#aftermath of brainwashing

[furiousgoldfish]

Did anyone else have this bizarre experience of trying to calm down/reassure yourself before you're about to enter a social situation, but the words you're saying to yourself in the mirror are 'You look human, nobody can tell if you're not, you can pass as one of them, nobody will be able to tell if you're something else'?

Because I'm thinking back on multiple times I did this, now realizing how badly I was brainwashed that I really didn't believe myself to be human and had to double check to make sure I looked like one of the humans so nobody would be able to clock me as whatever my parents said I was.

[abhainnwhump]

Pet Whumpee screaming, kicking, and crying as Caretaker and their friends drag them away from Whumper's dead body. Whumpee wants to stay with them and leaving feels like betrayal.

[pianokantzart]

Nastasia's brainwashing taking someone's evil side and bringing it to the forefront? That's fine, sure...

... but what if it's not the evil part of you that gets amplified so much as it is a twisted version of who you desire to be?

Paper Luigi has shown signs of desperately chasing a sense of perfectly-earned pride. He wants to be a hero like his brother! He wants to do grand, daring deeds and inspire awe in everyone around him! As Mr. L? Wish granted! You're a completely self-absorbed jerk who doesn't need to so much as lift a finger before feeling like you're better than everyone else.

On the flip side, what about a Mario who wishes he could be a bit more emotionally vulnerable, or openly express his worries/frustrations, but feels like he can't without troubling those around him? But as Mr. M? Wish granted! Mr. M is nothing but a big bundle of emotional vulnerability who is consistently spewing his thoughts and feelings all over the place.

You feel me? You see my vision here?

[corrupteddoodles]

insert funny caption

[akkivee]

talk of ichikuu slotting themselves into each other’s lifestyles reminded me of a hc i have that shakku initially did not like ichiro upon meeting him lol

kuukou i’m sure doesn’t talk about himself to his father either lol but he knows his son very well, and i imagine the kuukou that left home and the kuukou that returned home (brainwashed) were very different people. if he saw kuukou fawning over this long distance friend, he’d put two and two together and unconsciously place some blame on ichiro for whatever happened to his son

ofc shakku comes around to ichiro and he becomes the son he wishes he had and ichiro suddenly has two harais that love him unconditionally LOL

[calkestis]

finally got the chance to watch godzilla minus one and (1) i am in awe at what they managed to do with this story and these characters and (2) i think i’ve reached a point where i’m not judging the media i consume based on how well executed it is (it has to still be believable, but i can live with many shortcomings) but rather on how curious it makes me feel about stuff; if i find myself wanting to learn about a time period or a certain society or group of people or if i find myself googling stuff related to the characters - that’s a good movie in my book.

[deancity]

the archangel blade killed lucifer but spared nick, why did we not explore this with micheal and dean?

we could have had dean begging sam or cas to stab him. sam holding him down or standing by as cas looms over him with the blade. dean surrounded by his loved ones begging them to sink the blade into his chest. his hands gripped over cas' on the handle so he can't let go or back out of this. dean the sacrificial lamb begging to be slaughtered for the greater good.

[nyc-tophile]

𝐀 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 | Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier x fem!reader

In the aftermath of a Hydra mission, you find yourself haunted by thoughts—and dreams—of Bucky Barnes, the man behind the Winter Soldier mask. As the truth about his tortured past is revealed through recovered Hydra intel, the emotional weight grows heavier. His final words to you, "I'll find you," echo endlessly in your mind. Now, each day is spent in a quiet state of vigilance, waiting for the moment he returns.

Warnings - 18+, kidnapping, captivity, gun violence, physical injury, psychological trauma, torture, brainwashing, medical experimentation, emotional distress, restraints, strong language, manipulation.

Author’s Note: Thank you all so much for the incredible support with this series! Honestly, when I wrote the first part of this story, I never expected it to do so well. I’m so happy that so many of you enjoyed it! [I did use Google Translate, so don’t fight me TT]

This chapter does have some scenes from Captain America: Civil War included, and Zola is alive in this.

Transtations -

[желание - Longing] [ржавый - Rusted] [семнадцать - Seventeen] [рассвет - Daybreak]

[печь - Furnace] [девять - Nine] [доброкачественные - Benign]

[возвращение домой - Homecoming] [один - One] [грузовой вагон - Freight car]

[Солдат - Soldier] [я готов ответить - I am ready to comply]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟏 | 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑

As the days passed after the Hydra mission, all you could think about was him. His presence lingered in your mind like the ghost of a touch—intoxicating and impossible to forget. He even began to invade your dreams. You’d wake with your skin flushed, haunted by the memory of his hands exploring your body like a wildfire, his kiss still burning on your lips.

After handing over the flash drive containing the Hydra intel to Steve and Fury, the truth came to light piece by piece. You still remembered the way Steve’s face fell as he watched the footage—his once-best friend, Bucky Barnes, being tortured until there was nothing left but a weapon. The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the low hum of the monitor and the sound of Steve’s clenched fists trembling at his sides.

And you? You couldn’t tear your eyes away either.

Because that same man—the broken, weaponized ghost from the screen—was the one who now haunted your thoughts, your dreams, and the space between every breath you took.

As the weeks passed, his last words echoed in your mind: “I’ll find you.”

You heard them constantly, like a whisper just behind your ear. Day in and day out, you stayed alert, eyes scanning every crowd, always looking over your shoulder.

Waiting. Waiting for him to finally find you.

It was a cool Thursday morning. You stood in your kitchen, a cup of coffee warming your hands as a sitcom played softly in the background. The smell of breakfast still lingered in the air, your mind was elsewhere.

Then your phone rang, slicing through the quiet space. Wiping your hands on your pants, you grabbed it.

“Steve…?” you asked, frowning. Had you forgotten to go into the office today?

Before you could second-guess yourself, Steve’s voice came through—frantic, panicked.

“He’s here! Bucky is here!” he shouted.

Your eyes widened. The mug slipped from your fingers, shattering on the floor.

“I’m coming now!” You blurted, already halfway to the door. You didn’t wait for a response before hanging up and bolting out of your apartment.

Your legs carried you as fast as they could toward the head office, where chaos had already broken loose.

People were fleeing the building, panic etched into their faces. You pushed through the crowd and the wall of screams, refusing to stop—or even slow down to catch your breath.

Bursting through the main doors, you ran down the hallways, slamming past swinging doors and startled staff. Then, finally, you saw them.

Bucky and Natasha.

Her legs were locked around his neck, her elbow driving into his ribs—until he slammed her hard into a table.

The room was in chaos. Tables overturned. Trays of food were scattered across the floor. Then you saw it—Natasha's gun, lying just a few feet away.

You ran. Picking it up off the ground.

Heart pounding, you turned just in time to see Bucky raise his fist, ready to strike.

Without thinking, you pulled the trigger, aiming at his metal hand. The shot rang out. He jerked, eyes snapping toward you, anger burning in them.

You looked at Natasha and mouthed, “Run.”

In a flash, she kicked him off her.

He staggered back—just enough for her to scramble to her feet. Blood streaked her temple as she gave you a stern nod before darting out the door.

Bucky didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unfazed by Natasha’s escape. Without a word, he drew his gun and fired as you ran—bullets passing dangerously close to you. You dodged as best you could, but not fast enough. You dove behind a table, heart pounding, and looked down to see your leg bleeding, pierced by a bullet.

Before you could react, a hand clamped down on your shoulder, yanking you up and slamming you to the floor. Pain tore through your body as you hit the ground, your eyes squeezing shut. The gun slipped from your grasp and skidded out of reach.

Your eyes shot open as you felt the familiar cold metal wrap around your throat, lifting you off the ground until your toes barely scraped the floor. “P-please… don’t… do this…” You gasped, your voice strained and fading. Your fingers clawed weakly at his wrist before slipping away. Darkness crept in at the edges of your vision—your body growing limp, your mind swimming.

Before you knew it, everything went dark, the pain in your leg dulling into numbness as consciousness slipped away.

-----

When your eyes finally fluttered open, the harsh glare of overhead lights forced you to squint. The ceiling above was unfamiliar—sterile, white, and humming with a soft electrical buzz. A groan escaped your lips as fire seared through your leg.

You tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy—your body sluggish, unresponsive.

You struggled to lift your arms, but something held them in place. That’s when panic surged in your chest.

Where the hell were you?

“Ah, you��re awake!” came a voice from your side.

You turned your head, squinting against the harsh light that flooded your vision, and found yourself face-to-face with a man you didn’t recognize.

