You’ll fuckin love it, gov.”

Ben’s grip on you tightens, and you feel hot anger in his chest. “Fuck you.”

“Aren’t we sensitive,” Butcher jeers, “Gone soft, have we?”

You narrow your eyes at him as you cover Ben’s hand with yours, feeling his anger barreling towards fury. In a miracle of timing, the van comes to a stop right when you think Ben might punch a hole through Butcher’s chest.

As you exit the van, the alleyway around you is abandoned in the night, a few closed doors looking like they lead to very abandoned buildings.

“Are you sure this is it?” Annie voices your thoughts, looking at MM with concern.

“This is the address Butcher gave me, ask him.”

“This is right,” Butcher looks around, hands in pockets. “Frenchie, got the costumes?”

Hughie’s face pales. “Costumes?”

Butcher ignores him, shouting, “Frenchie?!”

“Oui, in the back.”

“Go bloody get them.”

Frenchie frowns, but disappears back into the van, Kimiko following after signing lazy asshole at Butcher.

“What do you mean costumes,” Hughie pushes further. “Like disguises?”

“On the money, Lad.”

“You said we had the password, Butcher,” MM glowers. “The fuck do we need disguises for.” 

“They ain’t gonna just let us in,” Butcher says. “Even if they don’t recognize us, Soldier Boy and Starlight together are a dead bloody giveaway that somethings shady. We’re goin through the back, passwords just a failsafe.”

“So why do we need costumes?” MM snaps.

“Blendin in, mate.” Butcher shrugs as Frenchie exits the van, with a set of folded outfits. “Let’s get fucking moving, we’ll change inside.”

After Butcher shatters a window that sits around knee-height, Kimiko drops through it with another glare and scowl. A few, stressful seconds later, one of the steel doors opens down the alley, and you follow the group down steep stairs and into one of the creepiest fluorescent lit hallways you’ve ever seen.

“You ever see The Shining?” Ben mutters in your ear, and you nod, glancing back at him.

“When I was thirteen, at a friend’s sleepover. I wanted Jennifer’s Body, but I got outvoted. Why?”

“This creepy fucking hallway reminded me of it.” You can hear the tone drop that means he’s frowning, feel his confusion as his hand brushes your arm. “What’s Jennifer’s Body?”

“Teen horror movie. Megan Fox gets possessed by a demon and murders a bunch of men about it. It’s hot.”

“Hot?”

You nod passively. “Her dress is kind of ugly at the end, but she’s so pretty it works. We’ll watch it later.”

There’s pause. “You like it?”

“The movie, or Megan Fox?”

“Both.” He says, and you hum an agreement.

“Megan Fox is objectively hot, and it’s a great movie. I mean, it’s trash, but that’s what makes it great. You’ll like it.”

“Fine.”

“Hot ladies and murder, Ben, it checks all your boxes.” You shoot him a grin over your shoulder as you follow the team into a side room, and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m already fucking sold, Sunshine.” He says, stopping at your side. “Calm the hell down.”

You wrinkle your nose at him as Butcher starts to direct everyone’s role in the plan.

“Me, MM, and Soldier Boy will be rich cunts. Try and squeeze some information out of these haughty fucking pricks.” Butcher points at each person as he speaks, and Frenchie passes them neatly folded and pressed suits.

“I’m not wearing a fucking suit,” Ben grunts, glaring at you for aid. You just shrug, half because you pick your battle carefully and know you’ll lose this one, half because you really want to see Ben in a suit.

“Don’t look at me, Pretty Boy. I’m not the one you have to convince.”

“And you don’t get to pick and choose this shit, motherfucker.” MM snaps. “You don’t get special treatment.”

“Aren’t I not allowed anywhere without-” Ben’s grumble of your name is cut off by Butcher’s snort.

“We’ve got enough of Frenchie’s Soldier Boy Special to knock out the whole bleedin state. You’re wearing the suit, Gov.”

You shrug half-heartedly, giving Ben an apologetic look you can feel his exasperation at through where his arm is brushing yours.

Fucking traitor. His frown says.

You grin. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

“Frenchie and Kimiko will be staff,” Butcher says. “Talk to some of the waiters and shit, see what they’re hearin.”

Nodding, Frenchie sets a stereotypical waiter’s uniform down on the floor for himself, and passes one to Kimiko.

Why are we staff? She signs at Frenchie with a frown, and he shrugs.

Because, you nudge Kimiko with your foot, signing when she looks. Your dick is too big for those insecure, money hungry assholes, they’ll start crying about it.

She grins, and you look back at Butcher in time to hear the last instructions.

“Starlight and Hughie will search the back courtesy of our very own songbird.” He turns to you with a smirk, saying your name. “I hope those pipes are warm and ready.”

You blink, speaking slowly as fire starts to itch in your throat. “What are you talking about.”

Butcher’s smile grows. “Figured we’d put your talent to use. You’re going on stage.”

Everything feels white-hot along your lungs and brain, and your mouth is dry. “What the fuck did you do.”

“Signed you up for the talent, Love.” Butcher's tone is passive, bored, and you might start screaming. “I hear exposure therapy works wonders.”

“Holy shit, Butcher.“ Annie gives him a look of disbelief. “What the hell is your problem?”

“We needed someone backstage, workin the girls.” Butcher shrugs. “She’s the easiest in.”

You take a deep, heavy breath, pushing the fire down and meeting Butcher eyes steadily. “Is this because we dropped the plan? Is that why you’re being such a fucking child?”

“I ain’t got a clue what you’re implying.”

“Butcher,” you say, slow and careful in your words. “I can’t do this. You don’t want me to do this.”

“Because of a little fuckin stage fright? You don’t get any exceptions either-”

“No,” you grip yourself tightly as you cut Butcher off. “I just need you, for once, to trust me. You don’t want this.”

“I think I’ll manage to live,” Butcher sneers, and something in you feels fraught.

“I can’t fucking do this,” you look desperately around the room. “Somebody else has to do this. Annie can sing, have her do it.”

“But she’s recognizable,” Hughie says sorry, his face a picture of guilt.

You whip around to MM, saying his name in a plea. “You can’t let him do this. It’s not just stage fright, I can’t sing in front of people.”

“They probably won’t put you on stage,” MM frowns. “And even though he’s being a fucking dick about it, he’s right. We need someone backstage.”

“No,” you shake your head in disbelief. “You don’t understand.”

“Look, we’ve all bloody heard you,” Butcher says lazily. “And MM’s right, you probably won’t even go onstage. We all gotta make fuckin sacrifices.”

“You don’t care about the sacrifices,” you hiss, the brittle thing in your body snapping in two. “You just hate me because I’m a supe and you can’t control me. I’m not scared to go onstage, I fucking can’t. I’ll-“ you choke over your words, pushing down the truth. They’d heard you sing. They hadn’t been in the room with you. They hadn’t seen what it did.

Ben's hand is on your back, and you feel the rage in him. Violent and bloody and making the world focused. From the corner of your eye, you see him glaring at your team, the look on his face murderous.

You take a deep breath, steady your heart into even beats, your world sharp and cold as your words become measured. “I don’t have words for how terrible an idea this is.”

Butcher shrugs. “Well-“

“But I’m going to power through and find them.” You sneer. “It’s a dogshit, idiotic, fucking insanely stupid idea, so much that I’m almost fucking impressed! It’s so batshit crazy that it makes my brain hurt, makes me wonder how fuck you’ve gotten away with not dying yet.” You take a rushed breath. “But I’m going to do it. I’ll do it, because I said I was going to do what it takes. But I will never,” you say every syllable long and clear. “Ever, fucking forgive this.”

Annie says your name apologetically, even as she takes a step back. “I’m sorry, but it’s the only way-“

“I know that,” you say, holding your ground. “And I know you don’t hate me. I know you’re afraid of me, and I get it. But you don’t trust me. I don’t know why, but none of you trust me. So I’ll do it, but you don’t get to be mad at me or disappointed in me when it goes sideways.”

You snatch the last thing Frenchie is holding, a dress, and don’t flinch as you hold their nervous, shameful expressions.

“Bathrooms are down the hall,” MM mutters, not meeting your eyes. “We’ll get changed and split up. Everyone keep their phones near them.” 

As everyone filters out, Ben holds you back. “We can fucking lea-“

“We’re not leaving,” you say flatly. “I’ll be fine.”

“You look like you’re about to damn explode,” He says your name with a frown, and you roll your eyes.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t do that,” Ben growls. “Don’t lie to me. I’m not afraid of you, I trust you, and I came to terms with the fact that nobody can control you a long fucking time ago. It’s one of the things I like about you. So don’t fucking lie to me.”

You make yourself hold your eyes to his, but you can’t keep your voice controlled. “Ben, I have to tell you some-“

Hughie pushes the door open, looking between where you and Ben stand, close together with his hand on the small of your back. “Sorry,” he stumbles words over each other. “Annie and I just, uh, we can’t go without you.” He’s still not glancing at you for more than a second, even as he says your name. “So, whenever you’re ready.”

Forcing your head not to turn back to Ben, you nod. “I”m coming,” you say, and hate the bitter tone in your voice as you walk into the hall.

You find the bathrooms with ease, Annie leaning outside the door in the same clothes from before, and push past her through the swinging door.

Kimiko is there, sitting silently on the sink in her waiter uniform. You give her a small, joyless smile before pushing into one of the disgusting, grime covered stalls. The dress you’ve been given is short, low-cut, and feels like poison on your skin. When you walk back out, fully changed, Kimiko jumps down from the sink, moving to grab your hand firmly.

You blink at her, feeling the genuine guilt and sadness running through her, without any pity or fear.

“I’m not mad at you,” you say gently. “You couldn’t have done much.”

She shakes her head, releasing her grip to sign I’m still sorry. They shouldn’t have done that, even if it’s important.

“I’ll live. And I know they mean well.” Even if the words feel hollow, you say them anyway.

Doesn’t make it okay, she signs furiously. You’ve sacrificed.

“But-“

You have. Just as much as all of us. You didn’t choose to be this, just like me. It’s not your fault you’re a supe, you shouldn’t be punished for it.

“It’s different. They all trust you.”

They can hurt me with weapons. I heal, but they can hurt me. They can’t hurt you. So they do this instead.

You sigh. “This won’t hurt me. It’ll just be….” You watch your reflection in the mirror. “Bad.”

Why?

“Because,” you give her a sad smile. “They’re right not to trust me. I keep too many secrets.”

Secrets?

“The third V shot, it-“

For the second time, right before you can lift this weight off your chest, the door opens.

“We need to go,” Annie says. Just like Hughie, she won’t look at you either.

You nod, giving Kimiko a closed-lip, grimacing smile, and follow Annie out of the bathroom. Hughie’s waiting outside, foot tapping with his hands on his hips.

“Are we ready?” At Annie’s nod, Hughie gestures down the hall. “Butcher said he marked the door. I don’t know what that means.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Annie reassures him, and you follow them further down the hall. 

“They’ll have a different dress backstage for you, this is just to get you in the door.” You blink at Annie as she drops a step back to talk to you. “I’m really sor-“

“Save it,” you say flatly.

“If this works, it’ll be over soon. All of it.” Her voice is soft, like you’re fragile. “I know you said you can’t-“

“Annie.” You keep your eyes ahead, make your voice firm. “For both our sake, please just stop.”

“We’re here.” Hughie stops any further attempts to apologize from Annie as he points to a scratch mark on the frame of a red door. He says your name in that same, delicate tone Annie was using. “You’ll go first, Butcher said to find the ‘sleazy greased cunt’s office’. Just, uh, prop open the door or something and we’ll follow.”

You nod, and—without another look to either of them—walk through the door.

The difference is immediate. Lush, carpeted floors. Clean walls. Everything smells like smoke and spice and all the lights are a soft yellow. You walk carefully down the hall, and stop when you reach a door that’s been left slightly ajar, enough to fully see inside the room. There’s a middle aged man at a desk, wearing a gray suit and an egregious amount of hair mousse as he scrolls through something on the computer. Glancing back at the door—sporting a silver plaque reading Talent Office—you decide it’s more than an educated guess that he’s the sleazy greased cunt Butcher was referring to.

Steeling yourself, you knock.

The man looks up almost immediately, a crude smile crossing his face. “Well, hello there. How can I help you, sweetheart?”

“Are you in charge of the talent?” You ask, making your voice sweet, eyes doe-like, and expression naive and innocent. It takes an active effort to keep your lips from curling in disgust at the once over he gives you.

“Read the sign, gorgeous.” You want to wrap that too-big tie around his throat, even as you give him a simpering pout.

“Oh, sorry.” Breathy laugh, inflate his ego, don’t rip out his slimy hair. “My friend said he found me a job.”

“Your friend?” The man asks, frowning slightly. “Angry brit?”

“Yeah,” you silently curse Butcher, both for the situation he’s put you in and not giving you enough information about it. “I hope he didn’t give you enough of a problem? I can go-“

“No,” the man stands, moving from behind his desk. “You’re just fine where you are. Dude seemed protective, but seeing you, it makes sense.” He chuckles, and the sound crawls along your skin. 

“Oh, thank you.” This smile is making your cheeks hurt, and you move your hand behind your back so he doesn’t see your nails in your skin. Or that the marks don’t stay.

“Yeah, I’m liking what I’m seeing.” He winks at you, and you wonder how easy it is for eyes to burn. “I’m gonna get the big boss, you stay right here beautiful.”

You want to rip out his tongue. He doesn’t get to call you that. Nobody gets to, except-

“Oh,” you shake your head slightly, trying to seem shy while physically forcing the thoughts out of your head. “I’m sure you don’t have to bother him-“

“Nah, he’ll love to see you.” The man reaches up, rubbing your arms as he moves you slightly to the side. “Don’t go anywhere.”

With one last awful wink, he’s gone.

You feel your phone buzz in your hand.

Annie January: Arm Wrestling Champion

Are you in? 

Not yet, you text back. Butcher was right, Tek Knight is here.

Annie’s typing, but before she can send the text, you hear a voice coming and look up sharply. You barely manage to turn back into the terrible persona you’ve chosen for yourself before Mr. Talent returns, another suit-clad man at his side.

This one you recognize. Grossly expensive suit, short hair, wolf-like smile and cold eyes.

“Tek Knight,” you reach out your hand, making your voice soft and of wonder rather than fevered disgust. “It’s a honor, sir-“

“This her?” Tek Knight looks you up and down, slower than Mr. Talent had. “Nice.”

“Thank you,” you say, bowing your head instead of punching his.

He ignores you. “And someone vouched for her?”

Mr. Talent nods. “Yes, sir. Mean guy, sounded British over the phone. Said she sounded like an angel.”

“He your boyfriend?” Your mouth falls open when you realize you’re being addressed.

 “No, just a friend. Wanted to help me out, I haven’t had much luck finding a new job.” 

“Good,” Tek Knight’s nod makes your stomach churns, his eyes still scanning over your figure. “She’s got the looks. Smoking hot.” You have to physically bite your tongue. “Can you dance?” 

“Enough,” you say truthfully, even if the words are sugary. “I know how to put on a show.”

Tek Knight nods, speaking to Mr. Talent without looking away from you. “Put her on stage. Tonight. And tell me when she’s up.” 

You think the shock in your body might stop you from ever speaking again. You just stare, mouth open, as Tek Knight gives a click of his tongue and walks away. You don’t even have a mind to try and play it off as graceful shyness, or humble disbelief from being chosen. The fire is loud in your ears, time moving too fast. The world isn’t blurry, it’s too sharp, bright and far away. Mr. Talent is talking with a hand on your lower back, but you can barely feel it, and you can’t really hear him. All you can think is no. He’s guiding you down the hall, through another door, and all you can do is stumble where he pushes you forward.

“…and we’ll need your measurements, sweetheart.” Mr. Talent’s words manage to find their way into your head as he pushes you down into a chair, across from one of those dressing mirrors you’ve only seen in movies. “We can find a dress that fits fine until one of the girls will make you something special.”

“Oh, that's not necessary.” Your voice is quiet, and you’re not faking nervous humility anymore as you try to stand on shaky legs. “I can just-“

“All of our talent gets custom outfits,” Mr. Talent speaks over you, hands moving to your shoulders. Holding you in the seat. “We’ll figure out your sell, and you’ll get one too.”

“My sell?”