“Who the hell are you? Where am I?” you croaked, your throat dry and tight, every word scraping like sandpaper.

The man adjusted his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose, and cleared his throat with unsettling calm.

“My name is Zola — Dr. Arnim Zola. And you, my dear, are currently lying in Hydra’s secret base,” he said, his tone disturbingly cheerful, as if he were welcoming you to a tea party rather than a prison.

Your heart pounded, and panic surged through you, hot and dizzying, until the room seemed to tilt. Your breath hitched, shallow and ragged.

“No… no, this can’t—”

Zola took a step closer, his silhouette sharp against the glaring light.

“Oh, but it is,” Zola said, his voice soft, almost indulgent. “And I must say, we’re quite fascinated by you. So much potential…”

You strained against the restraints—thick leather straps biting into your wrists and ankles, pinning you to the cold metal table.

“What do you want from me?” you demanded, your voice cracking under the weight of fear, desperation bleeding through every word.

Zola’s smile widened, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Everything.”

He paused, studying you like a specimen under glass. Then, with clinical detachment, he adjusted his gloves, fingers flexing in the tight fabric as he slowly began to circle the table.

“We know you’re the one who had your little... fun with the Soldier,” he said, his tone flat, as if commenting on the weather. “Almost amusing, really — watching how he reacted to you. How he reached for you. How he touched you.”

He stopped at your side, leaning in just enough for you to catch the gleam of malice in his eyes. “Too bad he can’t remember you,” Zola said, mockery dripping from his voice like venom.

You froze, his words slicing deeper than the restraints ever could. Your heart pounded, the sting of heartbreak tangled with terror, making it hard to breathe.

“You should have seen him afterward,” Zola continued, his voice almost a purr. “How his body curled in pain from the torture he endured. All because of you. All because you couldn’t keep your legs closed.”

He hummed softly, as if pleased by the memory, and reached for a syringe, turning it over in his gloved hands.

You watched, helpless, as Zola flicked the syringe, a tiny bead of liquid forming at the tip as air bubbles floated to the top. The image of Bucky — his body broken, curled in agony, tortured because of you — flashed through your mind, a fresh wave of guilt and horror tightening your chest.

Zola’s voice cut through the haze, cold and satisfied. “Don’t worry. Soon, you won’t remember any of this either.”

The room tilted. Darkness crept in at the edges of your vision, your body growing heavy, unresponsive. The last thing you saw was Zola’s smile, sharp and cruel, before the world went black.

You woke again, your body aching. Pain flared down your back, and your leg still burned as if it were on fire. A low groan escaped your lips as you forced your eyes open, blinking against the dim light. Slowly, you rolled onto your back, every movement sending fresh waves of discomfort through you.

It didn’t take long to realize you’d been moved. This wasn’t the same room — more like a cell. The walls were dull gray, cold, and unwelcoming. A single narrow bed sat against one side, covered with a thin, worn blanket. In the corner, a rusted sink dripped steadily, the sound echoing in the silence.

You forced yourself to sit up, eyes squeezing shut against the sharp throb of pain that followed. For a moment, you just breathed, trying to steady yourself — and then it hit you. The reality of where you were.

Swallowing hard, you lifted your gaze and pushed yourself to your feet, moving slowly, every muscle protesting. You braced a hand against the cold, rough wall for balance, each step toward the bars shaky. The metal felt solid and merciless beneath your fingers as you reached them, staring out at the dull, empty corridor in front of you.

Days blurred together, each one bleeding into the next with the same relentless routine. You’d wake to the sound of the door sliding open, only to be served what they claimed was breakfast — a sludge that looked more like blended dog food. Then they’d drag you from your cell, hauling you to Zola’s lab for his examinations, his cold hands and colder eyes studying you like some lab rat.

After that came the two-minute shower — barely enough time to feel human — before you were shoved back into your cell, the metal slamming shut behind you.

You stopped counting the days. There was no point anymore. Time had become meaningless in this dull, gray prison.

Your mind still drifted to Bucky, no matter how hard you tried to stop it. You wondered if he was safe — if he was even still alive. The not knowing gnawed at you, deeper than the hunger or the pain.

You’d learned quickly that questions had no place here. No one answered them. No one even listened. The only sound that kept you company was the low, endless hum of the electrics in the walls — a constant reminder of your captivity, filling the heavy silence that pressed down on you day and night.

Then, one day, the routine broke.

You lay on your so-called bed, staring up at the dull, cracked ceiling, lost in the haze of monotony. But the familiar clunk of your cell door unlocking snapped you out of it.

You looked up, heart quickening, and saw him — the same guard who always hauled you around like dead weight. He stood there, expression blank, his bulk filling the doorway.

“Get up,” he said, his voice flat and emotionless.

You hesitated, brow furrowing. This wasn’t part of the usual schedule. Reluctantly, you pushed yourself to your feet, your body unsteady. Pain flared in your leg, the injury far from healed, but you forced yourself upright, bracing against the wall for balance.

You bit down on your tongue, swallowing the groan that threatened to escape. You stood silently, watching as the guard stepped forward and snapped the handcuffs around your wrists — the cold metal all too familiar against your skin by now.

The guard moved behind you, giving you a hard shove that sent you stumbling out of the cell. In the dim corridor, another guard waited in silence, his face just as unreadable.

Without a word, the second guard turned sharply on his heel and started down the hall. Before you could ask where they were taking you, or why the first guard gave you another shove, forcing you to follow.

When you finally stopped, it was in front of a large gray metal door. You hesitated, your brows lifting in confusion, curiosity flickering beneath the weight of fear. The door groaned open with a harsh metallic grind that echoed down the corridor.

Inside, soldiers stood scattered across the room, stiff and silent, their eyes sharp and watchful. But your attention was drawn to the center — to the glass box that dominated the space like some cruel exhibit.

And then you saw him. Bucky.

He stood beside the box, his face unreadable, his gaze fixed somewhere just past you.

As you stepped closer, you spotted Zola standing beside him, a clipboard clutched in his hands. He glanced up, and the sight of you made a slow, eager smile spread across his face.

“Ah! Finally, you’re here!” he said, his voice tinged with unsettling excitement.

You didn’t answer. Your eyes stayed locked on Bucky — or the man who might have been Bucky. But he didn’t look at you. Not once. Not even a flicker of recognition.

But in that moment, you couldn’t tell if you were staring at Bucky Barnes… or the Winter Soldier.

“Today I thought it would be a good idea to let you in on — or at least watch — some of our training, since you can’t participate,” Zola hummed, pulling you out of your thoughts.

Your gaze finally shifted to him as he set his clipboard down on the table beside him, that unsettling smile never leaving his face.

“Though I suppose it would be interesting to see you try to take on my soldiers,” he added, with a mockery. You wanted to choke him right then and there. His voice — that smug, grating tone — was starting to get under your skin.

The guard to your right placed a heavy hand on your shoulder, steering you toward a chair.

“Sit,” he muttered. You rolled your eyes but obeyed, lowering yourself into the chair. The cold metal bit into you, and your cuffed hands rested uncomfortably behind your back.

“Now, before we start, we have to get your little boyfriend ready,” Zola said, his voice dripping with mockery as he turned and picked up a small red book. A black star stamped across the cover.

If you thought the room couldn’t get any quieter, you were wrong. The air seemed to thicken, the silence pressing down on you like a weight. It felt as if the whole room had frozen — as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for what would come next.

Zola turned toward Bucky, opening the red book with a deliberate, practiced motion. He cleared his throat — that familiar gesture he always made before speaking.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then he began.

“желание. ржавый. семнадцать...”

You kept your eyes on Bucky as the words rolled off Zola’s tongue, each one sharp and cutting. You watched as Bucky’s whole demeanor shifted — his breathing quickened, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“рассвет. печь. девять. доброкачественные. возвращение домой...”

The tremor in Bucky’s body grew worse. His jaw was clenched so hard you half expected to hear the crack of a molar giving way.

“Один. Товарный вагон.”

Zola closed the book, his gaze lifting to study Bucky’s face. His brows arched in satisfaction as he took in the result of his work — the Soldier standing where Bucky Barnes had been.

“Солдат,” Zola said, stepping closer, his gaze hard and unblinking, as if trying to bore through Bucky’s soul.

“Я готов ответить,” Bucky muttered, his voice low, mechanical. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, the only flicker of anything human beneath the surface.

You knew this wasn’t Bucky anymore. This was the Winter Soldier — the weapon stripped of mercy, the man who killed without hesitation, without a flicker of remorse—the man who, with a single command, could snap your neck as easily as breathing.

“Lovely!” Zola exclaimed, eyes sweeping the room before landing on a scarred, buzz-cut soldier, solid, though nowhere near Bucky’s size.

“You. First. You’ll fight him,” Zola said, gesturing toward the glass box.

You watched as the man stepped forward, following Bucky into the enclosure.

You knew Bucky could win the fight easily, but still, fear bubbled in your throat. He looked so different now from the man you’d been alone with. Here, he looked like he could kill anyone without a second thought. But back in that room, when it was just the two of you, he’d seemed like he couldn’t even hurt a fly — like there was always a flicker of hesitation in his mind.

“You’re going to like this,” Zola whispered, his breath hot against your ear.

“Fuck off,” you muttered, eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a glance.

You could feel his grin, wide and smug, as if your defiance was exactly what he wanted.

Inside the glass box, Bucky’s stance shifted. His shoulders squared, his metal arm flexing once, slow, deliberate.

“Begin!” Zola’s voice echoed through the hall just as the two soldiers moved.

The other man lunged, but Bucky sidestepped with ease, catching him in a chokehold before he could recover. Before you could blink, the soldier was slammed against the glass, his eyes rolling back as he crumpled to the floor.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding. Bucky didn’t even glance your way. His expression was empty, as if the fight hadn’t registered at all.

“Again,” Zola called, clapping his hands in delight. Another man stepped forward — younger, leaner.

Bucky advanced, silent as death.

You wanted to scream, to beg him to stop, but you knew it wouldn’t matter. This wasn’t Bucky anymore. This was their weapon — the Winter Soldier.

It went on for hours. One by one, the soldiers stepped into the box. Some managed to land a hit, two, maybe three, but none left without something shattered. A rib. A jaw. Bucky didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Zola's programming wouldn’t let him.

You watched, heart pounding, as the Winter Soldier moved like a machine—cold, efficient, merciless.

The sight of it filled you with a helpless rage, the kind that burned low in your chest and whispered promises of escape.

You had to find a way out of this place. And when you did, you weren’t leaving without him. No matter what it took, no matter how far gone they thought he was, you’d bring Bucky Barnes back, for both you and Steve.

[lilacxquartz]

cw: lightly yandere shoko & yandere geto x willing gn!reader, canon divergence, emotional manipulation, uncomfortable talks, everyone is 18-19, shoko & geto are the bad guys, poly dynamics • w.c: 1.4k • masterlist • on ao3

Satoru quickly turned away from Suguru’s idea of a perfect world, staying behind to fulfil his own path instead, but Shoko was less sure. After all, she was the one who had to deal with the bulk of the aftermath, and she was the one who got to see her friends last—rolled up beneath her on a cold slab, either dead or close to it.

How was she supposed to just go on and accept her role, the same way that Satoru was to accept his? In the end, no matter how it’ll come to be, she’ll be the one leftover to clean up the mess.

Satoru would turn up in the morgue one day, and then maybe, so would you.

Despite this, when Suguru left everyone else behind, she didn’t follow him right away. She couldn’t. She still had a life with Satoru—with you—but ultimately, the thought of her friends staying behind and dying as opposed to living out their full lives ate away at her. She couldn’t prevent death on the battlefield. Her role was non-combative, so in the end, she would be expected to just carry on. This revelation was heartbreaking to her—it was numbing—she found herself unable to stand it.

And so, after just a year had passed, she left everything and everyone behind. Her feelings mattered too, didn’t they? If everyone she cherished would eventually perish, then what right did she have to carry the burden of life all alone? Maybe it sounded selfish, but nobody else got it; they couldn’t have.

When she left, you were the first to reach out—the quickest. Satoru, by then, had quickly become jaded, still not over Suguru’s string of decisions that led to his initial leave. When he did try and talk to him on occasion, the conversations were short-lived as he was simply unable to forgive him for what he had done. Besides that point, he genuinely believed that Shoko's leaving was the result of Suguru brainwashing her, refusing to believe the bitter truth.

Satoru tried to stop you, therefore, before you dialled her number. His hand shot out to grab tightly around your wrist, hoping you would drop the phone. “You shouldn’t,” he insisted, “Shoko’s smart - she’ll figure it out, and then, she’ll come back to us. Just you wait.”

You wrenched your arm back, shaking your head. “Satoru,” you started, your voice breaking just a little, “I don’t think I can let this one go—let her go, if Shoko’s gone, then she needs us—”

However, before you could finish voicing your reasoning, Satoru let go of you and took a step aside. He sighed a deep breath and turned away from you, waving a dismissive hand as he walked away, not bothering to say another word. In doing so, though, he unknowingly pushed you closer to Shoko. To Suguru, too.

After the minutes had passed and Satoru was long gone from the room, you tried to reach out to her the second time. The voice that the line connected you to sounded softer, somehow happier despite everything that had happened. It was as if all of the tension she held onto during her years was starting to evaporate, leaving behind someone content. “How are you doing?” she greeted. You could almost imagine the lazy smile on her face right now.

“It’s so good to hear your voice,” you admitted, taking a step behind to press your back against the wall. You allowed yourself to sink, taking a seat against the cold hardwood floor before screwing your eyes shut—just for a moment—desperate for a sliver for normalcy. “I’m doing… okay—ish. Or… I don’t know. Everything’s a mess, Shoko.”

A moment of pause lingered heavy in the air. All that you could hear was her breathing on the receiving end, and then quickly, something covering the phone on her end. You could hear muffled voices bickering in the background, feeling as your anxiety welled up worse by the second.

“We miss you,” Shoko spoke, her voice softer than before, “Suguru does too.” She then paused, letting another pause linger, “Are you going to make us wait for you?”

“I can’t just leave—” you tried to say, but then another voice cut you off.

“—Can’t you?” Suguru chimed in that time, taking hold of the phone. “Do you want to stay behind and die just like everyone else will? Because that’s your future if you do.”

“I’m not going to die,” you protested weakly, but even then, you weren’t too sure. Haibara’s death had you second-guessing things. It was only a matter of time before someone else you knew died too. What if you were next? Would you even make it to your thirtieth birthday, let alone your twentieth?

“You don’t know that,” Shoko said, regaining control of her phone once more. “Sorry about him,” she then apologised, taking a deep breath, “you get that he’s just worried, right?”

“Shoko—”

“—This could be our chance to stay together, just like old times, don’t you want that?”

You sighed a deep breath. “I-I don’t know, I just don’t agree with what Suguru has done.”

Suguru took hold of the phone again, and you could hear him sighing, as if trying to reel himself in to sounding like someone reasonable. You needed stability, especially during these uncertain times. “You don’t have to agree or support me,” he said, “I just don’t want to see you get hurt or worse. We can keep you safe, but only if you let us.”

You tried to talk back again, “Suguru—”

He reciprocated your pleading by letting slip your name from his lips, “Didn’t you say you loved us? Both Shoko and I? Did that mean nothing to you? Because it meant everything to me—to us.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “I did say that…”

“Then you’ll come back to us, won’t you?” he asked.

You were about to give in, but then another thought entered your mind. “What about Satoru? Am I supposed to just leave him behind? He needs a friend now more than ever, I can’t just…”

As you trailed off, Shoko took hold of the phone again, trying to emphasise the point that Suguru had tried to make. “Listen, baby, Satoru won’t change it. I don’t think he’ll ever get it until it’s too late. But we know you. You won’t last long without us. You need us and you know it.”

Her words settled deep into your mind and jolted you to your core—prompting you to hang up that time—guided by an impulsive decision. You could almost imagine the look of disbelief written on their faces as they thought this was likely it—that you were pushing them away, but they couldn’t have been any more wrong. You made your decision from the moment that Satoru pushed you away. From the moment you heard the ease in Shoko’s voice. From the moment that Suguru reminded you of where your affections lie.

And with that in mind, you showed up the next day at the address Shoko texted you, just in case you changed your mind. You brought nothing with you and at the same time, left no hint as to where you were going behind. All that you knew was that they were both right in their way. Staying behind would mean a certain fate, and you loved them both far too much to accept that future.

You didn’t want them to grieve you, too.

When the doors to the temple opened up, Suguru looked down at you for maybe a second before curving his lips into a relieved smile. He didn’t give you any time to protest or pull back before pulling you into his chest, pulling you ever so slightly from the ground where you both stood.

“I knew you’d come around,” he murmured, brushing his hand along your back.