He winks at you in the mirror. “Your brand, darling.” You wish he would settle on one nickname. “Are you sour or sweet? Hot or pretty? Heartbreaker or girl-next-door? Gentle or a little spitfire? What’s your pitch? Why should they take you home?”

“I don’t-“

“Now usually, we’d wait a few shows before deciding. But I think the boss might want you to fit to him.” A painful lump is sitting in your throat. “And luckily, I know what he likes. Candy!”

You frown—confusion pushing through your clouding fear as you think you might be about be covered in whipped cream and chocolate—until a pink-haired, acrylic-nailed woman appears from seemingly nowhere at Mr. Talent’s side.

“What’s up, Mikey?” She’s talking to Mr. Talent, chewing gum loudly through her words, twisting a large and gaudy diamond ring on her finger.

“New girl. I’m putting her on in an hour, get her ready.”

Candy scans over you through the mirror, a pouting frown on her face. “She new new?” At Mr. Talent’s nod, she gives him a worried look. “Shouldn’t we wait-“

“No time for regular training, boss’s orders she’s on tonight.”

“Boss’s orders?” Candy's mouth falls open for a second, and Mr. Talent just shrugs. “Does that mean-“

“Full special. She’s singing, make sure it matches.”

Candy nods, and with that, Mr. Talent is gone.

“What’s your name, babe?” Candy asks, her nails combing gentle through your hair, holding your gaze in the mirror.

You tell her truthfully, and she hums.

“How’d you end up here?”

“My friend got me the job.”

“Friend? How’d she know about this?”

“He’s into shady shit.” Truth. “But he just wants what’s best for me.” Lie.

“He?” Candy makes a sour face, and when her hand falls to your shoulder you feel genuine concern running through her chest. “He ain’t your boyfriend, right?”

You shake your head. “You’re the second person to ask me that,” you say carefully. Her heart flips slightly, so you push forward. “Would it be a, like a problem if he was?”

“They don’t like us having those types of attachments,” she says flatly. “Makes the clients insecure.” You glance at the ring on her finger, and she chuckles slightly. “My wife don’t count to them. It’s exotic, sexy. Not a threat.”

“That sucks,” you mutter, and she just shrugs. 

“I get to keep her. Get to be happy. Most girls here don’t get that.”

You watch Candy reach to the side, pulling to her side a trolley of makeup and products that would put Annie’s to shame. “How long have you been here?”

“Almost ten years. Longer than anyone, even Mikey.” She examines lipsticks as she speaks, glancing between your reflection and the colors. “Been dancing twenty, ballet, but this pays better than any arts center.”

“So you know everyone?” You make your tone casual, curious. An innocent girl at a new job. “Even Tek Knight?”

Though her face is neutral, Candy’s hand brushing your hair from your face betrays something sour in her gut. “Most everyone. And he’s a fine boss, but that’s all I know about Tek Knight.”

“What about the other staff?”

“Lot of turnover,” she pulls your hair fully back with a clip. “Mikey said you’re singing?”

The stone in your gut and itch in your throat returns quickly. “I don’t know, I don’t have anything prepared.”

“They’ll take care of that.” Candy moves around to stand in front of you. “You just gotta put on the show they want.”

“Oh,” you swallow, and Candy must notice, because she gives you a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry, you’ll do great. Just play up whatever they tell you to by a hundred.” At your confused expression, she continues. “If they want us sweet, we make it sickly. If they want us hot, be the sun. Mysterious, be Agatha Christie.”

“I don’t know what they want from me though.”

“You’re getting the boss special.” Candy explains, holding your chin up as she begins her work. “He likes them gentle but fierce, cute but hot, a good chase but an easy catch. “

You try and keep your face still as you respond. “That doesn’t make any sense. Those words are oxymorons, you can’t be both at once, it’s a Madonna-whore complex-“ You cut yourself off at the amused look on Candy’s face.

“We know that.” She says. “But they don’t care. They want a toy, not a woman. Lucky for us, they pay a shit ton for toys.”

You give a small sound of acknowledgement, falling silent as Candy continues her work, and when she steps to the side your face is painted—lips red and eyes shimmering—with every strand of hair in a careful place.

“Gorgeous,” Candy smiles at you. “You’re up soon, feel free to warm up while I get your outfit.”

As she leaves the room, you watch yourself in the mirror, the person almost unrecognizable. You can’t do this. Not just because it will give everything away, because the secret you’ve buried too deeply and piously will be revealed. Because there’s no way to know what will happen. You don’t get to pick the song, they could give you one that sends you into a dreamscape or conjures fireworks, or one that sends you into childhood. Into the white room. You can’t do this. Even your team didn’t think it would come to this. It’s not too late to run. You could find Ben easily—you don’t think you could miss him in a crowd if you tried—and tell him the truth. He’d help you leave, he’d always help you leave. But no matter what, you need to find him. Tell him first. The last secret, he needs to know before anything else happens. You need to tell him, now-

Candy returns, holding a long, silky dress. Passing it into your hands, she gives you a kind smile.

“You’re going to do great, they’ll love you.” You don’t want them to love you, you need to find Ben. Before- “You’re next, I’d get changed now.” Candy squeezed your hand, and you feel genuine worry for you, paired with nervous hope. “Good luck.”

You’re rooted in place for a minute after she leaves. There has to be a way out of this, you heard the door’s lock click, but there has to be a way. You can’t do this, you have to go find Ben-

Only the buzzing of your phone pulls you from your head. 

William Butcher: Worst Boss Ever

Starlight says you’re not answering her.

If you’re not dead, get your shit together.

You glare at the messages before dropping your phone next to the dress, running its material through your hands. It’s cool and smooth, and when you finally manage to make yourself change into it, it feels like a snake skin. Flowing around you, cold and slimy and wrong.

“You ready, gorgeous?” It’s Mr. Talent—Mikey, Candy called him—pushing through the door and letting out a bone-chilling whistle when he sees you. “Hot damn, yeah you are.”

“I, uh-“ You need to find a way, at least delay this. “I still don’t know what I’m singing.”

Mikey winks at you, holding out a sheet of printed paper. “I took care of that for you, beautiful.”

You force down the fire pinching at your nose and lining in your tongue, taking the paper and reading along the printed lyrics. Your chest starts to contract, lungs and heart pushing up against your ribs.

It’s a song about sex. You recognize it, you’ve heard it before, and it’s a song about sex. It’s not subtle or coded with innuendos. It’s just a song about sex. Plain and blatantly simple. And when you look up at Mikey, he’s smirking at your flushed expression.

“I don’t want to do this one,” you say, trying to sound docile and timid. You want to scream and burn, but that’s not an option. You need to play your hand, a naïve girl who is nervous to sing about sex.

“Bosses orders.” Mikey winks again. He should just sow his eye shut at this point. “We can put the lyrics on a teleprompter-“

“I know the song,” you shake your head, borderline frantic. “I just-“

“Of course you do, you little vixen.” Mikey looks you up and down again. “Oh, you’re going to kill it sweetheart. Just put some of that sweet honey on it.”

You don’t know what that means. You don’t get time to ask, though, because you’re herded further into the backstage area. You leave the mirror and makeup to stand behind a red curtain where you can hear applause and taunting laughter.

Mikey leaves your side for a heartbeat, and you hardly notice, too occupied fighting the coal-tasting fear in your mouth. He returns, ushering a large, bald man in an all-white suit along with him.

Mikey says your name twice, tone a little sharper the second time when the first only received a blank stare. “This is Mr. Great, he’ll be on piano for you.”

“Mr. Great?” You repeat, looking the newcomer up and down. His suit is somehow both too tight and too loose at once, he’s wearing round sunglasses that make him look like a dollar store Ray Charles, even as the high collar of his shirt and toothy smile give him an aura of Elton John.

“It’s my stage name, honey.” Mr. Great extends his hand, and when you shake it you feel almost inflated pride and grimy amusement. “You can call me Steve.”

You will not be calling him Steve.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Great,” you say his terrible alias kindly, an overly excited smile plastered on your face.

“Pleasures all mine,” Mr. Great says your name, the grime pulsing through his hand into you, and you hold down bile in your stomach. “I’m sure we’ll make a great team.”

Mikey’s tapping on his phone, glancing up as you pull your own hand from Mr. Greats grimy one. “All set, sweetheart?”

You nod. This is happening, now way out. Not as Mr. Great is smiling like a snake and Mikey is taking you in one last time. You still try, just one last time. “Are we sure I’m ready? You haven’t even heard me sing-“

“You’re ready,” Mikey dismisses. “And they,” you loathe the way he says that word, long and cold. “Don’t care how well you sing. You’ve already done the important part.”

“The important part?”

Mikey winks one last time, already turning away with a smirk. “Look like something they want.”

You watch him leave, giving a small start when you feel Mr. Great’s hand rubbing the small of your back.

“You’ll have them eating out of your hand, darlin.” He turns you around to face the velvet curtains. “Remember, it’s all in the hips and smile.”

“What does that-“ Mr. Great is gone before you can finish, ducking behind the far end of the curtain as applause sounds loudly from the other side. You really wish these people would stop talking in indecipherable and cryptic metaphors.

A blonde, curvy and full lipped woman opens the curtain before you, walking past you in a smooth strut that turns to a slouched, glowering stance once the audience is muffled once more.

She doesn’t look surprised to see you, pulling out a cigarette and addressing you wearily. “You new?”

You nod, words reduced to lumps in your throat.

“Good night to be new.” She hums thoughtfully. “Boss is here. Lots of good pickings for bidders. You a singer?”

“How did you know,” you manage to ask.

“Saw Steve. Good luck, new girl. Confidence is key.”

With that, she’s gone, and everything feels vile and sharp and bright.

You hear a voice that might be Candy, but cheerier and faster than you’d heard before, saying your name. Growing louder as wolf whistles and cheers start to sound.

Confidence is key. Hips and smile. Put sweet honey on it.

All the advice ringing in your head is pointless—this is going to hell and chaos no matter what kind of show you put on—but that doesn’t scratch the words from spinning through you.

The curtain opens to bright lights and shadow-cast bodies behind them. Candy’s gesturing you onto the stage, and your feet move of their own accord. She gives you a squeeze, gentle on your arm, and walks down stairs off the side, leaving you alone, elevated with a microphone and cold sweat in the spotlight.

You’re saved from trying to greet your audience, trying to find words that aren’t panicked or fearful by the first notes of the piano. It’s setting a rhythm—a little longer of an introduction than the song usually has—and you take the time to search the crowd. Tek Knight is watching in the back, behind a roped off, throne-like booth that he leans forward on. But your gaze is pulled away, because there is something you can feel, something angry that’s rioting against you. Something stone like watching you.

You lock eyes with Ben, his handsome face just barely visible from the back of the room, just before your cue hits, and you have to start the show.

The lyrics are pulled from your brain, sensual and explicit with flowing low notes that you force warm emotion into and belted high notes you make breathy. Time has become long, because the song is only vocals—no longer instrumental breaks—and you can’t control what’s happening. But you can’t look away from Ben either. It’s like his eyes are pulling you, removing you from your body to just watch your own show.

It starts almost deceptively simple. Hazy fairy lights floating through the room. Ocean-like mist against skin, everything smelling like pine trees and coffee and gunpowder. Gravity feels less powerful, the sky is opening up to stars and moons as everything is cast in a soft glow. And you still can’t look away from Ben, even as the room gasps, half-entranced and half-bemused. You can’t look away, not as the instrument accompaniment fills the room, drowning out Mr. Great’s piano but amplifying your voice. You can’t look away, not as the chorus hits and your singing seems to split into echoing harmonies, your body swaying in time with the music.

Then you’re yanked back into your body, because you feel someone behind you and when you turn—never missing a beat—it’s Ben. Not real Ben, still in the silently watching crowd. Fake Ben, smiling at you the way Real Ben would, eyes glimmering the way Real Ben’s do. Moving with you, hands on your hips and body pressed to yours. You can’t feel anything from him, no amusement or anger or desire, but you can’t stop. It’s like you’re under a spell, the rest of the world fading except for you, the imagined Ben before you, and the true Ben who you can still hauntingly feel.

The song starts to move too fast. Fire is spreading across the stage and you don’t know if it’s real or just another effect. Soft steam is rising, and the pine smell is growing stronger. You’re dancing with Fake Ben, his hands are tracing along your waist and resting on your hips and it feels so real. You reach up to touch his face—still holding the microphone in one hand—and even his smirk looks like Real Ben’s. His hands have all the same callous’ he moves the same way Real Ben does, and when he spins you—pressing your back to his chest—you can hear his heartbeat. It’s one second off from Real Ben’s.The song drops into a slower tempo, a rest before the finale, it’s all moving too fast away from you. Fake Ben falls to his knees, and when the high note comes he picks you up, spinning you around as the whole room becomes flooded with light. You feel high.

And you can still feel Real Ben.

In barely a second it’s over, and Fake Ben disappears into shining mist with the rest of the song. You’re in a dark club, alone on the stage, illuminated by the spotlight as the room hangs in silence.

The first person applauds, and everyone erupts. You look out into the crowd—you need to find Ben—and he’s right where he’d been before. His mouth is closed, stiller than a statue, and his shock and confusion and something hot and loud and powerful is coursing across the room into you. It’s his, you’re certain. It’s not yours, or Candy’s as she pulls you backstage, or Mr. Great’s as he claps your back. You know it’s Ben’s. You just do.

You’d bet the world on it. 

The blonde woman, Candy, and Mr. Great are all trying to talk to you, but you can’t hear them. They sound as if they’re speaking gibberish, and everything is so bright and you can’t feel anything but Ben. Almost on instinct you try to walk back onto the stage, to find Ben, but you barely push the curtain aside before Candy is yanking you back.

It’s enough though. All the world comes crashing back, violent and acidic, when—in those split seconds—you see it. 

Tek Knight is gone from his throne.

Like you’ve been re-animated, you turn to Candy, words harsh and fast. “I need to leave. Now. You need to pretend you’ve never met me, and get as far away from here as you can.”

“What was that, are you a supe?” Candy’s panicking, arms frantic.

“Yes. Kind of. Not really. I mean, Vought-” You stumble through the words quickly, shaking your head. “Look, there’s no time. You need to listen to me. You’re in danger.”

Candy yells your name. “You need to fucking explain-“

“I can’t. You need to go, get out, right fucking now, I can’t let more people die because of me-“

“Because of you?!” Candy’s voice is shrill, and you feel her panic as you try to herd her to the exit.

“You need to go, I’m so sorry, you need to-” You choke on the words when you see Mikey coming down the hall with anger in his eyes. You don’t look at Candy as you say “run”. 

Mikey barely has time to speak before you’re barreling past him, down the hall, trying to re-trace your step. Outside of your adrenaline consumed mind, you know going out onto the stage, where there was a crowd and you knew the team had been was the better idea. But all you can think is get away, far, far away. There’s no smoke filling your vision, everything feels frozen over in your body, so you just run.

You’re moving too fast to see the foot, stretched out to block your path.

Falling forwards, your hands don’t catch you on the ground before someone is grabbing your arm. You never hit the ground, being yanked back and pulled to the side. A door slams behind you, a white and flickering ceiling light turns on, and you’re in a storage room. Surrounded by dresses, costumes, feather fans, ribbons, and Tek Knight. Towering over you, hand still gripping your arm, pushing you back, back, back into a wall.

You try to burn him, but everything is so cold. All you can feel is your blood and his disgusting satisfaction. No matter how hard you try, you can’t feel any itch of flame below your skin. 

“It looks like I won the fucking lottery,” Tek Knight leers at you, arm pinned to your side, and says your name. Your full name. Your real, full name that’s carved into stone in Boston. “Sister Sage told me to look out for you, little girl. She was complaining about some sort of fucking security breach, told me to look for you.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir-“

Tek Knight’s laugh is a crude, over-enunciated cackle. “Don’t play stupid with me, Bitch. You’ve been giving me problems. I designed that fucking security system, and now Homelander and Sage won’t get off my ass about it-“

You drop any buttery, over-innocent persona. Jig is up, gloves off. “I thought your company designed that security system.” You sneer. “I read that fucking article about the lawsuit, asshole. All you did was take credit for someone’s work.”

“That scientist was a fucking liar,” Tek Knight hisses, slamming you back into wall, your head hitting concrete. “He was just jealous of me, because his wife wanted to sleep with me more than that blue-balled nerd.”