Before you had a chance to respond—rapidly closing footsteps echoed down the hall as Shoko hurried towards your position. It wasn’t too often that you saw her break into so much emotion, but right then and now, it was an exception. She pushed herself in between you and Suguru, forcing him to let you go, which he allowed despite the slight exasperation colouring his face.

“You’re not leaving us,” she said and then repeated again and again, uttering a mantra of a pleading demand until it was ingrained into you as your new reality, “never, ever again.”

“You’re the ones who left—” you tried to say, but they didn’t let you.

Instead, you resigned into their anchoring touch, surrendering to Shoko’s hug and the feeling of Suguru closing in his arms around you both.

For now, you were content to accept things as they were—because even if everything else felt wrong, staying with them both felt like the most correct thing in the whole wide world.

[corrupteddoodles]

insert good title

man i just drop whatever writing i create huh

no beta we die like lankmann in the sitcom au ending

mortimer finds alex again

say hi to the brainwash au aftermath

Mortimer had been walking through the forest for hours. For whatever reason, he figured that Alex would be in the woods when they up and disappeared. When they were kids, Alex would disappear into the forest when they got upset. Mortimer figured that still held true into adulthood. Old habits die hard, y’know?

It was reaching dusk, and the ground under his shoes was starting to cool off for the night. It was getting quieter, the only noises Mortimer’s ears could pick up on was the light tussle of leaves, crickets chirping, and growling.

Wait. Growling?

Mortimer focused his attention on the sound of  growling. It was a few feet away, and it sounded like a wild animal was eating a fresh kill. He turned his head around, trying to find the source of the noise. 

There, a little bit deeper in the trees. A humanoid. figure, hunched over an animal. That can’t be them. Mortimer thought, but hey, it never hurt to check, right? He hadn’t see Alex in months, and the worst a wild animal would do is just kill him.

Mortimer slowly stepped foreward, careful to not step on anything that would make noise. He approached the figure, and as he got closer, the moonlight better illuminated them.

Yeap, that’s Alex alright. Hunched over what looked like a deer. Eating its organs like this was the last meal they’d ever eat. From what Mortimer would see, Alex had chopped their hair shorter while they had been missing. 

Mortimer tried not to vomit as he watched Alex rip out what looked like the deer’s heart with their teeth, and with a snarl, gulp it down. Mortimer narrowed his eyes as Alex bent back down for another bite of their less-then savory meal.

“Alex? Is that you?”

Alex stiffened and leaned up. They seemed almost hesitant as they slowly turned around. Mortimer almost gagged when he saw Alex’s face. He was already used to the cracks and the holes in their cheek, but he was not mentally prepared to see Alex with their lower face covered in blood and bits of gore, and their eyes alight with a near-feral hunger. Their coat was unbuttoned, and blood stained their old uniform underneath.

Alex’s gaze softened when they saw Mortimer’s face, their eyes glinting with recognition. They spit out the mouthful of deer and wiped their face with their sleeve.

Mortimer relaxed. If he understood right, Alex recognized him. Alex was the one who broke the stunned silence first.

“Am I fuckin hallucinating? Is that you, Mortimer?”

They smiled as tears welled up in their eyes.

“Is that actually you, Mortimer?!”

Mortimer smiled softly and nodded. Alex’s blood-stained hands raised to their mouth with a short, relieved laugh. Tears started streaming down their face.

“Holy fuck- I-I never thought I’d see you again. I- I don’t even know what to say!”

Alex stepped forward with their arms outstretched, but looked down at their body and lowered their arms.

“Maybe don’t wanna..hug while I’m covered in fresh deer blood, eh?”

Mortimer just rushed foreward and wrapped his arms around Alex. He didn’t even care that they were covered in metallic smelling blood, or that he just watched them wolf down an animals heart. He was just relived that Alex was okay.

Alex’s eyes widened, and they hesitated before wrapping their arms around Mortimer as well.

The two were just relieved that the eachother was okay.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 19 - Don't Look Back

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Sorry for the slight delay! I was hit with a big case of “this chapter is very important so it has to be perfect” and “I have a crush on someone and it’s rendering me incapable of human function." Enjoy!

Chapter Title from Love From The Other Side by Fall Out Boy

Word Count: 26.4k (for context that is longer than the first 4 chapters combined. Someone needs to restrain me)

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You have work to do, and Ben keeps to his word. Usual warnings, with emphasis on assault. No rape, but one non-con kiss. Make the best call for yourself.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, heavy angst, pining

Read on A03!

Chapter 18 - Chapter 20

You’d been right. Word of mouth spread fast, and Sage knew about your speech. Homelander as well, but he’d reacted about as you’d hoped to anticipate. Proud, smug, certain beyond a doubt that you had been speaking of him. 

Sage knew better. She knew what you’d really meant—who you’d really been speaking of—and the only thing that saved was that she couldn’t do anything about it. 

Because word of mouth spreads fast. 

But the internet spreads faster. 

Everyone has an opinion on what, in a brilliant twist of journalism, was being called Believe-gate. Everyone has seen the photo of your fearful expression when the “CIA terror attack” on good, christian America had begun and Homelander had shot off the stage. Fear for your lover, gone to fight for what’s right. Or, if the photo was of your fear expression when your extraction operation had begun and Homelander had gone to kill your team. 

It all depends on who you ask. 

If you ask Homelander’s supporters, or Homelander himself, you’ll hear the narrative you’ve been forced to memorize and parrot almost every day. Your fear was for Homelander, whom you loved. The attack by the CIA on a group of innocent civilians was a tragedy both in the losses of A-Train and Ezekiel, and as the American people had to learn they couldn’t trust their government. They could only trust their heroes, trust Homelander, to keep them safe. 

If you ask the Starlighters, or read the CIA’s official statement on the matter, the alleged “attack” had been an extraction operation for the Anomaly that had gone sideways. Employees of Vought had interfered with a government sanctioned mercenary team—lead by William Butcher and containing Soldier Boy but not in official association with Starlight—and collateral damage had been unavoidable. People should write their congressman to divert more money into funding Butcher’s team, and boycott Vought products until the Anomaly was freed. 

That’s closer to the truth, but reality is still far more absurd than either side seems to properly capture. Not absurd in the way the media seems to think, because gossip and rumors spread like the wildfire climbing steadily back under your skin. In meetings—as Sage goes over damage control and shoots you cold, measured glares—you see post after post, headline after headline, and video after video of speculation. You’re honestly a little surprised it took this long for the ball to get rolling. You’d thought the aftermath of your interview was going to be the largest fallout—the biggest step and ultimate catalyst—but you’d been wrong. This was it. For some reason, the Believe Expo was what did it. People are trying to figure out what was really going on. Someone posits a theory on Reddit about you’re a robot or shapeshifting supe who stole the face and identity of a dead PhD student. NPR runs a story about the history of government and corporate propaganda, and CNN does a frame by frame breakdown of recording of your speech. A video essay about how you were Homelander’s girlfriend but had been tortured and brainwashed by the CIA to infiltrate Vought. Old footage of the Firecracker rally circulates as people dissect your every facial expression. One person accuses you of being obsessed with Homelander. Another says you’re just Stormfront with a new face. There’s a small online movement that’s pretty sure you’re actually Sage’s girlfriend and Homelander’s just bearding for you, and another that’s convinced you’re Robert Singer’s estranged love-child. One person sends an email accusing you of being Stan Edgar’s daughter. Several people accuse you of working for the Chinese, and several more of being a British Spy. At A-Train’s funeral, one stupidly brave man with a microphone had shouted a question of what’s your response to allegations you had an affair with William Butcher, and you’d almost laughed in his face. 

That might have been your favorite moment, because it made you snort and think of Ben’s sour expression. 

Butcher couldn’t fucking handle you, Sunshine. 

Benjamin, you can barely handle me yourself. 

I’m having a grand fucking hell of a time trying. Butcher would start whining like a bitch. 

You whine like a bitch. 

Brat. 

Cunt. 

That’s the part nobody has guessed. People have landed on pieces of the truth. You are a dead PhD holder—everyone always seems to forget you actually had the PhD—and you are infiltrating Vought, but not because anyone told you. If anything the biggest opposition you faced to your plan has been from your side. Not a day passes where just the phantom of Ben doesn’t tell you to come home. To wear blue and let him just come get you. 