“I’m sure he was really jealous of your tiny dick,” you spit, almost relishing in the childish anger through Tek Knight’s body. “And your shit fucking business ideas. Did anyone even buy those Tek Knight phones, or did they see how it shrank your dick and-”

Tek Knight’s elbow presses into your throat, a too wide smile across his face as your words turn into a long wheeze. “I’m a genius,” he sneers. “I’m going to get the reward for finding you, giving you over to Homelander.” 

The fire is still gone, because the pain and fear and panic is freezing you alive. Biting into your brain and heart and lungs and limb to hold you down in place as Tek Knight taunts you.

“He’s going to beg me to join the Seven,” your eyes feel like icicles are moving through them. “I’ll kick that diversity hire bitch out,” your tongue feels numb in your mouth. “And while I’m at it, that fast boy out too,” you can’t move and everything is so heavy, something deep from the back of your head is trying to flee your body. “and I’m going to buy you, fucking own you, you weak fucking bitch-“

Tek Knight’s eyes grow wide, his grip becoming slack as his body locks up. You can’t feel him, you’re still filled with frost along your bones and mind. It feels bigger. Doubled, consuming, and never-ending. His arm is still against your air-pipe, leaning further into you as he loses balance. Something is moving behind you both, shouts and thumps and gunshots, but everything is just cold and your head feels like air.

The last thing you see before the world goes dark is Ben, pushing the door of the storage room open with a roar.

————

Butcher had noticed Tek Knight’s absence before Ben. The room was in a chaos, some rich pussies whining about being drugged, some trying to push backstage, most just fucking confused. But Ben was locked in his seat, rigid and reeling. He didn’t know what had just happened. She’d looked at him, and started singing—that same warm and clear voice that could move mountains and armies—and the whole world had unraveled. Lights and water and nature had taken over, and Ben had wondered if the French Prick had slipped him some sort of experimental psychedelic. Then he’d managed to see MM and Butcher from the corner of his eye, wearing matching shocked and spellbound expressions. 

It had felt like an enchantment had been cast over the room. Whatever trick She was pulling, those illusions she was somehow spinning felt so fucking real. Nobody could move, or look away from Her. And She wouldn’t look away from Ben.

The Thing had been so powerful—eating him and burning him and roaring in his chest—before it had even happened. Then the clone, an eerie fucking perfect replica of Ben, was at Her side. And dancing with her, and touching her, and she was looking at it the way she did in Ben’s fantasies, and the Thing became all Ben could feel. When she’d finished, all he needed to do was get to Her. His feet wouldn’t fucking move, he was locked in place, but Ben needed to fucking find Her.

“Frenchie says she ain’t backstage, and they can't find Tek Knight either.” Butcher’s words, loud over the mayhem of the room, finally sprang Ben into action. 

Danger, the Thing bellowed. She’s in danger.

He had pushed through the crowd, up onto the stage and through performers and club staff, ignoring MM and Butcher’s calls behind him. A guard had tried to stop him as he moved further, Ben had shoved him aside, and alarms had begun to go off. More guards had flooded the halls, gunshots going off around him, but Ben had just kept fucking moving. Looking for Her heartbeat, locking into it and following it to a closed, locked door labeled Performance Storage.

She’s falling, slumping against the wall with her eyes dropping just when Ben finally sees Her. Butcher and MM are still moving down the hall, Ben’s ripped the door off its hinges, and someone is shouting after him, but it doesn’t fucking matter. Not when he’s storming across the room, tossing a still-bodied Tek Knight to the side with little effort, and catching Her before she can hit the ground.

Ben held Her, cradling the back of her head as she remained limp against his chest. He’s half aware of Butcher and MM, now with the French Prick and Kimiko, entering the room. But he doesn’t look at them, the Thing becoming tighter in his chest the longer Her eyes stay closed. They should be open by now, they should’ve been open goddamn minutes ago. Why weren’t they fucking open, what if they didn’t fucking open. Ben could hear Her heart, but he couldn’t hear her breath. Where was her fucking breath. She can’t die, it’s not even a damn option on the table, so why couldn’t he hear her breath- 

Her body shook with a cough, and her eyes blinked open, meeting his. Her hands shoot up, one pressing into Ben’s chest as the other finds her throat, scraping along it in a clawed hand. Ben—still holding Her against him—drops his hold on her head, pulling her away from where she’s leaving quickly-fading red marks along her throat.

“Breathe,” he says Her name in a low but firm voice, twice when Her head shakes frantically. “You’re fine, it’s okay, breathe.”

She makes a choked sound. “Can’t- He said- reward-“

“You’re okay,” Ben brushes the hair clinging to her sweat-drenched forehead. “I’m right fucking here, nothing’s going to happen. I just need you to fucking breathe.”

She nodded, and though there were tears in her eyes and her breaths were still weak, but Her heart grew to an even rhythm as Ben rubbed small circles where he held her hand. He was aware of the movement behind him, MM and Kimiko dragging Tek Knight up from where Ben had thrown him, the French Prick rummaging through bins to find something to tie the asshole up. Butcher, moving behind Ben and saying Her name, cold and harsh.

“Care to explain what the fucking hell that was.” He growled, and Ben pulled Her up, holding her steady and they turned to face Butcher. 

“Now’s not the fucking time-“ Ben started to sneer at Butcher, but She squeezed his arm around her and shook her head slightly.

“It’s okay, I need to-“ another long breath, Her heart still slightly erratic as she spoke softly, the words vomiting out of Her. “It’s the third shot of V. Sensory manipulation. It only happens when I sing, and-“

“I’ve fucking heard you sing, Love,” Butcher snapped. “That shit didn’t-“

“You have to be in a certain range for it to work, I don’t know. I think it’s like a pheromone or something, I can’t control it, I didn’t think Homelander even knew about it, but he,” She pointed a shaky finger at Tek Knight. “Said that Sage was telling him to look for me.”

“Look for you?” MM looked up from where he stood, keeping gun pointed at Tek Knight’s unconscious head. “Why did they think you’d be here?”

“Security breach,” She looked nervously at Tek Knight, and Ben felt her body press closer to his own. “Sage must have seen that you got those records.”

“Well, he’ll tell us the whole bloody story when he wakes up, won’t he?” Butcher turned to the French Prick. “He ain’t dead, right? That’d be fucking annoying.” 

The French Prick looked up from where he was examining Tek Knight’s body, shaking his head with a frown. “He should wake up soonish, I do not see any burns or physical damage.”

Just then, a weak, pathetic groan escaped Tek Knight, and his eyes slowly opened. His eyes found Her first, his face twisting into a half-afraid, half-furious expression.

“What the fuck did you do to me, you fucking bitch.” His voice was hoarse, but filled with wrath. “How dare you lay a fucking hand on me-“

“I’d calm the hell down, Motherfucker.” MM pressed the gun into Tek Knight’s temple. “You don’t have any sort of upper hand right now.”

Even as the pussy falls silent, Tek Knight didn’ take his glare off Her, and Ben held her a little tighter.

“Good bloody work, Mate.” Butcher taunted, taking a step closer and bending down Tek Knight’s eye level. “Followin orders like a good little cunt.”

“Fuck you,” Tek Knight spat into Butcher’s eyes. “This is fucking bullshit, don’t you know who I am-“

“We know exactly who you are,” MM snapped. “And we’ve got some questions for you.”

“I’m not telling you fucking shit-“

“See, we ain’t asking.” Butcher gave a crude smirk. “You recognize him?” Tek Knight followed Butcher pointing finger to Ben, and his face fell pale as Butcher continued. “One word from us, and he flattens you like a pancake.” 

“Soldier Boy doesn’t fucking scare me,” his voice was shaky, and Ben just watched him coldly.

“You sure?” Butcher said, brows raised mockingly. “Cause from where I’m sat, it looks like you might be pissin yourself a little, Mate.”

“What do you want? Money?” Tek Knight looked around the room, voice growing higher. “I can give you fucking money. I can give you whatever the fuck you want.”

“We want answers,” MM clicked the safety off, and Tek Knight flinched. “And you’re going to give them to us. First off,” MM angled the gun to leave a mark on Tek Knight’s temple, pointing at Her, still silent against Ben’s side. “What do you know about the Anomaly?”

“I’m not telling you shit-“

“Yeah, yeah.” Butcher rolled his eyes. “Save us the whining and answer the fucking question.”

Tek Knight shook his head. “I don’t know what hell you’re talking about.”

“You said you knew about me,” She said, voice unsteady but loud. “You said you were going to turn me over to Homelander.”

“She’s making that shit up, trying to turn you against me.” Tek Knight snapped. “I never said any of that.”

“No, she’s not.” Ben growled, and Tek Knight scoffed.

“You really fucking believe this bitch? After all her fucking lies?” He laughed as Ben felt Her shrink backwards, heartbeat picking up pace once more. “That’s right, sweetheart. I know fucking everything. I know about all your little whore powers. I figured it out, your brain manipulation. Homelander came to me, begging for help, and I saw all the clues on the cam footage.”

“Cam footage?” MM snapped, and Tek Knight fell silent at his slip. “What fucking cam footage?”

“I told you, I’m not telling you fucking shit-“

“And we told you,” Ben hissed. “We’re not fucking asking.” He didn’t let Her go, letting her continue to lean against him as he threatened Tek Knight. “You tell us what you know, right fucking now, or I’ll break your pussy brain in half.”

“I don’t know anything-“

The French Prick snorted. “You just admitted you ‘figured it out’, no?”

“It was Sage, not me,” Tek Knight said frantically, folding in half like a fucking house of cards. “I don’t know anything, I’m a scapegoat, it’s a fucking witch hunt-“

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” MM muttered. “Answer the goddamn question.”

“I don’t know anything, they don’t tell me shit, I just help Homelander when he asks-“

“Help him with what?” Butcher snapped. “We want fucking specifics.”

“I dunno!” Ben could smell Tek Knight’s fucking sweat, coming in damn buckets. “He wants guards, I get him guards! Money, I get money! You would too, the dude is fucking terrifying. Insane!”

“Yeah, we’ve figured that out,” MM said dryly. “You keep a record of this shit?”

Tek Knight shook his head. “It’s all off the book. He doesn’t pay me, but I’m on the shortlist for the Seven-“

“Jesus bloody Christ,” Butcher gave a scornful laugh. “Your head is all the way up Homelander’s puckered ass, ain’t it?” 

“He’s going to fucking kill me,” Tek Knight was panicking, moving like a damn bobble-head. “I shouldn’t have told you anything, he’s going to kill me-“

“What about that cam footage?” MM asked. “The fuck was that about?”

“It’s gone, Sage erased it after the breach. Holy fuck, this and the breach, I’m fucking dead.” Tek Knight look around at them, desperate and fucking snot-nosed. “You have to help me, he’s going to kill me, I shouldn’t have fucking called him-“

“Called him?” MM glanced up at Butcher as he spoke, and She went rigid at Ben’s side. “The hell you mean, called him?”

“Homelander’s fucking coming, I told him about her,” his nods were aimed in Her direction, and her heart was moving so fast Ben thought it might explode. “And he’s going to kill all of us, you have to untie me, right now, please-“ 

“Nah, I think we’re good,” Butcher shrugged as he pulled out a gun, and Tek Knight’s eyes barely had time to widen before the shot went off. 

“Butcher!” Tek Knight slumped forward into MM’s gun, and MM gave Butcher a pissed scowl. “The fuck was that, we weren’t done-“

“Yeah, we were.” Butcher was turning away, watching the door with sharp eyes. “This was a shit fuckin dead end, and now we’re right back where we damn started.”

She let out a strangled gasp, and started tugging at Ben with hushed, frantic words. “He said Homelander-“ Her nails were pushing into his arm, but he just held her steady. “Homelander’s coming, he’s coming-“ 

“We heard him.” Butcher’s eyes didn’t leave the door as he loaded his gun. “Frenchie, look for any weapons that cunt might have, MM, tell Hughie to get the van ready, we have to move fast.”

The door burst open, and MM fired right at Starlight who had jumped in front of Cocksucker at the last second. 

“Oh shit!” Cocksucker yelled, catching Starlight as she stumbled backwards. “It’s us, it’s just us!” 

“Homelander,” Starlight’s breath was heavy, coughing as she spoke. “He’s here, just landed at the stage.” 

“Did he see you?” Butcher demanded, catching the rounds the French Prick was tossing to him.

Cocksucker shook his head. “I don’t think so, I mean he didn’t try to laser us so that’s a good sign, but it’s all I have to go off-“

“Kid,” MM said sternly. “Not the time for rambling. Did he see you, yes or no.”

“No?”

He on his way?”

“Probably?”

“Shit,” MM exchanged another look with Butcher. “The halls won’t be safe. There got to be a back exit-“

“That's how we got in,” Butcher grunted. “It’s our best fucking bet. Kimiko and Soldier Boy will have to lead-“

“The fuck I’m leading,” Ben interrupted Butcher with a glower, gesturing to Her. “She can’t fucking walk-“

“She’s gonna have to,” MM’s voice was apologetic as he said her name, and Ben didn’t give a shit. “She’s an adult, she’ll be fine. Butcher-“

Ben tuned out the continuing arguments and planning as he looked down at Her, with hands fisted on his sleeve and legs shaking. The strangled sounds had died from her throat minutes ago, and all she seemed to do was stare at the door with terror, breaths coming jagged and short. He said her name lowly, and she didn’t even flinch.

“We need to run,” he said Her name again. “I need you to fucking run.”

All he got in response was a shaking head.

Ben stalked over to the French Prick, holding Her slightly off the ground to move with him. “Give me a fucking gun.”

“Not in goddamn hell,” MM answered before the French Prick could.

Ben spat his words at no one in particular. “I’m only taking the lead if you give me a fucking gun.”

“Give it to him, Frenchie.” Butcher’s order was brisk as he looked Ben up and down, eyes resting on where She still clung to his side.

“Monsieur Butcher-“

“Now.” Butcher snapped, turning to face the hall.

“Butcher are you fucking insane-“

“We don’t have time for bloody useless arguments, MM, we’ve got to go, right fucking now.”

Ben snatched the gun offered weakly by the French Prick, not sparing him a fucking glance. As he lowered one arm to hold Her up—wrapping fully around her waist—Ben dropped his voice so only she could hear as he began to load his gun.

“I’m going to pick you up,” he grunted. “Because you can’t fucking run right now, and I’m not leaving you. Got it?” When she was only silent, Ben angled her face to his. “Sunshine, I need to you to nod. I’ve fucking got you, understood?” 

“Ben-“ Her voice was weak, tired, afraid. The Thing was stilled from rage in a second, needing to make it better. “I’m-“

“You’re going to be fine.” He hissed. “I swear on my goddamn life.”

With that, Ben tossed her over his shoulder like a perfect, beautiful, fear-frozen sack of fucking potatoes and walked to the door as she grew slack against him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Soldier Boy,” MM grabbed his arm as they passed each other. “If you screw us, motherfucker-“

Ben yanked his arm away. “This is two way road, you fucking got that? If you pussies screw us,” Ben didn’t have to gesture to Her for MM’s eyes to glance between them. “You’re going to wish Homelander had killed you.” He turned to where Starlight stood at the door. “Now are we fucking ready?” 

“Whenever you are, Gov,” Butcher drawled, falling into his place in their shit formation at Cocksucker’s side. 

Ben paused for a half second, making sure She was secure around him, before walking—gun raised and braced for oncoming fire—into the hall. 

It was quiet. Too fucking quiet. The only heartbeats Ben could hear were Hers and the Pussy-Brigades behind him. Kimiko was keeping pace with Ben’s long, fast steps, and he didn’t miss the quick, worried looks she kept giving Her. She was still unmoving, breath almost mechanically steady, and smoke had begun to rise from her body. It didn’t cloud Ben’s vision, and She’d only grown warm without flame, so Ben kept fucking moving. They were so goddamn close to being out, and everywhere was still so fucking empty. Through the door, down the creepy as shit hallway. Up the stairs, into the still abandoned alleyway. The team filtered after him, weapons not lowering for a second. The door slammed behind MM and Starlight at the rear, and—in a vigilant silence—they loaded into the van. She didn’t let go of Ben as he sat against the wall, engine rumbling to life, and he didn’t try to make her. 