And that’s the part people seem to be missing. It’s obvious to you, but you’re biased and have the full picture. The fear on your face at the Believe Expo was for Ben. For the split second you’d thought you might lose him. People couldn’t trust their heroes, but nobody needed to break you out. People should absolutely not demand Butcher be funded further. You did not want to return to find Butcher, Ben, and Frenchie jerking themselves off over a collection of military-grade weaponry. In all the millions of people stringing you up to search for the truth, the real you—if Vought is right or the CIA is right or if you’re playing them both—they all miss the only two things that really mattered to you.

Kill Homelander. Whatever it takes, however you have to twist and pull yourself apart, you will kill Homelander. 

Go home to Ben. Tell Ben you love him, then go wherever he goes. 

As the week starts to pass, the scandal doesn’t turn into just another story. It only grows. Sage puts you back on tower lockdown, and most of the time it’s just you, The Deep, and Ashley on 99. You have to record videos and do livestreams and keep pretending you don’t want to lean over to Homelander in the dead of night and just kill him. Find a way to make yourself stronger than him and strangle his throat, or use all the fire you have in your control to reduce him to a shriveled husk that’s still in only half the pain you are. You smile all day—in the dim yellow lights of Homelander’s room and into flashing cameras at Sage’s orders—and at night you drag up the fire, miss Ben, and feel the cracks in you start to spread. 

You’re the most famous person in America. 

You want to go home. 

You have to go home. Before the cracks reach something fundamental and you just break. Without Ben to pick you up. 

Overall, you’d know getting the V was going to be a delay, but it’s not as large as you’d expected. The time added by finding V is being lost by how fast everything else is going. How it’s snowballing and rolling down the mountain with you even having to push it. Three weeks are added to your timeline just as two are lost, and you’ll be home soon. 

If everything goes well, you’ll be home soon. 

You’re keeping yourself whole. By threads and stitches and temporary bandaging, you haven’t completely lost yourself and fallen apart. But the cracks are coming faster, larger. Nightmares that you have to learn to hold down, because Homelander can’t see you break. You wake up paralyzed and cold, still haunted by images of Ben asleep, or gone, or having just left. He wouldn’t, you know he wouldn’t, but Homelander had still cornered you after the Believe Expo and told you that he had. 

He’d dropped you in the Seven’s meeting room, and pushed you into the wall by your throat. 

“You didn’t know,” he’d sneered into your face, and you’d had to shake your head weakly. 

“I didn’t, I swear-“

“Were they there to save you? Take you away again?” 

“I don’t know-“ 

“Tell me the truth!” He’d roared, spit flying in your face and coconut making you sick. “I’m so sick of everyone lying to me!” 

“I am,” you’d clawed at his gloved hand, the leather cold on your skin, choking on your words. “That’s the truth, please, I didn’t know-“ 

Homelander had laughed. “Doesn’t matter, they didn’t get you. Your precious little Soldier Boy ran.” 

That wasn’t true. You’d told Ben to go, he hadn’t run. He’d never run, not away from you. 

“They left you. Didn’t even try to keep you.” Homelander had tsked, shaking his head. “I’d stay.” 

You’d just nodded, unable to speak, and Homelander’s jaw had ticked. Hand tightening around your throat. 

“I said I’d stay. They left you, Soldier Boy left you, but I’d fucking stay. You’re a fucking manipulative bitch, who can’t make anyone like you, or anyone stay without tricking them. I’m the only one who sees through you, who doesn’t fall for your silly tricks, and that’s why I love you. You can’t fucking trick me, and I know you love me.” 

Your nods had grown frantic. “I know, please, I can’t-“ 

“I’d stay.” Homelander had hissed. “You love me and I stay.” 

“You’d stay. I love-“ 

The door opened. Your desperate, lying words had failed in your mouth because the door had opened and a group of people had walked in. Interns or cleaners or tech workers, just normal people. 

Homelander had lasered them down, their bodies falling to the floor with sickening crunches and wet sounds. He hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t even blinked. Just killed them and turned back to you with an annoyed expression. 

“People don’t even knock anymore.” He’d sighed. “I mean, it’s manners. None of these people were raised in a fucking barn, right?!” 

“I, I can’t,” you’d coughed slightly. “Breathe, can’t breathe-“ 

Homelander had rolled his eyes, glaring at you as he spoke. “Say you didn’t trick me.” 

“I didn’t trick you, I can’t-“ 

“And you love me.” 

“I love you-“ 

“Say Soldier Boy left you.” 

“He left, I can’t, please-“ 

He’d dropped you to the floor, scowling as you’d pulled yourself back up on shaking legs. “Good.” He looked you up and down one. “I can trust you.”

That had been what you’d been angling to hear for weeks. All of this had been playing the game until Homelander trusted you. It was even more vital now, if you wanted to find the V. But you’d only been able to stare at the bodies on the floor. Blood on your feet and splattered across your face, and it won’t come off. Not really. Never entirely. There’s guts spilled across the room, a brain visible through a hole in a skull, and mouths frozen in permanent screams that you’ll see for the rest of your life. 

That night your dreams had been haunted by red hands and cold skin, and when you called for Ben to find you, no sound had come out. You’d woken up paralyzed, and a pattern had begun. This became the new normal.

You’d had nightmares in the tower. But they’d been bearable, no worse than they’d been before. You’d woken up cold and curled into your own body, your breath and heart still steady enough to be silent to Homelander. 

Now they felt like death. They felt like a burning, white-hot sort of cold under your skin and in your blood, an inescapable hurricane that would devastate what little was left of your control. Nightmares of Ben vanishing in smoke, hearing him fall to the ground and not get back up. Nightmares of blood rivers that pull you away and under and down, until all you can see is red. All you can taste is metal and it freezes your tongue. Holds it still when you wake up with a high, ringing feedback in your ears, and holds you down when you try to rub off the lingering feeling of dread. The sense that this is eternal, and you only have yourself to blame. 

You chose this. In every nightmare you jump in the river, and if you don’t Ben falls in smoke that you can’t pull him out of. Every time you wake up you’re frozen, and every day you can’t breathe without tasting coconut and iron. Over and over until you think you’re going mad, because you look at your hands and they still have blood on them. You can’t see it, but you can feel it. It’s tying that cold you’ve felt from the start into the fire, pulling it up faster and faster as your skin starts to grow molten on your body. As the cold runs through your veins and heart and begins to leak into the world. 

At first, you don’t notice. You’ve felt this before, this feeling of every nerve in your body growing heavy as your blood grows cold and pushes out of you. You’d felt it with Tek Knight. Felt it when Homelander had pulled you into the sky during that fight outside, and when he’d grabbed your face after Noir II. Brief flashes of something like a glacier rushing in and over you, covering anything that dared touch you. But it had been temporary. Brief, polar flashes that were gone in a second. This was long. This was arctic, permanent, and you could barely control it. Nobody touched you, nobody ever touched you here, but it was still spreading like mold around you. People go rigid when they pass you, and start to look cornered and feral when they sit in a room with you for too long. They look trapped. They look how you feel. 

After one meeting, where a Vought “journalist” sat across from you and Homelander—asking you pre-written and approved questions about love and your future and it’s so cold—Sage holds you back. Homelander gives a clap of his hands and crude, white-toothed smile before vanishing with a jump and a sonic sound, but Sage holds you back. 

“Sit down,” she nods to the chair you’re only half risen from, and it’s not a request or suggestion. She’s telling you to sit, and you do. You’re not at an advantage right now, you’ve made too many risky moves that—while paying off—had shown too much. Shown you.

You sit, and wait. You won’t speak first, because you don’t know what game you’re playing and can’t afford to make the starting move. 

Sage frowns at you, tilting her head, but begins to speak. “I’ll admit I’m not sure what you told Soldier Boy that incited such an event, but it did allow me to understand you better.” 

“Understand me?” Your words are spoken through the constant cold. Too controlled, almost bored. “I don’t think there’s much to understand.” 

“There’s more than I usually face.” Sage looks you up and down, and sits across from you. Leaning forward. “It’s taken me longer, as well. There’s been one last piece of the puzzle I couldn’t quite find, and you handed it to me. I thought of you better than that.”

“I don’t think I am a puzzle.” You frown. “And I’d never think of myself better than anything-“ 

“Yes, I got that quite a while ago. Someone who values themself, values their life, doesn’t volunteer to stand in the front lines of an unwinnable war. Doesn’t forgive as easily as you do.” 

You shrug. “I believe that there are very few things that are truly unforgivable. I can only think of one.” 

“Rape?” 

You swallow, frost pushing up your throat, and Sage hums. 

“Unsurprising. That’s another puzzle piece that fits you well, and another reason your little performance will never really be sold.” 