Something was wrong, this was too fucking easy. The Thing, still fully focused on Her, felt wired, on edge, like she might vanish from Ben’s hands. She still hadn’t spoken, and as Ben lowered her into his lap she moved her grip to the collar of his shirt. They were getting further and further away, but something still felt fucking off. Ben didn’t fucking trust it, some sort of other shoe was just waiting to fucking drop-

Her hands raised to Ben’s face, a frantic sound escaping her as she lowered his eyes to meet hers. “Ben-“ Her voice was barely audible, and Ben leaned forward until they were almost sharing a breath. “Something’s wrong.” 

“I know, Sunshine-“

“No, no, you-“ She tugged Ben closer in a tiny movement, hands pulling at his hair. “My phone, I left my phone-“

“Where.”

“The dressing room, before it happened, I forgot it, Ben I forgot it-“

She froze, head whipping towards the front of the van as a ring sounded through the van. 

“Hughie,” Butcher grunted, cocking his head towards where his phone rested on the console. “Get that, will you?”

“No,” She whispered as Cocksucker grabbed Butcher’s phone, frowning at the screen. “Ben, you have to-“

Cocksucker said Her name, glancing back at her and Ben. “It looks like you’re calling me?”

She gave a small, desperate sound, shaking her head. 

“She lost her phone,” Ben snapped at Cocksucker, wrapping Her hands into his own as they began to smoke against his head. “Left it back at that shit hole.” 

“Answer it, Lad.” Butcher ordered, and Ben pulled Her hands to rest between their bodies and she began to shake.

“No, no, Hughie don’t-“ 

Cocksucker put the phone to his ear, eyes darting around the van. “Hello?” 

“Hughie Campbell! What are you doing with William’s phone, hm?” 

Homelander’s pathetically fucking cheery voice was muffled through the phone. Ben tried to keep his face stoned and neutral—he wanted to see what Cocksucker would do—but She wrung her hands, still held between his. 

“What’s he saying? Ben.” Her voice was rising, and the Thing grew bloody with her panic. “Please, Ben, what-“ 

“Who is it,” Butcher muttered to Cocksucker, who had gone slack-jawed and pale. “Hughie,” Butcher glanced off the road with a frown. “Who’s on the fucking phone?”

“Go on, Hughie.” Homelander encouraged mockingly. “Answer the man, don’t let our conversation stop you.”

“It’s him,” Cocksucker’s voice was unsteady, and Ben heard a cold laugh through the phone. “Homelander.”

“Are you fucking serious?” MM hissed. “Kid, that’s not funny-“

 “Put me on speaker!” Homelander’s voice was manic. “Let me talk to the gang!” 

Cocksucker dropped the phone from his ear, hand shaking as Homelander’s voice grew louder through the speaker. 

“Is everyone here? Obviously Hughie, listening to orders so well as always. William, I heard you, you rascal, too big to pick up the phone, huh?” 

“Nah, just can’t be fucked, cunt.” Butcher drawled, even as Ben could hear the race of his heart and see his scowl in the rearview mirror. 

“Delightful as always. Who else, hm,” the van hung in silence as Homelander paused in fake thought. “Starlight, probably, she and Hughie are attached by Campbell’s dick. I think I heard Marvin, and of course I wouldn’t be able hear the fucking mute. She there too?”

“What do you want, Homelander?” Starlight called from across the van. “What’s your angle?”

“I’m wounded, Starlight. Can’t I call to catch up with old friends?”

“We ain’t friends, and if we were you’d know to text,” Butcher’s hands were white on the wheel. “Answer her bloody question.”

There was a silence, the line only humming static, before, Her name was said, tight and crude in Homelander’s voice. “Is she there? I know she was here, I found her phone,” Homelander laughed. “But you know that!”

“We’re not telling you shit-“

“Oh, don’t be like that, William. It’s an innocent question. It’s not like I’m asking who leaked those records to you, or which of you killed Tek Knight!” Homelander clicked his tongue. “Unbelievably annoying, by the way. Now I’m going to have to give a fucking press statement about it.”

Butcher’s lip was curled into a sneer. “How fuckin tragic for you.” 

“Thank you! You know, nobody ever thanks me for that, but it’s hard work! I’m going to have to say so much nice shit about this asshole, you have no idea. Now, stop trying to distract me, and answer my question.” Homelander’s voice dropped in a cruel, cold tone. “Is she fucking there?”

She was searing a hole into Ben’s shirt as she pressed further into him, all eyes falling to them. Ben held their gazes firmly, letting every bit of rage for Her in his body, from the Thing, fill his face. If one of them, any fucking one of these pussies, said a goddamn word, he’d rip their spines out.

“What about Soldier Boy?” Homelander asked, and Her face shot up from Ben’s chest to meet his eyes, her hands shaking in his. “I heard a lot of people saying their last words about him. Is he there?”

More silence. 

“If one of you doesn’t speak-“

“Homelander, we’re not going to answer your question,” Starlight snapped, and Ben respected her for the first time. “So tell us what you want.” 

“Can she hear me? If she’s there can she hear me-“ 

“Talk, cunt.” Butcher grunted, and Homelander gave a dramatic fucking pussy sigh. 

“I just wanted to tell you that I missed you this time, but I’m fucking onto you. Flipping my employees, stealing my property, trying to fuck me over-“

“You call just to whine, Twat?” Butcher cut Homelander off with a sneer. “Or is there fucking point.”

“Patience is a virtue, William.” Homelander gave a tsk. “And I want to make sure that you don’t think you’re ahead. I don’t know what your plan is, but it won’t work. I’m invincible. I’ll find the leak and plug it, I’ll figure out what you're doing and stop it, because I always win.” 

Butcher snatched the phone from Cocksucker’s hand, hissing into it. “That it?”

“Patience.” Homelander growled Her name, and the Thing became molten fury in Ben. “I don’t know if you’re there, because these weak, unworthy ants won’t fucking tell me. But I want you to know that, when you come home, which you will because I will find you, I can’t wait to hear you sing again. I can’t believe you hid what V did, it’s amazing, powerful, god-like, but I forgive you. I won’t lie, I’m wounded that you didn’t trust me, but I forgive you. And I’ll see you, all of you, soon.” 

The line clicked dead, and She went limp in Ben’s arms. Nobody spoke, they wouldn’t fucking dare, and Ben just held her. The Thing wanted Her closer, even with their skin pressed together, their air the same, and their hearts in time with each other. But Ben needed to be fucking mad at her. She’d had another secret, she’d had chances to tell him, everything he knew, everything he understood told Ben he needed to be mad at her. But the fear in Her eyes was imprinted on his brain, and the sound of her pleading his name, looking to him for comfort, would ring in his ears until she laughed again.

Ben should be fucking mad at Her, but Ben and the Thing were hardly even separated anymore, not when She was so close. Not when She mattered like this. Not when She was choosing to stay right here with him. Not when She, for some stupid fucking reason, kept choosing to hang to Ben’s side.

He had to be mad at Her, to find it in him some fucking where, but the performance was echoing in his head, feeding the Thing. Ben gave up—for now—trying to find reason with it or what it meant. What he meant to Her. Because She was shaking against him, and he was keeping her secure in his arms. And She wasn’t trying to run or fight, so Ben wouldn’t either. It was just them, even in the cold silence of the van. 

It was just them, so Ben stayed right there with Her.

Thank you for reading!

Always leave a comment if you want to! They feed me, and y’all are funnier than me <3

End Note: Not to trash on my source material, but my version of Tek Knight is better and more interesting and makes me want to vomit less. Eric Kripke, you will pay for your crimes against my son, Hughie Campbell.

Taglist: @lordofthunderthr @kritara @sukunassfinger, @justiceforquentin @acciditties

@c1gs-coffee @manicjk @artemys-ackles, @a-cup-of-nightshade, @bitchykittenconnoisseur

All that beauty, from crystal to silk to marble, seemed to be pale and faded in comparison to Her. It was fucking frightening, how it suddenly became so clear that everything, every fucking thing, wasn’t even competing. Ben had climbed down the stairs as she’d snarked about his long showers, responded with his own mocking words, and then completely fucking forgotten how to breathe. She’d turn around—giving Ben a taunt he didn’t hear—and suddenly everything was just Her. Perfect, still perfect, always perfect, in a way that felt solid. Permanent and beautiful in a way that shouldn’t be earned, couldn’t be earned. That knowing didn’t stop the Thing, though. From needing to earn it. It had become impossible to keep The Things restrained, because Ben had no will to restrain it. It had told him to touch Her and hold her, so he had and refused to let go. Even when he’d gotten drugs—an opportunity that had become far too fucking rare to turn down—he’d kept some part of him against Her. When Starlight had asked Her to dance, Ben had told her to go, half because he was pretty sure Starlight might’ve started crying like a damn baby if She hadn’t, and half because fuck the Thing wanted to see Her dance. See Her with that loose happiness he’d imagined she had before Homelander.

He hadn’t been disappointed. She’d vanished into the smoke and light with Starlight for just long enough that Ben had almost stood to follow them—the Thing itching to know where She was, if she was safe—only to reappear just before he’d been about to rise from the booth. Dancing, with stupid, joyful fucking smiles and moving with the music in a way that made the Thing feral.

Ben didn’t notice the sickeningly sweet woman who’d given him the boob-drugs slide into the booth until she was right at his side.

“Where’d your pretty little bitch go, handsome?” Boob-drugs’ voice had been a low, seductive whisper in Ben’s ear, and the Thing had felt bloody at the honey-like venom of her words, the way they drawled and choked the air around him.

Ben should have given Boob-drugs want she wanted. It had been far too long since Ben had gotten his dick wet, since he’d properly fucked something that wasn’t his hand or those stupid fucking “fleshlights” She’d gotten him. She’d joked once about him destroying them in a matter of minutes, and Ben had decided only a few weeks later that She never needed to know how correct She’d been. Ben should’ve leaned into Boob-drugs, touched her like the fucking man he was, flirted with her until he was deep in her cunt on a bathroom counter. But when Boob-drugs had traced fingers up his arm and offered him sultry words, the only feeling he got was something cold crawling across his skin. The Thing not only didn’t feel satiated, but had curled up in revolt. It felt disgusting, and Ben couldn’t even fully focus on the coke as the woman had tried to pull his strings.

At some point he’d lost Her on the dance floor, and any stupid semblance of goddamn manners or entertaining Boob-drugs had been thrown out the window. He’d stood and walked away as Boob-Drugs was mid-sentence, and didn’t bother to look back. Ben had searched for Her for long, painful minutes, and finally spotted her as she moved through the crowd, a lost look on her face.

They needed to leave, Ben had decided, because the happiness had drained from Her face and the fatigued emptiness was beginning to creep back in. The moment he’d pulled Her into the night air—wind moving her hair and streetlights making her glow—exhaustion had begun to cloud her eyes quickly, and Ben had smiled to himself as She passed out at his side. She had held herself to him tightly in her sleep, from the car, to the house, and well into the night. At one point She’d started thrashing in the bed and Ben had almost woken her up—unsure if it was a nightmare or simply restlessness—but no fire had leaked from Her body, and no sounds of pain had left her mouth, so he’d pulled Her into him and fallen asleep with Her curled at his side.

When She’d left the bed in the morning, he’d found it impossible to fall asleep again. The Thing had grown cold, and Ben could hear Her heartbeat down the stairs, hear it stutter before it began to push to rapid pace. He’d followed it down to living room, almost thankful for the fucking excuse. He’d watched the smoke rising from Her body, heard the fucking hollowness in her voice as she spoke, and seen red. Then She’d broken in front of him one more goddamn time, fallen asleep with her head to his chest, and—though it was hardly afternoon—laid them down on Her bed and slept at her side.

She was awake when his eyes opened. Watching him in silence, lying on her side, heartbeat even and soft.

“Hi.” She whispered, and a small smile played on her mouth.

“Hi.” Ben’s voice was a rough croak, and Her smile grew. “What fucking-“

“5pm.”

He frowned. “We slept the whole goddamn day?”

She tensed, looking away from him. “Most of it, yeah.” The gnawing of her lip began. “I’m-“

“If you say ‘I’m sorry’, I’ll fucking kill you.”

 “I wasn’t going to.” She mumbled, and Ben rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t.”

“Sure, and I’m the fucking President.”

 She glared at him. “I was going to say that I’m hungry.”

“Then go eat,” Ben shrugged, even as the Thing began to protest at the thought of Her leaving. “You don’t need to fucking wait for me to do that.” 

“It’s my turn to heat dinner.” She rolled onto her back, facing the ceiling with a huff. “I need to know what you want.”

Ben laughed. “I don’t give a shit, Sunshine. Food is food.”

 “You say that now,” She turned her head to look at him, a incredibly fucking dramatic look on Her face. “But I would’ve made the one thing you didn’t want and you’d have thrown a hissy fit.” 

“I don’t throw ‘hissy fits’.”

“Fine, temper tantrum.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he grunted, hauling himself to a sitting position. “I don’t throw hissy fits or temper tantrums or any other pussy shit.”

She laughed. “You’re literally doing it right now.”

When Ben only grunted, she giggled again, a smug and weightless sound that made the Thing so fucking pleased. He looked down at Her in fake anger, and found that she was still flat on her back, watching him with a teasing smile and pretty eyes. The Thing wanted to pull Her into his side, to make sure that she stayed light and amused and thoughtlessly relaxed forever.

“Someone’s grumpy.” Her smile was toothy and wide, and the Thing wanted to touch Her lips. “Was nap time too short?”

He rolled his eyes, forcing himself to stand from the bed. “Go fucking eat, brat.”

“What do you want?” She called as he moved to Her bathroom. “I’ll make you oatmeal, Ben, I swear to God-“

Ben turned right before the door. “Fucking hell, bagels. Make bagels.”

“You had a bagel two days ago.”

“It’s a free country, Sunshine, I’m allowed to eat a bagel for multiple fucking days.” Ben glared at Her. “And you ate that bagel.”

“You left it out.”

“It was my fucking bagel.”

“Jesus, fine, we’ll have bagels.” She rolled her eyes, sitting up on the bed and muttering under her breath. “Fucking man baby.”

“You know I fucking heard that.” Ben snapped, she stuck her tongue out at him, and the Thing pushed at his stomach.

He closed the door before She could retaliate, listening to her shuffle around the room for several minutes—doing what he had no fucking clue—before her heartbeat faded down the stairs.

Ben had never actually used Her bathroom before. He’d always walked down the hall to his, never needing to piss or shit so bad he couldn’t just fucking hold it. Any time he did leave Her room for his own, it was to fuck his hand behind a locked door, to indulge fantasies of Her in the very room he’d just left. Ben hadn’t even fully thought about what he was doing when he’d walked into Her bathroom, it had felt like the most goddamn normal thing in the world. Now, flushing the toilet and looking around, Ben hated how fucking satiated the Thing felt. Surrounded by Her in tiny and stupid ways, seeing little damn pieces of her everywhere. The shampoo that he always smelled on Her, the discarded towel on the floor, the half-empty hand soap placed beside her toothbrush, drying on the counter. A toothbrush he was fucking jealous of for being in her mouth, like a fucking creeping pussy who’d never touched a woman.

When Ben exited the bathroom—fully intending to follow Her to the kitchen—he did quick sweep of the room, saw Her outfit from the night before hanging out of the hamper, and realized she’d been fucking changing. With him only a door away. The Thing rumbled with images of Her peeling off her clothes, moving smoothly through the room in nothing but her underwear, maybe even pulling those off too—

Ben made a detour to his room, finding relief in a fantasy of Her at his side, laying on her back with that perfect smile, and him climbing on top of her and fucking her until she was numb with pleasure. Or pulling Her onto his lap and letting her grind on him until she orgasmed with her head against his chest. Or Her rolling down, taking him in her mouth and him shooting down her throat-

He came, with a jerk of his hips, a low grunt, and imagined sounds of Her moaning in his ear.

Once he’d cleaned up—he had to find a less fucking time consuming way to do this—Ben descended the stairs and found Her at the bookshelf, pushing through its contents with a focus, narrowed intent.

“What the fuck are you-“

“There’s no fucking cookbooks in the goddamn house!” Her voice was frustrated, glaring at the books with a scowl Ben had only seen directed at himself or Butcher. “Fucking CIA didn’t think we might want just one, one cookbook? They gave us a printed copy of the constitution, but not one fucking cookbook?”

“Why the hell would you want a cookbook?” He watched her pull another two books from the shelves, making an annoyed huff before throwing them onto the floor. “You can’t cook.”

“I know that!” She snapped. “You think I don’t fucking know that?”

“Then why are you being so goddamn dramatic-“

 Ben was cut off by a copy of Shakespeare’s Complete Works flying at his face.

Her attention had already returned to the bookshelf by the time Ben was rubbing the fading red mark, her movements frantic. “I want to learn, ok? I need to learn to cook just one, shitty ass meal.”

“Fucking why?” He watched Her with vague amusement. “Did you hit your head last night?”

A pout formed on Her lips, and the Thing wanted to suck on them.

“I thought you’d be fucking pleased, Benjamin, that I’m finally conforming to what’s expected of my gender.” She grumbled, and Ben snorted.

“You are not a hallmark of your gender, Sunshine.” This time, Ben managed to dodge The Great American Song Book, but not Atlas Shrugged.

“Fuck you,” She snapped. “Go fucking eat your bagel, you cunt.”

He raised his brows at Her. “You made the bagel?”

“Of course I did, dumbass,” She grumbled, not sparing Ben a glance. “It’s in the kitchen, you can eat it or just shove it up your ass for all I care.”

Ben snorted, but wandered into the kitchen to find that She had indeed left a bagel on the counter, even fucking spread it with that damn strawberry cream cheese and placed a handful of napkins beneath the plate.

“I didn’t ask you to use that pink shit.” Ben mumbled, mouth full as he returned to the living room, standing in the doorway. “And five napkins is fucking overkill.”

Though Her back was turned from him, Ben could fucking feel her eye roll.

“You love that pink shit, you ass. And a thank you would be nice.”

“And the napkins?”

“You’re getting crumbs literally everywhere at this very second. Five was a generous lowball.”

Ben scoffed, ignoring the tiny pieces of bagel he could feel in his beard. “Fuck off, you’re not even looking at me.”

“Don’t have to, I can hear your loud-ass chewing.” She threw another book to the growing pile on the floor, hands finding her hips as she huffed at the near-empty shelf. “Is there a bookshelf in your room?”

“I don’t fucking know.” Ben wasn’t even in his room enough to have any idea, and when he was, books were the least of his concerns.

“Can I check?”

“Why are you fucking killing yourself about this?” He watched Her overly tense back rise and fall in short breaths. “I was kidding about you hitting your damn head, but you’re being fucking weird.”

“No I’m not,” She mumbled, turning with a frown on her face. “And what’s fucking weird is you not jumping for joy that we’re not going eat bagels or mac and cheese for the rest of our damn lives.”

He gave Her a mocking smile. “Well, if you’re doing it for me, Sunshine, then by all means-“

Ben caught Les Misérables right before it hit his throat.

“Can you just,” She sighed, watching Ben with a sadness in her eyes he didn’t understand. “Can you please not be a dick about this.”

Ben nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes at Her as she let out a heavy breath. “You’d tell me if something was wrong,” he said Her name firmly. “If I needed to be ready for some shit.”

“Yeah,” She gave him a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I would.”

“Good,” Ben grunted, even as the Thing wanted to pull Her right into his chest. Even as he didn’t fully believe her. “There’s a cookbook on the top shelf.”

She blinked. “What, no there’s not. I checked-“

“Not well,” he said with a smirk. “I can fucking see it from here.”

“If you’re lying just to be an ass, I’m going to kill you, Pretty Boy.” She grumbled as she turned, and Ben waited while she scanned the highest shelf, chuckling to himself when she let out an infuriated sound that meant she’d found it.

“Told you,” Ben grinned widely as She pulled it down, turning back to face him with a sour face.

She flipped him off with one hand, holding the book with the other. “Cunt.”

“Brat.”

She wrinkled her nose, flipping through the pages with an adorable intensity. Ben just watched Her, the Thing pulling against him as her face lit up with a full smile.

“Found it!” She looked up at Ben, smile growing, and the Thing whined.

Ben tried to push it down, down, down and away from his chest, refusing to be a pussy who allowed his emotions to be controlled by the smile of one fucking woman.

One fucking perfect woman, the Thing reminded him, and a warmth spread through him against his fucking will.

“Congratulations,” he said dryly. “All by yourself too.”

“All by yourself-“

Ben gave her a flat look. “All by yourself as well.”

She rolled her eyes, pushing past him to walk down the hall. Ben trailed after Her like a fucking puppy. “What are you doing?” He called ahead, and she didn’t break pace for a second as she responded.

“We’re cooking dinner, dumbass.”

“We?”

“We.” They stopped in the kitchen, and she threw Ben another insufferably perfect smile. “I did not just destroy the living room to eat a bagel. We’re doing this tonight.”

Ben glared at her. “You keep fucking saying we-”

“Fine, Pretty Boy. I’m cooking dinner and you’re standing in the kitchen in case I need to yell at someone.”

“Hm,” he grunted. “I want another bagel.”

She gave a small laugh. “Deal.”

They shook on it—The Thing rolling around inside Ben as their hands touched—and She set to work.

Ben had seen a lot of car crashes. Watched a lot of bombs explode and a lot of people die.

While this was worse in quite a few ways, it was also a lot fucking funnier.

“What the fuck does ‘veggies are tender’ mean?” She snapped. “How can a vegetable be tender.”

“Maybe you need to arouse it,” Ben shrugged, taking a large bite of his second bagel. “I can do that for you.”

“You’re a gentleman,” She muttered, and he grinned, shooting her a wink.

“Are you doubting my abilities, Sunshine?”

She scoffed, but the Thing rumbled as her heart stuttered. “To make vegetables horny? Yeah, I think I am.” She narrowed her eyes at the book. “How ‘thin’ is thinly sliced?”

“How the fuck would I know?”

“Didn’t think you would, dumbass, I was thinking out loud.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “And I think they just mean like, small?”

She looked up at Ben for confirmation—despite Her calling him a dumbass less than five seconds ago—and the Thing started trying to roll around in his chest. “I don’t give a shit.”

“Helpful,” She snapped, dumping out a bag full of bell-peppers onto the counter, and he grinned.

Ben shoved the remainder of his bagel in his mouth, watching Her cut up the peppers—and then the onions—as if she was torturing them for information. Little bits and pieces were flying everywhere, he was almost fucking positive she cut herself at least twice, and he could hear Her mumbling threats to the onions about Her making them cry instead.

He snorted as She threw the vegetables into the pot, flipping them off as she turned on the stove. “How long do I have to wait for you to just give the fuck up?” 

“Forever,” She snapped. “Neither of us are going anywhere until these vegetables are tender as fuck.”

“I don’t know why you’re even doing this vegetable shit, you’re immortal now, you don’t need to be healthy-“

Ben managed, but only fucking barely, to dodge the knife as it flew at his face.

“Shut up.” She snapped. “Or I won’t give you any when I’m done.”

“Promise?” He mocked, and she picked up a second knife. “Jesus fucking Christ, fine. What are you even making?” He grunted, reaching to grab the cookbook.

She snatched it back and far from his hand. “It’s a surprise.”

“A fucking surprise?” He snorted. “Why?”

“Because.” She held the cookbook with white knuckles, and Ben rolled his eyes.

“Shitty ass surprise,” he grumbled, and She gave him one last glare before turning her anger down to the steak defrosting on the counter.

Over the next half hour, She managed to cut up the steak through a process of vulgar threats, curses, and throwing three more knives at Ben—only two of which he deserved. Once she’d shoved the steak into the oven—Ben had helpfully suggested She just use her own fucking fire and She’d asked if he had any interest in the house burning down—she picked up the pot of vegetables and walked over to where Ben sat at the counter.

“Tender?” She extended the pot for him to look at, frowning at its contents.

The vegetables were soft, and a little brown. Ben had no fucking clue what that meant in terms of “tender”.

“Fucking sure,” he watched the crease on Her forehead deepen, and the Thing wanted to kiss right over it until it vanished.

She looked up at him, lips pulling down, but nodded and dumped the vegetables into a bowl. After giving them one last glare, She dropped into the seat next to Ben with a heavy sigh. “The steak won’t be ready for ten minutes,” she mumbled, fingers tapping on the counter.

Ben shrugged, trying to control the Thing rumbling comfortably in his chest at Her arm brushing his. “Are you going to tell me what the fuck is wrong now?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” She muttered, and the tapping picked up.

“You’re lying. It might not be something I need to prepare for, both something is fucking up with you.” He watched Her scowl at nothing. “Is it your sister?”

The tapping picked up. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

He said Her name firmly. “You need to fucking tell her you’re alive.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you-“

“Just fucking drop it, Ben, ok?!” She snapped. “You’re not going to change my mind, so just fucking drop it.” She took a deep breath, and the Thing clenched in Ben’s chest. “Please, just let it go.”

He grunted, the Thing flipping as She looked up at him. “Fine.”

She nodded, relief crossing her face as the tapping slowed. “Thank you.” She paused, eyes searching his face. “Do you want me to do more of the PTSD treatment tonight?”

“Tomorrow,” he said, not having missed the bags under Her eyes and poorly hidden yawns. “You need to rest.”

She frowned. “I’ve literally been resting all day.”

“You were tossing and turning all of last night, Sunshine.” He said flatly, and She blinked at him, heart picking up.

“What, what are you talking about-“

“It’s not a big fucking deal,” Ben frowned at Her wide-eyed expression. “You were just rolling around a shit ton. Didn’t seem very restful.”

“Oh,” she mumbled. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t fucking need to leave the bed, Sunshine, I don’t give a shit.” He shrugged.

She tilted her head at him. “Would you have?”

“What?”

“If it had bothered you, would you have gone to sleep in your room?” She examined his face, and Ben could hear the chewing of her lips.

“Why the fuck does that matter?”

“Well, um, I just don’t remember the last time you actually slept in your own bed.” She said sheepishly, suddenly avoiding his gaze. “If you want to, you don’t have to stay in my room all the time-“

“Do you want me to go back to my room?” Ben asked, and his voice was harsher than he intended. The Thing was scraping at him, gripping at his throat a the very fucking idea of Her not wanting him, of Her sending him to be without her-

“No!” Her voice was panicked, and Ben blinked in surprise. “I don’t want you to go back, but if you want to-”

“I don’t,” Ben grunted, the Thing breathing in relief as he tried to sound like less of a desperate pussy. “I mean, I’m fucking fine staying there.”

“Okay.” She gave him a small smile, and the Thing felt light, even as she stood from her seat. “Steak,” She said, and Ben realized he’d started to frown as She moved.

“Whatever,” he grunted, and watched Her move through the kitchen. She threw together whatever shit she was trying to make, finally stood straight—a smug look on Her face—and turned with a mess of cheese, meat, and bread on a plate.

“I did it,” She was beaming at him, holding the “food” proudly, and any comments about how Ben was pretty fucking sure She’d just made a bioweapon died in his throat as the Thing tried to escape him.

“Congratulations.” He huffed, and glanced at the sludge in her hands. “What the fuck is it.”

“Cheesesteak.”

Ben frowned. “Cheesesteak?” 

She picked up the cookbook, dropping it in front of him as she sat back at his side. “Philly Cheesesteak, with peppers and onions.” She read aloud, pointing to the page with a grin. “Medium difficulty.”

The Thing was pounding at him, and Ben couldn’t stop himself from asking. “Philly Cheesesteak because?” At the flush of Her face, he pushed further. “Why Philly Cheesesteak, Sunshine? Any particular reason?”

“Shut up,” She muttered.

“Hm,” Ben teased, his own smile growing. “Does it have something to do with me-“

“Yes, you cunt. It’s because you’re from Philly.” She snapped, not looking at him. “Don’t be a fucking dick about it, I just wanted to make something I thought you’d like.”

“You only made one serving,” Ben pointed out as the Thing started roaring with a painful need to hold her. “And I already ate.”

“Oh, fuck off. We both know this is going to taste like shit.” She wrinkled her nose at the plate. “I’m going to make it for you when I can actually make it somewhat good.” She paused, heart faltering slightly. “If you want me to.”

Ben shrugged, and the Thing roared. “Food is fucking food. I’ll never say no to a pretty lady making me some.”

She hummed, and her heart picked up a little faster than it had been before. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he looked between Her and the plate. “Now eat that so we can go the fuck to bed.”

She wrinkled her nose at him, but began to eat in small bites. “It’s not terrible.” She said through a mouthful. “I’ve eaten worse.”

Ben grunted, watching Her chew and swallow. “Are you going to shower?”

“Huh?”

“Before bed,” he said, ignoring the way She licked her lips clean of food and how it made his gut warm.

“Are you saying I smell bad, Benjamin?” She teased, face all comfortable and happy. “That’s not very nice.”

He glared at Her. “I fucking want to shower, brat. And since you always whine about how long I take, I wanted to know if you need hot water.”

“Oh,” She blinked at him. “That’s, that’s really sweet.”

“Shut up,” Ben muttered. The Thing was powerful and uncontrollable in him at Her words, like a fucking pussy. He wasn’t fucking sweet, She just always got all pouty when the water was cold and it made him fucking frustrated. She would sulk around and be fucking grumpy and it made the Thing tight in his lungs, made him feel an edge he hated. She still hadn’t even fucking answered his question, so Ben poked her shoulder and she looked up at him with a full mouth. “Well?”

She swallowed roughly. “Oh, uh, yeah I think I am.” She frowned, and Ben could hear Her thoughts turning in Her head.

“Spit it out.” He prompted.

“What?”

“You look like you have a stupid question, and you’re going to fucking explode if you don’t ask it.”

“I won’t explode-“

Ben said Her name flatly. “Yeah, you will. So spit it out.”

She sighed. “You have to promise not to-“

“I know the damn drill, Sunshine. I promise not to mention it again if the answer is no. Now stop being a fucking pussy and ask the question.”

“If you want, and you don’t have to-“ She took a deep breath, and the words began to fall out of Her. “I’d be okay with it if you moved your clothes into my room. Or like some clothes. Whatever you want. I just think it might be easier, if you think you want to stay there. And I do want you, I mean I like you there, so, if you want, you can move your stuff into my room.”

Ben stared at Her, watching him with a nervous expression, heart pounding in Her chest. The Thing was rioting inside him. She wanted him in her room, in her space. She wanted him there, wanted things to be easier for him. For him to stay with her. She liked him there. With her. Ben cleared his throat, and spoke before he could even really think.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” She said cautiously. “Does yeah mean, like, yeah I don’t want, or yeah I do want to, or yeah I’ll think about it-“

“I’ll do it,” Ben said, trying to sound as casual as he fucking could with the Thing trying to tell him to pick Her up and place her on the counter and make all that stupid fucking doubt leave her face because what the hell was it even there for in the first place-

“Okay.” She took another bite of Her food. “Then maybe you can shower now and move your stuff when I’m showering?”

“Sure,” Ben stood, and She turned her attention fully to her plate. There was a little thing of melted cheese on her lip, and he wanted to brush it off with his thumb.

“Don’t take a year.” She said, and Ben swallowed as her tongue swept out to pull the cheese into her mouth.

He coughed, forcing himself to move away from the counter. “Fuck off,” he muttered, and picked up his pace out of the kitchen as She giggled behind him.

It was a race against his own fucking self-control to get to the shower and take care of himself before the Thing made him turn around and prove to Her that there was no goddamn reason she should’ve been unsure. Make Her smile and pull her tongue into his own mouth, maybe spread Her out on the counter and taste her-

Ben practically ripped his clothes off, managing to climb into the shower before the Thing consumed him.

They were back on their bed, Her lying on her back with a bright smile and Ben sitting at her side. 

“Nap time too short?” She asked again, and this time Ben didn’t scoff or stand from the bed.

He smirked back down at Her, and reached out, running a thumb over her lips. “I’m wide awake, Sunshine. But I can think of a few ways to tire me out.”

Her mouth fell further open, and she let out a small sound. “Like what?” Her voice was barely a whisper, and Ben moved his hand tangle in Her hair, cupping her head as he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her into his lap.

“Whatever you want, beautiful.” He watched Her eyes widen, and Ben could feel the heat of her cheeks against his hand. “I have some ideas, but I’m open to suggestions.”

Moving his hand down, Ben traced a line from Her neck to her collarbone, dropping it all the way to her ass and lowering his head to kiss along her neck. She started to whimper, and he could feel the sounds escaping from her against his lips.