You’re not shocked you haven’t fooled Sage, but it’s not her that you need to have a hold over. So you just watch her silently until she scoffs. 

“This is just us talking. Homelander won’t hear, I’m not looking to lose my first semi-worthy opponent to an easy to spot trap.” 

You still don’t speak, and Sage smiles. 

“Smart. Would proof help? How about,” she looks you up and down. “When we met in January, I was genuinely considering flipping to your side. Homelander is an emotional, pathetic imbecile who refuses to truly acknowledge that I am significantly more intelligent than he, and while I have no care for people,” her face twists slightly as she says the word, like it tastes sour on her tongue. “I did think I could face an equal challenge taking down a well-established international conglomerate as I was facing with the United States Government. But with a new, unexpected player I decided this could still be interesting.” Sage sits back, looking you up and down. “I showed you mine.” 

Sage wouldn’t call Homelander a pathetic imbecile if there was a chance he might hear—she’s still very capable of being lasered in half—but she could pull a tape and show select footage. So you just blink. 

“Fine.” Sage sighs, and pulls out a pen. Pink, with a fluffy top. She passes it into your hands, careful not to touch skin, and nods. “Click it.” 

You glance at the pen, and push the ballpoint out. 

Sage’s voice echoes through the room. Homelander is an emotional, pathetic imbecile who refuses to truly acknowledge that I am significantly more intelligent than he. 

You frown at her. “Collateral?” 

“You’ll hold on to the pen, after this conversation I’ll wipe all the tapes and break all the audio bugs in front of you, and then you’ll return the pen to me. Deal?” 

You nod slowly, taking the pen. “Deal.”

“Good. Show me yours.”

“I don’t know what you want me to show you,” you shrug. “Like I said, I don’t believe myself to be a puzzle. And you’ve already figured me out.”

“I hadn’t,” Sage corrects you. “For months, I hadn’t been able to see the whole picture. Your forgiveness is… inconsistent.”

“Really,” you say dryly, crossing your arms. “I’ve only been raped by one man.”

Sage hums. “Would you forgive me?”

“Would you earn it?”

“Maybe.”

You lean back. “Then maybe I’d forgive you.”

“Even though I’m actively working with your rapist? Am aware of the trauma he inflicted upon you and yet still chose to enable him?” 

The cold is sitting in your throat. “All depends on you. Like I said, you’d have to earn it.” 

“And how did Butcher earn your forgiveness?” 

You frown. “Butcher?” 

“He’s the thing that incited Homelander looking into Becca Butcher. Discovering Ryan Butcher. Wanting more.” Sage gives you a half-smile. “Taking you.” 

“I don’t hold people accountable for the actions of others.” Your voice is still bored, even as the cold starts to numb your tongue. “Butcher had no way of knowing that Homelander would do this. He didn’t even know who I was until last year.” 

“Is that the same grace you’ve offered Soldier Boy?” 

Your heart stutters, falters, and freezes. “I haven’t offered Soldier Boy anything he hasn’t earned.” 

“And that’s the thing.” Sage narrows her eyes at you. “You really believe he’s earned it. Despite all of his crimes, of which are an impressive amount and magnitude, you’re still forgiving him. And couldn’t figure out why. It doesn't fit with anything else, it’s completely irrational. But the answer isn’t something that’s supposed to be rational, and I made the mistake of factoring it out.” 

“I don’t-“

“You’re in love with Soldier Boy.” Sage looks you up and down. Her handiwork she gets to admire. “And I didn’t catch it because, by all logical reasoning, you shouldn’t be. I didn’t even consider it until I’d exhausted all other possibilities, and even then I settled on some odd sort of camaraderie. But you love him.” 

The cold becomes like frost lining your heart, and every beat begins to spread it further. Move it out. Play the game, don’t break. “What would it change, if I did?” 

“You do,” Sage says simply. “You are in love with him. It explains everything that felt out of place. Every action you made that didn’t line up with what I’d anticipated.”

“What you’d anticipated?” 

“Yes. For example, you shooting me. It was a reckless choice that backfired on you completely, but every time I ran over the scenario you would still do it. I’d wondered if I’d undersold the stakes, made you feel backed into a corner when that wasn’t my intention. But you’d still shoot me. You’d always shoot me, and it was because I misestimated your stakes. You love Soldier Boy, so if I tell you he’s in danger you will act.” 

“That doesn’t mean I love him.” You give Sage a passive shrug. “Maybe I shot you because you’re fucking annoying.” 

“No, you wanted to hear my plan. That's why you’re still sitting here.” Sage nods to the door. “You could’ve left. You could’ve gotten up and run out the door. You’re faster than I am, you’d have gotten away, showed Homelander the pen, and won. But you know I’d have a countermove, and that’s why you’re still here. That’s why I’m here.” 

“Why you’re here.” You repeat slowly, and Sage nods. 

“We’re the only players that matter now.” She grins at you. “Homelander and Butcher and Soldier Boy can flash their toys, but in the end you’re stronger and I’m smarter. My plan will work better, and you’ll respond in a way I won’t predict. You’ll have a move that would be successful, because you’re fucking powerful, but you’ll sidetrack yourself in the name of humanity and love. In the end the question will be if you can control yourself. If you can forsake being good enough to be great. My bets are on no, but you’ve surprised me before. And that’s what makes this interesting.” 

Play the game. Even as you start to cave in, play the game. “You know I’m stronger than Homelander. But you haven’t told him, he still thinks he’s the strongest supe alive.” You frown at her, trying to pull everything together in your head. “You don’t want him to know I’m stronger. If I fight him, you don’t want him prepared. You want me to kill him.” 

“I do.” Sage shrugs. “I’d like to martyr him, but I don’t think I will. I think I want to play this out.” 

“Make it interesting?” 

Sage smirks at you. “Make it interesting.” 

“It’s your move,” you say, throat tight. “And, while we’re being honest, I’m fucking winning right now. So, what’s your move?” 

She laughs. “You were winning. But I’ve figured you out, so your lead is gone.” Sage’s smile becomes crude and chilling. “In exactly one week, you’re going to propose to Homelander, live on VNN.” 

The cold rushes, so fast. It had been building up and up and now it’s everywhere. A week isn’t long enough. You still haven’t found the V, you’re not close, and a week isn’t enough time. Every piece of your innards and piece of your mind is freezing, because you can’t. You can’t go home yet, but you can’t go fast enough. And you’ll die before you smile at Homelander. Before you let him touch you. He’ll take it as a sign that he’s done this right and now he’s won you. Your blood is frozen and creaking in your body, but Sage is still smirking across from you. 

Breathe evenly. Hold your blood in your body with calculated breaths and careful words. “And If I don’t?” 

“Then I lure Soldier Boy out, and put him back to sleep.” Sage stands, and you can’t move. You can only watch her walk around the room reaching into bowls and under furniture to show you tiny audio bugs that she crushes in Her hands before taking the pen back. “You have a week. Your move.” She pauses at the door, looking back at you with a frown. “Don’t make me wrong about you. I have no interest in being wrong.” 

Then you’re alone, and the cold becomes big. It’s inescapable, how unending this feels. It’s too massive for you, too wild to control and spreading too fast to contain. You stumble your way back to Homelander’s apartment—people parting around you like you’re made of poison—and lock yourself in the bathroom, dropping to the floor in desperation to not break. You’ll find a way out of this, you always find a way out of this, you’ll get through this and go home and this isn’t permanent. Sage hasn’t won, because everything in you is still you, and soon you’ll go home. Everything is cold and bursting out of you, this feels like it will last forever, but it won’t. It can’t. 

The cracks continue to grow, and when you sleep that night you’re plagued by smoke and ice that makes you weak and swallows Ben. You hear him fall and he doesn’t rise back up, and you reach for him only to find him further than you’d thought. 

When you wake up, you’re still held down. Paralyzed and frozen without relent. You want to go home. You’d overestimated your strength, you didn’t want to beat Sage, or trick her, or win. You didn’t want this to be interesting, you just wanted it to be done. You’re exhausted, and alone, and you miss Ben so much. You’re not going to win, because these cracks are starting to be dangerous and you can’t stop them. You’re too weak to stop them, you don’t know how, and you can’t be smarter or stronger because you’re just so tired and almost every part of you is growing thinner and softer by the second. One step away from shattering. Breaking. Maybe you’ve really just already broken, but in a way you didn’t realize, and now you can’t be sewn back together. Your fire is sputtering out once more, you can’t pull it back up, can’t kill Homelander, can’t save Ben. You’re going to break and it’s going to make Ben go under, and he’ll never hold you again. You’re going to be in this vast, hollow loneliness forever, and Homelander will keep you on a shelf as your last embers flicker harmlessly, and you’re going to never see Ben again- 

Calm the fucking hell down, Ben’s voice in your head is rough as it says your name. You’ll see me again, you fucking promised. 