“Ben,” She said breathlessly, her hands finding his hair. “You-“ She let out a loud moan, head falling back as he squeezed her with one hand, tracing patterns along her skin with his other.

“Me, what?” He said Her name into her skin. “What do you want me to do?”

She dropped her hands from his hair, pulling his head up to look at Her, eyes scanning his face for only a second before she was kissing him. Long and desperate, all teeth and tongue and deep groans into each other. When She pulled back for air, Ben nipped at her lower lip and raised his hand from her waist, running his thumb over its swell.

“I want you.” She whispered, her own hand holding his against her face. “Can I have you?”

Ben pulled Her back to him, kissing her deeply until her grip was tight and she was grinding down on him. When he pulled back, he answered firmly, with no room for her to doubt. “You already fucking do.”

She nodded slowly, and suddenly she was touching him. Palming Ben through his pants, smiling perfectly at his hardness against her hand. “Where do you want me?” She asked, a beautiful fucking taunt. “You can take me right here, or at the wall. You can use my mouth, or my pussy, or I can just use my hand?”

He groaned Her name. “Fucking hell-“

“What do you want me to do, Ben? Where do you want to have me?”

Ben came, shouting Her name into the steam of the shower. Only as the high faded did it finally fucking occur to him the mistake he’d just made. He had no fucking excuse to return to his room and indulge the Thing anymore, no good reason to lock himself behind a door she wouldn’t enter and fuck his hand to the thought of Her.

He could back out. He could tell Her he’d changed his mind, he wanted to keep their shit separate, that keeping it together was just too fucking intimate and he didn’t want her to have that part of him.

Liar, the Thing hissed into him. You want Her to have every fucking part of you. You’re just too pussy to tell her.

No, he fucking didn’t. He needed to call it the fuck off, before he did something fucking stupid or insane-

She’d be so sad, The Thing snapped. You’d be fucking breaking Her.

She was a grown ass woman. She’d survive.

Would you?

Ben turned off the shower, jerking the handle clean off the wall. He dropped in on the tile floor, changed fast, and stomped down the hall to where Her heartbeat had moved— fully fucking ready to tell her he’d changed his mind and would probably just sleep in his own damn room tonight—only to open the door and find her sitting up at the headboard, already in pyjamas, eyes drooping as she read a small book.

“I thought you wanted to shower,” he said gruffly, and She just sighed, not looking up at him.

“Were you ever actually convicted of treason?” She asked. “Because if you weren’t, I’ve been calling you an enemy of the state for no reason.”

 “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Apparently, someone can’t be held guilty for treason with two witnesses or a confession.” 

“That’s not better, brat.”

She held up her book for Ben to read Constitution of the United States of America spelled out in pointlessly fucking fancy letters on the cover. “I was cleaning up downstairs, and realized I’ve never actually read the whole thing.”

“Yeah, most people haven’t.” Ben said wryly. “Only fucking pussy ass nerds bother with that shit.”

“Aren’t you America’s Son?” 

“Yeah, but I’m a fucking man who has a life outside of books. What happened to your fucking shower?”

She shrugged. “I’m not that dirty. I’ll shower in the morning, before we do the PTSD treatment.”

Ben grunted, not moving from the door. “I still think you’re not actually doing fucking shit with that.”

“I still don’t fucking care.” She finally looked up at Ben, and the Thing stared punching against him like a fucking pussy. “Why are you just standing there, you weirdo.”

“What?” Ben frowned at Her question, trying to fight the Thing telling him to go drop next to her, let her lean against him. “The fuck are you-“

“You’ve been standing at the door for like five minutes.” She said pointedly, folding the book and placing it on her bedside table. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fucking fine, Sunshine.” He grunted, and the rest of his will fucking crumbled at the goddamn soft look on Her perfect face. “I just wanted to know if I should wait for you to shower before I start moving my shit.”

“Oh,” She blinked, and started to stand. “I can help you-“

“No.” Ben cut Her off quickly. She hadn’t been in his room for more than a few minutes at a time since he’d started sleeping in hers, and some part of him was convinced she would walk in a fucking smell his cum lingering. At Her frown, he gave a short, gruff explanation of “you’re comfortable, I can fucking move clothes my damn self,” and left the room before she could respond.

It only took two trips to move all his shit, and after shoving into the drawers at Her instructions, apparently doing it wrong despite following Her every word, and Her doing it the “correct way”—which was the same way he had fucking done it—he dropped on the mattress, sitting upright as She crawled into hers.

“Night, Pretty Boy.” She mumbled through a yawn, and her eyes dropped closed before Ben could respond.

Ben didn’t remember falling asleep. He’d watched Her breathe peacefully at his side, listened to the lazy rhythm of her heart, and when she’d curled into his side, Ben had laid down and held Her to his chest. Almost like he’d only blinked, the room became full of light creeping through the curtains, and She was gone from the bed.

He could hear the shower running from the bathroom, her heartbeat smothered by the fall of the water. Unwilling to sit here, desperate for Her to return to his side like a fucking pussy, Ben stood and made his way to the kitchen, putting on the coffee and scowling at the pot as it took a million goddamn years to brew.

After impossibly long minutes Ben heard the water stop, and fucking cursed himself for the intensity of how he listened to Her heart upstairs. She shuffled around, the time stretching longer, and Ben felt the Thing sigh in relief as she finally began the walk down the stairs.

Ben glanced at Her as she entered the kitchen. “You’re up.”

“Fucking obviously,” she mumbled, stopping at his side. “Coffee?”

The pot gave a pathetic fucking sputter. “I think it’s broken.” Ben muttered, and there was another weak crackling sound in response.

“Hm,” She reached past him, opening the top of the machine. Peering forwards, She sighed. “Ben.”

“What?” He snapped, and She rolled her eyes, pulling the empty pot from its place and moving to the sink.

“You didn’t put any water in it, dumbass.”

Ben scowled. “I just fucking woke up, you try-“

“I’m not mad,” She said lightly, glancing over her shoulder with amusement. “I’m just saying it’s not broken, and that’s why.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbled, watching Her pour the water into the top of the coffee maker.

She only smiled at him, and even fake rage felt fucking impossible.

They didn’t talk much over breakfast, Ben trying not to watch the way Her damp hair hung around her face, or the bob of her throat when she swallowed her cereal. When the coffee had finished, She’d stood and poured two mugs, dropping one next to Ben’s plate and holding the other tightly between two hands.

“Living room?” She asked, continuing when Ben only frowned at her. “For the PTSD.”

He made a passive sound, drinking his coffee in a chug. “I don’t give a fuck.”

“What an amazing contribution to my efforts,” She muttered, and Ben winked at her.

“Does the exactly same amount of jack fucking shit wherever, Sunshine.”

She wrinkled her nose at him, poking her spoon around in the bowl. “You’re going to eat your words, Pretty Boy.” Her words seemed more targeted to the soggy cereal than Ben. “Just fucking wait.”

After dumping the dishes in the sink—Ben would fucking wash them later, and no amount of Her glaring at him would make him do it now—they dropped on the couch in those same fucking positions that had made the Thing loud and satisfied. This time was no fucking better, with Her gentle hands back in Ben’s hair and her perfect face only fucking inches away.

“I have a question,” She said abruptly, her hands hardly settled against his head. She didn’t wait for him to nod before she continued, speaking without meeting his eyes. “How did you know about Moon River?”

“Moon River?” Ben repeated slowly, watching Her overly controlled face as She gave a small nod.

“I just-“ She gave him a quick, nervous look. “I heard you humming it yesterday, during my, uh, meltdown. I never told you about it.”

He frowned. “What would there be to tell me?”

“How do you know about it?” She said firmly, finally fucking looking at him with raised brows. “And I asked first.”

“You tap it,” Ben said stiffly, and She tilted her head at him. “When you’re about to lose your shit.”

“And you recognized it based on tapping?” She said doubtfully, eyes narrowing. “It’s not a rhythmic song.”

“I took he a fucking bit to realize what it was, but it’s not my fault you can’t barely keep a fucking beat.” “There’s no beat in that song.”

Ben shrugged. “You do the verses. Stop trying to fucking avoid my question.”

“I’m not avoiding your question,” She grumbled, looking back up to his head. “You’re just making no sense.”

Ben said Her name flatly, and she gave an annoyed huff.

“It was my mother,” She snapped. “Her favorite song. She sang it all the time when I was a kid, it’s the only song she never made me perform, and it makes me feel safe.”

“Perform?” He frowned. “The fuck do you mean perform?”

She sighed. “Doesn’t matter.”

“The fuck it doesn’t”

“It really doesn’t,” She cut him off shortly. “It’s never something I’ll have to do again, so it just doesn’t. You won’t fucking care about it, Ben. Trust me.”

“Fucking try me, Sunshine.” She looked back down at Ben, and he gave her a challenging glare. “Don’t put words in my goddamn mouth.”

“If I do,” She said, holding his gaze. “You’re not allowed to be a dick.”

“Deal.”

“Promise?”

“Fucking hell,” he muttered. “I promise.”

“Okay,” She took a deep breath, glaring at his forehead as she spoke. “My parents divorced when I was young. It was violent, messy. I had to testify in court. My mom got full custody, because my dad had shit credit and my mom was an amazing actress. Showed up all running mascara and soft words, like She hadn’t just threatened me on the car ride over. She remarried real fast, like suspiciously fucking fast, to a rich, political dynasty asshole. Dude was a Connecticut senator when they got married, and he somehow got elected governor while I was gone. He would put on these stupid parties. With dancers and champagne towers and chocolate fountains. One of my brothers would give a speech, the other would play piano, my sister would dance, and I would sing. Sometimes they’d hold an auction for what song I performed, and the only song my mother didn't allow me to perform was Moon River. It was our song, her song. It reminds me that there was a least one thing, one stupid fucking thing, that made me more important to her than the money. I mean,” She gave a dry, hollow laugh. “She probably would’ve caved for enough money, but I left before she could.”

Ben watched Her, the Thing scraping to hold her. “What made you leave?”

The silence before She spoke was torture. The Thing needed to know what her final straw had been. What line had been crossed, so he would never go fucking near it, fucking walk as far away from it as he could until She never even had to fear it.

“She tried to keep me from leaving.” Her voice was soft. “I was fourteen, about to start high school. She tried to send me to some dog shit prep school, said I needed to work on my manners and being more fucking lady-like for when I graduated. I told her grades were important to get into college, she told me I wouldn’t be going to college. Said I was too pretty to have to worry about a job, pretty enough that men would overlook my temperament.”  She snorted. “I told her I wanted a job, I wanted to go to college. She told me to fuck off now, because she’d lock me in the house if I didn’t. So I fucked off. I moved in with my dad. Dude lived in a dogshit apartment with rats and asbestos and loud neighbors, but I never had to perform again. I could leave whenever I wanted, I was fucking free.” A shadow crossed Her face, her hand gripping Ben’s face tighter. “I was free.”

“Did they fucking look for you?” Ben felt the Thing grow taut in him, straining for the clouds forming in Her eyes. “When Homelander-“

She cut him off, shaking her head. “He faked my death. Left a note, nobody questioned it further.” Smoke curled around them, and Her heart was uneven and quick. “He used to tell me that I was better with him, he cared more than anyone could, and he would tear the world apart to get me back if I left him.” She took a shaky breath, and the Thing felt heavy in Ben’s chest.

“You’re not going back,” Ben said lowly, and Her eyes fell to his. “I fucking mean it.”

“I know,” She said quietly. “I trust you.”

The pain on Her face made Ben want to make Homelander fucking bleed and bleed until he died a painful, pathetic fucking death.

“I think we’re done.” He pulled Her hands down from his face, and She frowned at him.

“What do you mean, it’s barely been thirty minutes-“

“You’re still tired, Sunshine.” He says firmly. “We’re done.”

“But-“

“Nope, done.” Ben pushed Her hands to her lap. “We’ve got other shit to do, Sunshine. You’ve got to practice your cheesesteak.”

She scowled. “It’s your night to make dinner, cunt. You’re not getting out of it just because I’m trying to learn to cook.”

“Well, you can fucking practice for lunch, and I’ll still do dinner.”

“I chose what you make.”

“Are you fucking negotiating?”

“Yep,” she gave him a fake-sweet smile. “I choose what you make, and what we watch.”

“Fuck no,” Ben rolled his eyes. “Dinner-maker controls the TV. That was the goddamn deal.”

“I get to work on your PTSD. That was a deal as well.”

“That’s not the way it fucking works-“

“That’s the offer on the table, Pretty Boy.” She shrugged. “Take it and I’ll go make a cheesesteak right fucking now, leave it and I keep working on your stupid fucking head.”

Ben glowered at Her determined, insufferable, perfect face. “You’re a fucking piece of work, brat.”

“Right back at you, cunt.” She grinned widely—all light and smug and pleased—with Her hand outstretched, and Ben couldn’t fucking force himself to be mad at Her if she tried.

“Fucking Christ,” Ben muttered, but shook Her hand all the same.

With a small, satisfied sound that made the Thing fucking groan, She stood and walked straight to the kitchen. Ben trailed like a fucking pussy behind Her, deciding it wasn’t because the Thing started to claw at him when She left his sight, but that he just simply couldn’t miss the disaster about to unfold.

After about ten minutes it became clear that while She seemed to have mastered what “thin and tender vegetables” looked like, Ben was starting to wonder if he should be concerned about the steak giving her an aneurism. While it was damn adorable to watch her fight with the frost-bitten steak one the counter—a battle that involved several graphic threats about tracking down the cow’s family and using them for Her food instead—Her face was contorted in dramatic anger and Ben could hear her chewing through her lip.

“It would really go faster if you just cooked with your fucking fire powers.” Ben drawled and She glared at him.

“I don’t know how to do that, cunt. I can’t control it at that level.”

“I’ll teach you.” He said—complete fucking sincerely—and She scoffed. “What,” Ben scowled. “What’s so fucking amusing about that.”

She shrugged, leaning against the counter with crossed arms. “You can’t even control yourself, and most of our powers are very fucking different.”

“First of all, brat, I haven’t exploded in fucking months. Second of all, shut the fuck up. And finally, I used to train people at Vought all the goddamn time.”

“So?”

“So,” he snapped mockingly. “I know what I’m fucking doing.”

“Yeah, when you’re being paid a million dollars to tell someone don’t make a fist like that, you’ll break your fingers,” She dropped her voice in a deep-voice, mocking impression. “Aim for the throat, people use that to breathe.”

“I trained people’s powers as well,” Ben pushed, matching Her frown. “I made some good fucking heroes.”

“I’m sure,” She said, leaning forward in sarcastic interest. “Crimson Countess, you have to aim at the target. You won’t hit it if you don’t.”

“And she got a lot fucking better at it, so my point is fucking proven.”

“You were fucking her,” She dismissed with a wave of her hand, turning back to the steak. “Doesn’t count.”

The Thing started to feel like it was crawling up and around inside Ben. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I dunno,” Her heart was stumbling, and Ben wished she would fucking look at him so he could see if Her face was in that pretty flush. “Reward systems are scientifically proven to be effective.”

“So me fucking her was a reward-“

Ben’s smug words died in his throat as fire ripped through the air, filling the room with smoke and the smell of charcoal. Ben waved a hand, clearing the smoke, and found Her standing at the now-black counter, hands on her hips as she glared down at a pile of charred ash.

“Didn’t work.” She said, spinning around with a scowl. “And we’re out of steak.”

“What the fuck was that?” Ben all but shouted, the smoke still clinging to the edges of the room. “You didn’t need to destroy the goddamn kitchen!”

“That was what you told me to do,” Her shoulders were tense, words clipped. “I told you I couldn’t control it, and ta da! I can’t!”

“You’re being a fucking brat,” he spat Her name, and when she turned to face him Ben hadn’t expected to see the sullen, tight look on Her face. Lips drawn together, hands gripping her sides with white knuckles. It wasn’t quite the hollow look that always made the Thing physically hurt, but it was really fucking close.

“I just don’t want to talk about training, okay?” She spat the word training with a venom, and though her voice was steady Ben could hear the tapping begin. “You can’t fucking help this.”

“This?” Ben stood from the counter, walking to Her in fast, long steps. “You mean you?”