That strange thing is humming in your chest. It hasn’t left you since it appeared. Since you’d seen Ben. Through the day it sat in you silently. Undisturbing, shifting and rolling with a dull ache near your heart. Just a piece of Ben that you got to keep, that always felt like him. Like he was there, warm around you in the cold and tending to your fire. Then, at night, it roars. Twisting with your guts and kickstarting your lungs and mind when you grow frozen. Speaking to you in the dark until you feel like you again. A part of you that’s ingrained and unmovable, that’s not plagued by this cold because Ben is warm. Never afraid because Ben is safe. It’s angry and bloody and zealous, but it’s Ben, and so it smells like pine and feels good. Feels solid and easy, makes Ben feel more real. You’re on the too smooth, silken sheets of Homelander’s bed and everything is cold, but you can almost feel his breath on your ear and his voice rolling into your body. 

I did promise. You sigh into the dark of the room, and your breath comes out in fog. But I don’t think I can talk my way out of this one, Pretty Boy. 

Why the goddamn hell not. 

I’m not smarter than Sage, or stronger than Homelander. I said whatever it takes, but I can’t, Ben. I can’t. I just want to come home. 

First of all, shut the fuck up. You’re being stupid, Sunshine. 

Fucking rude- 

His voice cuts you off. It’s doing that a lot more lately. I don’t give a shit. Homelander is a pathetic fucking pussy, and Sage is a heartless bitch. You’re perfect the goddamn way you are. It’s goddamn infuriating how you’re so perfect, because it’s inconvenient. And if you want to come home you’ll wear blue and not a single fucking thing in the world will stop me getting you. 

That’s part of the problem, Benjamin. I’m not perfect, I can’t fight them, and I can’t let you come and get me. You know that. 

You are fucking perfect. You’re a goddamn pain in my ass, but you’re still beautiful and sure as shit smarter than you should be. And all I know that I fucking miss you. 

You’re crying. Silent tears you have to muffle and wipe away, because even if Homelander isn’t here you can’t chance that he’ll see you break. If you break, it can’t be in front of Homelander. You won’t allow it. 

But Ben’s voice sounds so real. Deep and pushing calm into you—soothing your blood back into your body—because as long as Ben’s voice is here and talking like this nothing can hurt you. 

I miss you too, Benjamin. Your smile is soft and tired, but you can feel Ben there. Something a little more solid than a phantom around you. 

Come home. Just fucking come home. There’s a beat of silence, and his voice in your ear is hoarse. Please. 

Soon. 

You always say soon. Just come home now. 

Ben- 

I miss you. I fucking miss you and I don’t want you home soon. I want you home now. His voice is building with frustration, and something in you is starting to spark in time with that strange thing. I can’t keep worrying about you. You promised, and I trust you with my goddamn life, but I don't trust you with yours. 

Hey. You frown into the dark. My life, Benjamin. My choice to stay. 

I haven’t fucking gotten you, have I? I’m respecting your stupid fucking choice, but I still hate it. I fucking hate this. 

I know you do. But there’s more work to do. 

You don’t have to be the one to do it. You can just- 

I can’t. You hug yourself, the warmth in you growing stronger. Not pushing the cold down, or your blood back in, but rising the fire to fill the cracks the cold is leaving along your head and heart. I can’t just come home. I have to do this. This has to be me. 

There’s another stretch of silence—that thing climbing up your spine and lighting up every nerve—before Ben’s voice rings around you once more. Fine. 

Thank you. You’re not sure why you’re thanking him. He’s not real, but it’s an instinct. Thank Ben, always thank Ben because everything in you is back in your hands and you love him. 

Don’t. 

You smile into the dark, your tears drying in your eyes. You can’t fucking stop me, Pretty Boy. 

I will soon. You’re going to come home, and every time you thank me I’m going to fuck the words out of your mouth. 

I don’t think that’s going to have the effect you intend it to. 

Yes it fucking will- 

Ben. Your voice in your head is dry. If every time I thank you I get fucked, I’m never going to stop thanking you. I might start just thanking you randomly, specifically so you fuck me. 

The thing in you is bellowing and jerking your heart around. Smartass. 

I mean, you had to have seen that coming- 

I just want to see you coming, beautiful. You can almost see his wink. All over me. 

Horny old man.

You love it. And you’re no fucking better than me. 

Than I. And excuse you, I for one can keep it in my pants- 

His voice snorts. I know you, Sunshine. You want to fuck me more than anyone has ever wanted to fuck me. And a lot of people have wanted to fuck me. 

Braggart. 

That’s not a real word. 

Yes, it is. 

Well then what the hell does it mean. 

You brag a lot. It’s pretty self-explanatory, Benjamin. You could’ve gotten that one yourself. 

Shut the fuck up. 

Make me. 

I will. When you get home I’m going to shut your pretty mouth up for a whole goddamn year. With my cock, and my hands, and- 

Fuck you. 

I promise I will, brat. I’m going to fuck you so much you’re never going to want anyone else to touch you. 

You don’t need to fuck me to do that. You sigh, trying to sit a little longer in the warmth as daylight starts to creep into the room. I already don’t want anyone but you, Ben. 

His voice is silent for a second, and you think it’s going to say what it always does, because you love me, but it doesn’t. The thing rattles with an ache in your body, and Ben’s voice is softer than you’d expected when you hear it again. I don’t want anyone else either. 

Good. Your breathing is easy, and you can really almost feel Ben. Behind you, around you, in you. Can you still fuck me anyways? 

His laugh rolls through you, and that thing feels lighter. You feel lighter. Deal, Sunshine. 

Deal. 

The thing fades into dormant ease once more, but you’re still warm. Your blood is still trying to break out of your body, but you’re holding it in. 

And the fire is building. Faster and faster, blazing up into your skin, the fire is building. 

And you won’t break. 

In the morning, your lockdown is temporarily lifted so Homelander can parade you to the masses. They’d long fixed the damage you and Ben caused to the tower lawn—the grass is green once more, and the sidewalks have been repaved smooth and black—and they’ve set up a stage that’s reminiscent of Firecrackers. Not quite as dramatic, twice as large, and with better rigged lights. You could just walk out the doors of Vought Tower—they’ve barricaded the path for that very purpose—but Homelander trusts you. And you’re so close. You’re holding on by a thread, but you won’t break. Not yet. 

Homelander’s been touching you more. Never casually, and not like that, but his hand isn’t just on your lower back anymore. It’s clasping into yours more often, and not in the intimate, careful way Ben does. A cold, leather glove that snaps around your hand, no fingers intertwined or thumb rubbing on your skin. Yanking you around in a way that makes your elbow snap, slamming you into his back and not bothering to steady you. You let him, he has to trust you, but it makes you colder. Homelander will look at you with cruel blue eyes, devoid of any light or warmth or life, and you feel like a prize. He’s won you, and now he’s growing more and more confident, less and less afraid. 

He still won’t touch you with skin. You can’t figure out why, but Homelander’s so very careful not to even brush his skin against yours. You’d think it’s fear. That you’ll feel him, and see something he doesn’t want you to. It’s not about you burning him, you haven’t used fire in front of him since he’d taken you and he knows it. He thinks you’ve burnt out. Learned your place and burnt out. So it has to be about a fear you don’t understand. 

You try not to question it. It’s saving you from being touched like that, and that would break you. That would irreversibly shatter you, and you wouldn’t be able to pull yourself back together. So you don’t question it, use that small part of Ben that’s comfortable in your chest to feed the fire, and try to keep the cold in you. You’ll have to, for this. You can’t afford the cold taking control and falling out of you. You can’t afford flinches or numb expressions when this winter becomes something that’s beyond you. 

So you push it down, down, down, and smile at Homelander. Too sweet, too many teeth, almost manic. 

But you smile at Homelander, and play the game. You’re almost done, so you play the game. 

“Babe?” 

He turns on you with a shark-like expression. You’ve baited him with blood—drawn right from your heart and making you cold—and he’s taken it. 

Homelander says your name, and it's hard to keep smiling. “I like babe, it’s right. Keep using it.” 

You nod, and don’t speak. Waiting for him to prompt you. 

“If you want something, say it.” 