She didn’t flinch as he stopped in front of her. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Stop fucking saying that,” he shouted, the Thing roaring in his ears, drowning almost all else out. “I can fucking fix this for you, if you would stop being such a stubborn bitch all the time!”

The sullen look faded into rage. “It doesn’t fucking matter!” Her voice had raised to match his. “I’m not supposed to have these powers. I’m not someone who’s going to even be a fucking fake hero or earn any fucking rewards. I’m a walking bomb, and I can’t control it, and it doesn’t fucking matter because there’s no fucking point.” A shallow, distressing breath shook Her body. “I don’t want to hurt people again, I won’t let myself.” She wasn’t looking at Ben anymore, voice clouded and heavy. “So it doesn’t matter.”

The Thing wasn’t only painful or consuming anymore. It was in Ben’s blood, fucking burning at Her, for Her. He grabbed Her perfect face, turning her sad eyes to his. “You won’t hurt people,” he said, keeping his voice as fucking calm as he could. “If you just let me fucking help you.”

“But-“

“I’m literally a walking bomb, Sunshine.” Ben raised his voice over hers. “If there’s no hope for you, there’s certainly fucking none for me.”

“That’s not the same,” She said quietly. “You’re you. You’re Soldier Boy.”

“You mean the fucking terrorist?” He watched Her lips tug slightly at his dry tone, and the Thing felt a little less suffocating. “Yeah, I’m sure the public will be clamoring for my return when this is over.”

“Aren’t we self-aware today,” She gave him a half-hearted smile, and Ben returned it.

“I’m always fucking self aware, Sunshine. It’s one of my best qualities.”

She gave a small laugh, and the Thing grew looser. “I think even you know that’s not true.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” He drawled, and Her smile became a little more genuine. “Now will you please just let me fucking train you.”

She sighed, but it wasn’t as heavy as before. “It doesn’t-“

“Do you seriously fucking believe-“ Ben didn’t let Her finish, because if she said doesn’t matter one more time he might lose his fucking mind. “That you’re just going to be a fucking hermit for the rest of your immortal life.”

“I mean,” She said with a strained, fake-passive tone. “Yeah.”

“You think I’d fucking let that happen?”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“Sunshine, when we’re out of this and I’m shipped off who fucking knows where, you’re welcome to come.”

“Are you-” She gaped at him, and the Thing felt stuck in his throat. “Are you serious?”

“You burn, I burn.” Ben reminded Her firmly, because even if he wasn’t entirely sure where this offering was coming from, he knew he fucking meant it. “If you can’t be around normal fucking assholes, control or not, you can always fucking be around me.”

She scanned his face. “And if I can be around people?”

“Then you can stay in shit-ass New York with all those fucking pussies on your team.” Ben answered, even as the Thing scraped at his ribs at the fucking idea of it. “But you’ll have to learn to control it.”

“What If I can’t,” there was nothing but fear and exhaustion in Her voice, and it made the Thing move faster in him. “What if I just can’t?”

“You can.” He didn’t leave room for protest before he continued. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

She gave a hesitant nod. “Tomorrow.”

Ben took the victory.

The remainder of the night was quiet, Ben heating pre-made meatballs per their shitty deal, Her deciding they would watch Game of Thrones—a fucking suspicious choice given she always grumbled at Ben’s commentary—and Ben tried not to stare at Her through the night, his brain fucking consumed by every goddamn way he wanted to touch her. He managed, by some fucking miracle, to force his attention to how he would go about their training.

Ben hadn’t been fucking lying, he had trained new heroes at Vought. Never any quite as powerful or insanely smart-mouthed and perfect as her, but She didn’t have to know that. He’d figure this out, because the fucking idea of Her locking herself up to keep every weak undeserving pussy safe made him feel bloody.

When Her eyes began to look heavy and she began rubbing her face to keep them open, Ben dragged her up into her—their—bed. Ben tried not to dwell on the Thing—peaceful and quiet from the soothing sounds of Her breathing and heart—and how his offer hadn’t felt forced onto its tongue. How he couldn’t blame its grip over him, because his words had been entirely fucking true, and had fallen from him naturally.

She was up before him in the morning again. Ben felt a cold space where She had been, and the shower wasn’t running, making him sit up roughly, not bothering to change before he stalked downstairs. Finding Her in the kitchen, cross-legged at the counter with a sandwich in one hand and a book in the other, Ben found it a lot fucking easier to breathe.

 “You’re up early,” he leaned against the door, and She looked up at him with cheeks puffed, mid-chew.

“Sorry,” She said through the mouthful of food, and Ben grinned as crumbs fell from her perfect mouth. “I got up to pee, and I couldn’t fall back asleep.” 

Ben walked to lean across the counter, the Thing bucking as She swallowed roughly. “That fucking excited to get started, huh Sunshine?”

“Fuck off,” She rolled her eyes. “I was just hungry.”

 “Sure.” He winked. “You’ll need the energy.” “Are we training my fire or running a marathon?” She asked, raising her brows at him. “Because I can always back out.”

“You mean pussy out?”

“Fuck you, Pretty Boy. I’m going to burn your face off, and you’ll have no one but yourself to blame.”

Ben grinned at Her as she took an aggressive bite, holding his gaze. “We’ll see, brat. Are we ready to go?”

“Don’t you want to eat?” She asked through chews.

“I’ll fucking live.”

She shook Her head, shoving the remainder of her sandwich into his hands. “Eat, Ben.”

“I’m fucking fine,” Ben said Her name dryly, failing to return the food to her as she held her hands behind her back.

“Eat,” She snapped. “You get all grumpy when you don’t.” When Ben still didn’t move, She narrowed her eyes at him. “Eat or I’m pussying out.”

Ben scowled at Her, but shoved the remainder of the sandwich his mouth, holding her glare with a look of irritated amusement as he swallowed

“Happy?” He mocked, and She gave him a genuine, toothy smile.

“Absolutely.”

The Thing fucking whined, and Ben had to fight a smile from taking over his goddamn face.

“Can we get fucking going then?”

She shrugged, “if it’s that important-“

Ben grabbed her arm—ignoring the warmth of Thing at her touch and is weak fucking need in his gut when she made a sound of surprise—pulling her to dining room. They stopped in the center of the space, and Ben forced himself to take a step back, looking down at Her sternly.

“How is this even going to fucking work?” She asked, bored sass dripping from her voice.

Ben winked at Her. “Reward system, Sunshine.” He ran through the plan he’d spent the previous night developing, and almost missed the flush of Her face and the stutter of her heart. “I’ll tell you what to do, and every time you do it right, I’ll owe you a favor.”

“A favor,” She repeated, and Ben couldn’t figure out what that fucking slow tone and neutral expression meant. “What can the favors do?”

“Whatever you want, that’s how favors work.”

“No limits?”

Ben smirked at Her. “No limits.”

She swallowed, and the Thing rumbled. “Then let’s fucking go.”

“Palm open,” Ben instructed, demonstrating with his own hand. When she followed suit, he nodded and continued. “Now light it.”

She gave him a flat look. “Are you fucking serious? I can light my hand, Ben.”

“Prove it.”

“Fucking asshole,” She muttered under her breath, and closed her eyes. A small flame ignited in her palm, and she stuck Her tongue out at Ben smugly. “Told you so, cunt.”

Ben fought the urge to grab Her, pull her tongue into his mouth. “I’m not done, brat.” He sneered. “Hold it.”

“Hold it?” She frowned, glancing between Ben and her hand. “The fire?”

“In your hand, for five minutes.” He grinned down at Her. “No spreading it, no letting it go out.”

“That’s it?” 

“That’s it.”

She gave him a distrustful glare, spreading Her fingers wider. “My first favor is going to be making you dye your beard blue.”

“What?” Ben’s tone of mock-fury seemed to only make Her grin. “Why?”

“Because I hate you.”

“Sure, Sunshine.” He pushed down how the Thing strained at the fucking idea of Her words being true. “But you’ll only be able to fucking waste your favor like that if you don’t fucking burn my beard off.”

“Fucking watch me, Pretty Boy.” She snapped, and Ben just winked.

The first minute was fine, but near the middle of the second Her eyes started to cloud, teeth gnawing at her lips. The fire started to flicker, and before the third minute started it burst up, spreading up Her arms and through her body.

“Goddamnit!” She screamed, smoke still rising after the fire went out.

Ben gave Her a cocky grin. “What that about watching-“

“Not a fucking word.” She spread Her palm once more. “I just wasn’t ready.”

Ben hummed, and shot him a murderous glare. “I didn’t say fucking shit.” He teased, and she rolled Her eyes. “I’m sure you’ll get it this time, brat.”

“Stop being supportive, you cunt.” She hissed, and Ben laughed.

It took Her two hours, twenty minutes, fifty-two tries, and a lot of swearing to hold the fire evenly for five minutes. It was fucking worth Her verbal abuse, Ben decided, because he’d never seen her smile that wide and happy as when she finally succeeded.

“Yes!” She looked like she might literally fucking jump with joy. “Suck on that, Benjamin.”

“One favor is yours, Sunshine.” He couldn’t fight the Thing from taking over him with a broad, face-covering grin and chuckled. “Now do it again.”

By the end of the day She’d only burned Ben five times—a fucking miracle as far as he was concerned—could hold it for ten minutes, and Ben owed her five favors.

“You’re making dinner,” She cashed the first one almost immediately, and Ben had expected nothing less. “And I still choose what we watch.”

“That’s two goddamn nights in a row,” he grumbled, and She snickered.

“I know, it’s amazing.”

“Brat.”

“Cunt.”

Though Ben scowled, the Thing felt so fucking good—proud and blissed out like he was on a fucking drug—watching for the first time in goddamn days look happy. That pussyass fucking joy only grew in him when Ben sat at Her side on the couch, passing her a plate of Dino nuggets. Her smile was like a fucking infection, and the Thing running through Ben wasn’t helped in the slightest by the presence of those blue, off-brand sunglasses on her head.

“What the hell are you wearing those for?” Ben asked tauntingly, trying to make his voice crude to cover the Things genuine need to know. “It’s fucking night time. Indoors.”

“They were collecting dust,” She reached a hand up, dropping them onto her face. “And I look cool as shit in them.”

“You’d look better if they were green,” Ben muttered. “Blue’s a-“

“Pussy ass color?” She teased. “Don’t worry Pretty Boy, I won’t touch your beard and ruin your handsome face.”

“Handsome?” He blinked at Her, the Thing bellowing so loudly Ben couldn’t even pretend to be cocky.

She ignored him, even as Her heart flipped. “How would you feel about a pink beard?”

Ben whacked Her shoulder lightly, and she giggled, giving him a pout that made the Thing hungry. “Shut the fuck up.” He grunted, and She just blew a raspberry at him.

Her attention returned to the TV and as they fell into a comfortable silence, Ben tried his fucking hardest to not steal glances at Her perfect face in the TV light, tried to fight the way the Thing rioted every time she laughed at the show.

When Ben went to shower that night, his thoughts were haunted by the wide, free smile on Her face.

The next two days were some of the most peaceful of Ben’s entire goddamn life. For the fourth morning in a row, She had woken first. There had been towel discarded onto their growing pile of dirty clothes that told Ben she’d showered, and he was able to hear Her heart beating with the shuffle of her steps from downstairs. He’d entered the kitchen a quarter hour later to find Her in an intent focus, surrounded by grocery bags and the cookbook open on the table.

“How long ago did you get up?” He asked, and She’d jumped in surprise.

“Two hours,” She’d answered, gesturing to the steak on the counter. “Mallory sent the delivery early. I think I’m getting better at this cooking shit.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Sunshine.” Ben had teased, and been whacked by a paper grocery bag.

The day was filled with training, and once they’d hit fifteen minutes Ben started to have Her hit random household objects they both deemed entirely fucking useless. Itchy blankets and pillows from the spare bedroom, paintings of horses and flowers Ben told her were fucking shit—She’d laughed at that and the Thing had grown though his chest—all of Her remaining, non-fireproof clothes, and several books She’d claimed “made Her want to hurt someone in middle school.”

“I’ve never known you to need a reason to hurt someone,” Ben had drawled Her name.

She’d flipped him off. “I’m a god of peaceful resolutions, Ben.”

“Sure.”

“I am.”

“I agreed with you, brat.”

“I’ll fucking kill you cunt,” the words likely been spoken against her will, being the small, angry gape of Her mouth after.

Despite Her growing control over her powers, Ben somehow ended up with more burns that afternoon than the one before. He’d been scowling at Her as she held his head, beard slightly burned in a real fucking noticeable way.

“I look like a fucking pussy.”

“Because your beard has one little patch?” She’d teased, and watching where Her palms were resting in his hair.  “I promise, Ben, it looks the exact same to everyone but you.”

“Don’t lie to protect my fucking ego-“

 “I’ve never lied to protect your ego before. I’m not about to start now.”

Ben hadn’t had a good retort to that, and they’d sat in a bitter silence until She’d nudged his thigh with her knee. “What,” he’d sounded less resentful than he’d liked to, but it was hard to be bitter when the Thing was so fucking satiated by Her gentle smile, and how it was all for him.

“I swear, you look fine. You look like you always do.”

He’d smirked, “which is?” 

“Don’t push it.”

“I think the words you meant to say were like a Greek god of sex.”

“The Greek god of sex was a woman,” She’d mumbled, looking down at him. “And I said don’t push it.”

Ben had cum that night—the flutter of Her heart as she looked at him replaying in his head—with Her name swallowed in his throat.

She was up first, fucking again. Though she was still next to him in bed—their legs tangled and one of his arms wrapped instinctively around her—Ben had woken to Her eyes watching him with not a trace of lingering sleep.

“Morning, Pretty Boy.” She’d whispered, and he’d groaned, scratching at his face to try and push the itch of sleep from his body.

“How fucking long have you been watching me, Sunshine?”

“Not long.” Ben hadn’t believed Her—she wouldn’t meet his eyes, her own looked hung with gray, and her words sounded flat and rehearsed—but he’d let it go. They’d spent the morning it the Kitchen, Ben watching Her try to cook and doing her second cashed favor, reading a fucking book.

“This is a goddamn waste of a favor,” Ben had snapped, and She’d hummed, not turning away from the steak she was beating into submission.

“I have twelve favors still in the bank, and more on the way. I think I’ll live.”

“I shouldn’t have fucking offered you favors. Should’ve just said you get complete TV control.”

“Oh, definitely,” She laughed. “I probably would’ve agreed if you offered me ten bucks and some chocolate. But you didn’t, so now you have to read.”

Ben huffed, and dodged as spare thin and tender pepper flew at his face. “Fucking rude,” he’d said, and She’d grinned at him.

“Don’t bitch and moan like I’m torturing you. You’re just reading.”

“That’s fucking torture. This is worse than torture.”

“Woe really is you, Ben. All those words and not one is smut.”

“What the fuck is smut.”

She’d blinked, and her heart had stuttered. “It’s um, porn. Book porn.”

“You can read porn-“ Ben had examined Her, the embarrassment on her face. “Do you read porn, Sunshine?” 

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,” She’d mumbled, turning her back to him once more.

“I think you read porn-“

This time, the pepper hit Ben right in the nose. When She wasn’t paying attention he’d eaten it off the floor, and it didn’t taste like complete fucking shit. She was, through brutal and hilarious trial and error, getting better.

Everything was good. Genuinely fucking good. That afternoon Ben had walked away with only two burns, She had hit about half of the targets he’d set up with passable aim—a vast improvement from Her grand total of zero the day before—and the Thing was so fucking content it was driving Ben insane. Because though he was still forced to find relief during inconvenient times in locked spaces, the Thing was getting real fucking specific about a lot of shit. It had gotten so fucking comfortable, fantasies had started to happen in the moment. She leaned against him slightly, and Ben was lost in thoughts of pulling her on top of him and fucking her until she collapsed against him. She smiled at him and Ben barely held himself from bruising her mouth with his. Two nights in a row they’d been so close—tangled and pressed together in sleep—that Ben hadn’t been sure where he stopped and She started.

Things were fucking good. She was fucking perfect and Ben was starting to worry that the light feeling in his chest was something that might last. That he might burn the world to keep there.

She was sitting next to him now, watching the TV while Ben watched her. He wanted to touch Her, he had to touch Her. More than just her hands and legs, fucking everywhere. He needed to feel Her, because this stupid fucking euphoria was stronger when She was at his side and he could hear her heart. She needed to know that, he needed Her to smile because Ben told her that she was the most perfect goddamn thing that had ever existed, and nothing even came fucking close-

The door slammed, and She was moving before Ben was, a controlled flame igniting on her fingers. Some muffled grunts came from the dark hall, Ben felt his whole body tense, ready to bleed whoever was there-

A silhouette was nearing the door, and Ben was fucking proud of how fast the fireball left her hand. Only a second later, goddamn Butcher walked into the room, covering their floors in fucking blood and sweat.

Ben should’ve pushed Her harder that afternoon. Maybe Her flame would’ve hit Butcher in the fucking face instead of only leaving a scorch mark on the wall near his head.

“Fucking Christ!” Butcher roared, stumbling far to the side. “You almost fucking hit me!”

“I’m not that lucky,” She snapped, and Ben snorted. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

“Are you blind, Love?” Butcher unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a large bullet wound in his chest. “Fucking fix it.”

She was, as fucking always, too kind for her own good. Because she stalked around the couch, and laid a single hand over Butcher’s wound in a venomous silence. Ben’s jaw clenched as Her heartbeat began to pick up, at the smug fucking look on Butcher’s face, at how she was rubbing her own chest in mirror to Butcher’s injury.

“Where did you even get this?” She asked, and Butcher shrugged.

“Don’t matter.” His gaze turned to Ben. “Got a gift for you, Gov.”

 “A gift?” She and Ben said in unison, and Butcher rolled his eyes.

“Aren’t you two bloody adorable,” he sneered, and Ben wondered if She could fix a ripped off head. “It’s in the damn car, I’ll need help getting it.”

“Help?” She asked, and Ben could see the thoughtful, untrusting frown covering her face, even with her back turned. “What is it?”

 “A fucking surprise.”

“He hates surprises,” She said, and the Thing hummed somewhere near Ben’s lungs.

“He’ll like this one,” Butcher dismissed. “Don’t you fucking trust me, Love?”

“Nope.” She snapped, heartbeat growing erratic even as she removed her hand. Butcher’s wound was gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished skin.

Butcher turned—flipping the hall light—and walked to the door in long steps. Swinging it open to the cool night air, he gave a sweeping gesture, brows raised. “C’mon cunts. We ain’t got all fucking night.”

Ben followed Her down the hall, only step behind, an arms distance away. Butcher’s car was parked in the drive, still running with the headlights on.

“What would you have done if the car had got stolen?” She asked, following Butcher to the trunk.

“Considering I can’t file a police report,” Butcher said, tone bored and cruel. “I think I might just use all the fucking CIA resources at my disposal to bloody find it.”

The trunk was popped open, and in it lay—fucking finally—the Soldier Boy shield in all its flawless fucking glory.

Ben didn’t hesitate to yank it up, grinning widely, and almost missed Her look of amusement.

 “Would you two like a minute alone?” She teased, and Ben scowled at Her.

“Shut the fuck up, Sunshine. It’s my goddamn shield, that you pussies-“ Ben pointed an accusing finger at Butcher. “Have fucking owed me for two months.”

“Time wasn’t right, mate,” Butcher said lazily, and Her heart faltered.

“And it’s right now?” She was almost whispering, the wind howling over her words. Even in the darkness, Ben could see the fog begin behind her eyes. “Why?”

“Big mission in four days.” Butcher began to move to the front of the car. “Thought I’d get ahead of it, let Soldier Boy do whatever weird shit he wants with his baby blanket before we have to move.”

Ben’s fury at the baby blanket comment was drowned out by the tap of Her fingers. The blanched, fearful fucking look on Her perfect face. The Thing howled, and Ben’s teeth became gritted.

“What type of shit are you about to make us pull, Butcher?” Ben growled.

Butcher winked. “We’re trying to wrap this circus up soon, Gov. Don’t worry your little mug about it.” Butcher’s attention turned to Her, saying Her name with a smirk. “See you in a few days.”

The car pulled out of the driveway with a screech, and She and Ben were left standing in the night. She looked at Ben with an empty smile as they returned into the house.

“Happy to have your shield back?”

“Should never have left,” Ben gripped it a little tighter as the Thing started to pull him toward her. “The fuck is Butcher planning?”

“What?” She said, blinking at him. “I- I um, I don’t know.”

She wasn’t looking at him, and every movement she had was controlled, mechanical. Ben didn’t fucking believe her. “You sure about that?”

She nodded, making a sound of agreement. Ben was going to push, he was going to ask why she was fucking lying, what she knew and why it was making her act so fucking strange, but She gave a long, stretching yawn, eyes lidded and steps unsteady.

“I’m tired,” She mumbled, leaning into Ben as they moved down the hall. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten,” Ben watched Her give another, loud, fucking adorable yawn, and the Thing felt warm where they touched.

“Few more hours before bed,” She nodded, walking toward the couch. Ben caught Her waist with arm before she could sit.

“You’re going to sleep now, Sunshine.” He placed his shield carefully at the foot of the steps. “You’re going to fucking pass out.”

“No I’m not,” She wiggled a bit, but Ben didn’t budge. “It’s only ten.”

“What time were you up this morning?” He asked dryly.

“What time were you up this morning?” She snapped.

“I fucking asked first.”

She gave him a half-hearted shove. “Nuh uh.”

“Really?” He snorted Her name. “What are you, a fucking child?”

“That’s rich coming from you, Ben.” She was starting to slump against him. “And even if I was, you’re not my fucking dad, you don’t get to give me a bed time.”

“I think you’re giving yourself a bed time, beautiful.” The word slipped out of Ben’s mouth, and the Thing became frozen as She looked up at him.

There was no fucking reason for that to be weird, Ben had called fucking hundreds of women beautiful. She wasn’t any fucking different. Even if She was perfect and leaned into him and looking up at him with sleepy, shining eyes and the Thing wanted to—fucking had to—hold Her like this forever-

“I’m not tired,” Her words were slurred mumbles against Ben, and he chuckled because—before the words had even left Her mouth—she was slumped into him, breathing growing steady with sleep.

Ben carried Her upstairs, laying her carefully on their bed and pulling the blankets up her body. When he drew back up, fucking forcing himself to walk away, back down the stairs, let Her sleep alone like a normal fucking man and not some weak fucking pussy who was scared to leave her side, she made a small sound behind him. When Ben turned, She was splayed out across the mattress, with one hand reaching out to Ben’s side, and frown twisted on Her perfect lips.

“Fuck it,” he muttered to no one, and stalked back to the bed. The Thing’s flailing around inside of him was calmed as Ben pulled Her to his chest, and She gave a small, breathy sigh as Her face returned to a picture of easy content.

Ben fell—lulled by Her heart and gentle breath—into deep sleep.

She was up first. The bed at Ben’s side had already grown cold, but he could hear the shower running through the bathroom door, hear the slow drum of Her heart as she moved. Ben stood and moved down the stairs, aiming to put on the coffee before she finished, only to find a half-full pot and a discarded mug at the counter. Her phone lay, face-down, at the mug’s side and glancing at the sink, there was a dirty plate that had definitely not been there the previous night.

When She arrived in the kitchen—hair damp and face blank—Ben coughed loudly.

“I can see you, Ben.” She moved past him, picking up her phone. “You can just say hi.”

“How long have you been up?” He asked roughly, and She shrugged.

“Few hours. We went to bed early last night, I must’ve gotten all the sleep I needed.”

“You fucking passed out last night,” Ben snapped Her name. “And it is not early. A few hours would mean before the fucking sun.”

She didn’t look up at him. “So?”

“You’re being fucking weird. And you never answered my question last night.”

“What question?” Her voice was flat, bored.

“What the hell is Butcher’s mission? It’s clearly something important, if he decided to give me my fucking shield.”

“I don’t know. Nobody’s told me.”

“I think you’re fucking lying.”

She raised her head, glaring firmly, coldly, at Ben. “I’m not. They don’t tell anything, you fucking know that.”

“I-“

“Nope.” She cut him off, placing her phone on the counter and crossing her arms. “We’re not fighting about this. Doesn’t matter what you think, Benjamin. That’s the fucking truth. Okay?”

Her face was like steel. He hadn’t seen her face like this, blank and controlled and full of so much quiet fury, in fucking months. The Thing was fucking cowering in Ben, like a goddamn pussy. Not afraid, but fucking desperate for her to stop looking at him like that. 

“Fine.” He grunted, and something like relief flashed across Her face. “But you need to fucking promise that if I need to be worried, you’ll tell me.”

“Sure,” She turned to the fridge, and Ben grabbed her arm, turning her to face him.

“Fucking promise.”

She blinked at him, voice a little softer—almost fucking delicate—when she said, “Promise.”

“Good,” He released her, and though the Thing felt no more peace, Ben took the goddamn weak reassurance. “Now eat, we’re training in a hour. Today you’re going to hit all the fucking targets.”

“You have a whole lot of faith in me, Pretty Boy,” She gave him a smile, and even that felt fragile. “Don’t know where the hell it comes from given how dogshit I am at this.”

“You’re getting better,” Ben winked. “Under my masterful fucking guidance.”

“Uh huh,” She snorted. “We’ll see about that.”

Two hours later, after She missed the target for the eleventh time in a row—Ben watching from the edge of the room—he was starting to think she was doing it on purpose.

“You know, if you’re trying to prove a point,” Ben said Her name, giving her an annoyed look. “There are damn better ways to do it.”

“I’m not trying to prove a point,” She snapped. “You’re the one who chose the smallest fucking cup in the world.”

“You hit it yesterday.”

“Shut up,” She missed again, a low noise of frustration sounding from her chest. “God fucking damnit!”

Ben watched Her, lips gnawing and breaths becoming shallow. “Calm the hell down, Sunshine.”

“I am fucking calm.”

“You’re burning a hole in the floor.”

She looked down to where the wood was charred beneath her feet. “Fuck off.” She muttered.

“This whole fucking house is fire-proof.” Ben pushed himself off the wall. “You’re burning like a fucking bomb. What the hell is wrong with you today?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I’m just having an off day.” Her words were hissed through teeth, and smoke was filling the room.

“You’re sloppy.” He stopped, glowering down at Her. 

She didn’t falter, holding his gaze. “Last time you said that, was anything wrong?”

“Last time you fucking broke down.”

“Do I look like I’m breaking down now?”

“You look like you’re about to collapse.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Hit the fucking target.”

She didn’t break eye-contact as her arm shot out, and Ben looked in time to see the cup—along with the entire damn wall—catch fire.

“That doesn’t count,” he grunted.

“The fuck it doesn’t.”

“You have to only hit the target, brat. That’s the whole goddamn point.”

“Fuck off, you asshole.” She shoved against his chest. “You’re being a cunt on purpose.”

“I’m not the one being fucking insane about ‘nothing’.” Ben mocked. “We’re staying right here until you either admit something is up or hit the target the right fucking way.”

“Fuck you.”

Ben didn’t answer, only held Her glare. The Thing hated this, it hated how fucking strange She was being, how She wouldn’t fucking talk to him, how Her face was all painful shadows and contorted control. But Ben couldn’t fucking break. Couldn’t fucking let it go just to see Her smile. Not when she was tapping and chewing and her eyes were so fucking empty and she wouldn’t tell him why.

The afternoon was long. She didn’t hit a single fucking target, and Ben called it when She started looking like she was about to explode. Ben showered—trying to figure out the fuck to make Her talk—while She continued her practice in the kitchen. When he returned downstairs, Ben found her on the couch, watching the TV with a blank expression.

“Have you calmed the hell down?” He snapped, and the Thing grew thick in his throat when She looked up at him with exhausted, foggy eyes.

“Yeah,” She said softly. “I’m sorry-“ She cut herself off, swallowing heavily. “I promise nothing is wrong. I’m just tired.”

“Because you keep getting up like you’re in the fucking military,” Ben muttered, walking to sit at Her side. “You need fucking sleep.”

She gave a hollow laugh. “Pot, meet kettle.”

“Shut up. It’s not the same.” Ben leaned back. “And I have been sleeping.”

“I know, you snore like a truck.” Her smile this time was a little lighter. “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” Ben turned to look at Her, and found his face being pulled down, soft hands in his hair. “Right now?” He frowned at her. “It’s late, and you look a little too fucking tired.”

“We missed yesterday.” She said as if it was fucking obvious. “And if you still think it does nothing, you shouldn’t have anything to worry about.”

Ben’s frown turned to a scowl at that. She was too fucking good at backing him into those corners, where She knew he couldn’t respond without her winning. “You think you’re real smart, huh?” 

“I don’t think I’m smart,” She gave him a cocky grin. “I know I’m smart.”

“Brat.”

“Cunt.”

As Her brows drew together in focus, the Thing became strained. Something was fucking wrong. It didn’t matter how many times She denied it, she was more stressed than he’d ever fucking seen Her. Ben racked his brain for a way to ask Her that wouldn’t make her explode, wouldn’t make her shut down or turn away from him. It was an exhausting process, he had no clue how She did this all the time like it was easy, asking careful question and using stupid fucking tricks to bend him to Her will. Admittedly, Ben admired it. It was fucking hot, the small smiles on Her perfect face and how quick her words came. But Jesus fucking Christ, he wished She was worse at it. Especially as he tried to do it himself.

He said Her name slowly. “How did you meet Butcher?”

“What?”

“How did you-“

“I heard you,” She said tightly. “Why are you asking that?”

Ben fought the frown on his face. “Am I not allowed to ask fucking questions?”

“Not weird ones out of the blue.”

“It’s not that damn weird,” he grumbled. “You’ve never told me. Fuck me for being curious how you fell in with a bunch of fucking pussies.”

She sighed. “I escaped Homelander,” her hands gripped his head a little tighter. “They found me. Not much more to say.”

“How did they even know about you?” He searched Her face for any tells, any breaks in her mask.

Her face remained passive, unreadable. “Maeve told Butcher. He told Mallory. They tracked me down.”

“Why didn’t you fucking leave?”

“Leave?”

“The country,” Ben pushed. “Fuck, just the damn East Coast. Why did you stay where you could be found?” 

“You don’t know that I didn’t,” she muttered. “Maybe they found me in Aruba.”

“No, they fucking didn’t.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t know that, you cunt.”

“Answer my question, brat.”

She glared at Ben’s forehead. “I don’t know. I just, the first thing I found out when I escaped was that to everyone in the world, I’d been dead for over two years. I didn’t have anything to go back to.”

“So you should’ve just fucking left-“

“I couldn’t,” She hissed, and Ben felt her hand get warm. “I had nothing, no one. Just a fucking grave that proved I had existed. I was angry and tired and alone. Butcher found me at my grave, because that’s the only place I could be. I didn’t have it in me to leave, because I kept fucking hoping I’d blink and the grave would vanish.”

“Sunshine-“

“They found me, and they offered me a reason. I ‘fell in with them’ because they knew I was alive, and it gave me some sort of fucking value. That’s it.”

Ben placed his hands over Hers, and she finally looked at him. “I think we’re done.”

This time, She didn’t fight, and her voice was so fucking tired when she spoke. “Okay.”

The rest of the night was quiet, and though She was smiling and laughing, the joy felt uneasy, and it never reached her fucking eyes. When She leaned against Ben the Thing became loud, because though she wouldn’t look at him she was gripping his arm like he might vanish. Though She traded teasing words with him, there was no edge of amusement to them, lined only with that flat, rehearsed sound.

She was up first. They had fallen asleep late, Her pressed into the bed by Ben’s arm across her stomach, but She was up first. Ben found Her in the kitchen, sitting with her fingers tapping quickly on the counter. Before he could ask Her what the fuck she was doing up so early again, She looked up and smiled—a real fucking smile with teeth and clear eyes—as he entered the room.

“You’re up!” There were bags under her eyes, hanging heavier than before, but she was really fucking smiling and the Thing was tearing in two. “Finally.”

Ben started at Her. “Finally?” 

She hummed, nodding as she stood and walked to the oven. “Are you ready to have your mind fucking blown, Pretty Boy?”

“What the fuck are you-“ Ben cut himself off as She bent over, pulling out a cheesesteak—a beautiful cheesesteak that smelled fucking good—and turned with a grin.

“I did it.” She said smugly. “I cooked.”

“You’re real fucking pleased with yourself, huh.” Ben raised a brow a Her, and the Thing hummed as she gave a strong, proud nod.