“I was just wondering if you could carry me to the rally later?” Your words are softer than you’d intend, but your tongue is numb in your mouth and it’s the best you can manage. “I just want to get more used to flying with you-“ 

“Of course you can,” Homelander looks you up and down. “It’s not like you’ll get hurt if I drop you.” 

You make yourself laugh, and it doesn’t sound like you. But you keep smiling. Allow yourself to sound smaller. “You won’t drop me, right?”

He scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous, you’d take a week to scrape off the pavement.” Homelander’s eyes narrow on yours. “Don’t you trust me?” 

“Of course!” Voice lighter. Don’t let a crack show in it. “I’m just scared of heights.” 

“Oh,” Homelander nods, and starts to walk to you. Arms opening to pick you up, and you have to not scream. Have to keep your teeth from chewing at your cheek and your hands from shaking. “Then let’s go fly. Now.” 

“I, I’m not ready-“ 

“Honey,” Homelander’s voice is annoyed, and he’s glaring again. “Humans have silly little fears about heights. Not us. You’re going to get over this, fucking now, because you aren’t human anymore.” 

You’re not afraid of heights. You’ve never been afraid of heights. You’ve only ever really been afraid of three things in your life. 

Being worthless. 

Losing Ben. 

Homelander. 

But you can’t break. Play the role. Nod slowly and walk into Homelander’s arms. Feel cold but keep it in you, because you don’t have time to let it out. You have six days to do everything, and being defiant isn’t a luxury you can afford. 

He’s still grinning at you, and his teeth are too white. They look fake. “I knew you’d come around. Sage said you wouldn’t, said you’d always be a little too weak, but look at you.” He laughs, and you have to keep smiling. “Still fucking weak, but ready to fix it.” 

He doesn’t let you respond before yanking you up the stairs and onto the roof, and your words and protests die in your throat because he has to trust you if you want to go home. And when Homelander shoots up into the sky, you can’t scream or push him away or even go rigid like you’d done before. You had to pretend you trusted Homelander. That he’d won you and now you trusted him. You have to pull him closer on purpose, even though he’s colder than the air around you and your body hates it. It hates touching him, it hates him touching you. He does it as if you’re his possession. With callous, thoughtlessly placed hands and like, if he were to drop you, it wouldn’t matter. You’re his to break. 

You’d flown with Homelander before, but that had been for transportation. He’d been focused and bored, carrying you like cargo. This was purely to force any fear or weakness out of you with speed and brute force. He’d done flips, your body tossed around through the air and his arms so loose on you there’s not a second where you are certain he won’t drop you. Halfway through you start to hope he will. That you’ll fall with a sickening splat below, someone will post it online, and Ben will come get you.

But Homelander doesn’t drop you. He goes so fast your skin feels like it’s peeling off your face, so high the air feels thin, and through clouds that leave you damp and chilled. 

You weren’t afraid of heights before. You think you might be now. Another line on the growing list of things that, even if you manage not to break, will never be good again. You’re not sure how long you’re up in the air, but when you land back at the tower your hands feel bitten with frost and there’s bile in your throat. 

“Go get yourself together,” Homelander orders, nudging you to the door back inside. “I’ll be back in an hour.” 

You nod, and try to smile at him. He grins back, but his expression turns slightly sour the longer he looks at you. 

“Don’t fucking cry. And wear your supe outfit.” 

He’s gone in a blast of wind, and you’re left to stagger back to his apartment. Alone. Blood so cold, but without time to get a hold over it. You just have to keep going, and hope this settles within the hour. 

You find your way back to the apartment, still freezing into your bones. Trying to stoke the flames under your skin with that thing of Ben’s in your chest, with thoughts of good things. 

Music. City Lights. Ben. 

Go through the movements. Don’t vomit—it will take too long to do, time you don’t have—and hum to yourself until the air feels warmer. You can still feel the cold rushing in your blood, but your skin is warmer. You sing a song of summer, and at least your skin feels warmer. You don’t break. 

Do your hair and makeup yourself. Ashley had offered you a team this morning, and you’d turned it down. You’d made sure Homelander heard your words—I know what I should look like, I don’t need people helping me—and Ashley had nodded and dropped it with an anxious expression and tug of her hair. So now you stand at the mirror, putting on lipstick that’s the wrong shade of red for your skin and applying shadow in a way that’s not you. Not a style you’d ever wear, not when you had control over it. But it’s the role. This is the right red for this version of you, because it’s a red Homelander likes. This eyeshadow is exactly how you have to do it, because it’s how the paid Vought artists did it. How the world thinks you do it. 

You keep a small part of you in your makeup. There’s a green, metallic eyeliner in the collection that had appeared in Homelander’s bathroom, and you trace it on your inner eye. It flashes whenever you move, and it’s impossible to miss. Just a little green, where Ben won’t miss it. Just a little light that doesn’t feel blinding, but feels peaceful and alive. You don’t break. 

Now get changed. You have to get changed, because you’ve calmed down enough to not be in danger—or a danger—and done your hair and makeup. The hour is almost up, and so you have to get changed.

The only reason you’re managing not to vomit every time you wear your supe costume is because there’s still a stale smell of Ben on it. You’re surprised Homelander hasn’t noticed, but he also doesn’t know what Ben smells like. The pine could just be from the outdoors, the gunpowder from the attack. And the part that’s just Ben—not shampoo or lingering parts of his day that grow stronger on his skin—is yours to know. It’s a strong smell, powerful and Ben, and you know it’s his. Same as you know that the thing in you is him, something of Ben’s that’s left a tattoo on you. You know all of him, and this smells like he feels. Like he tastes. 

You still remember what I fucking taste like? 

Shut up. I miss you, and I love you. Of course I remember, don’t be a dick about it. 

Would you prefer I give you my dick about it? 

You snort softly into the empty air. That one’s not even good. I expect better from you. 

You fucking shouldn’t. 

And yet, I do. 

Because you love me. 

Because I love you. You frown at your reflection in the mirror. The green hair clip you’ve been wearing—the one you’d been clinging to since you’d seen it in a costume room and stolen it to keep—looks out of place. It feels too much like you, and you don’t look like you. You look like a statue, or doll. 

I look stupid.

You look hot. You always look hot, Sunshine. It’s one of my favorite things about you. 

Wrong. You smile at your reflection, and that’s your real smile. You’re talking to Ben—even if it’s just his phantom—so that’s your smile. You like that I’m smart, and that I’m kind, and my pussy.

And all of that is fucking hot. Because you’re hot. 

Thanks, Pretty Boy. You’re hot as well. 

I fucking know that. That’s why you love me. 

That’s not at all why I love you. I love you because you care, more than you’ll ever admit. I love you because you never give up on anything, and because you’re honest. I can trust you, I can always trust you. I love you because you always do what you say you will, and you’re never trying to be anything but yourself. You’re an asshole, Benjamin, but you’re my asshole. You’re a protective, abrasive, vulgar manwhore, and I love you so much it makes me a little insane. 

Brat. 

Cunt. 

You also love me because I’m a good piece of ass. I’m hotter than the goddamn sun and you want to jump my bones, admit it. 

I’m allowed to love you because of who you are and also think that you’re stupid hot, Benjamin. You make me laugh and feel safe and happy so I’m always going to love you, and you’re so handsome it hurts to look at so I’m always going to want to jump your bones. 

Good thing I want to fuck you until you’re dizzy and can’t even damn speak, beautiful. 

I think I can live with that. You sigh. I miss you, and I have to go. 

I miss you too. Kick their fucking balls into their throats. 

You huff a small laugh into the air. Gross. 

You love me. 

I do. The cold in your blood is tangible, but so is the fire. And both are yours. Completely yours. 

You can do this. You can fucking do this, do it right, and go home. 

It still takes holding your tongue between your teeth to not scream when Homelander grabs you, and control over every muscle in your body to not go rigid when he touches you, but you do it. You keep your body limp and smile at his cruel face. You land on the stage—the crowd only one push or wrong noise from a riot—and keep smiling. You shrink into yourself, step back into Homelander’s shadow in a careful way that’s about being shy. About not wanting the spotlight, and seeking comfort in love. 

It’s really about trying to get away. About giving your feet just an inch they can move away, because they want to run. Everyone is watching you like you’re going to be their salvation. Like they’re going to eat your flesh and it will bring them comfort. Like you’re going to put on a show and it will be glorious, like you’ll bring them something they’ve been missing. Homelander is watching you as well, and you’re trying to get to where he can’t see. His eyes make that cold spread, make it rile up in wind that sweeps through your body like a storm.

So you’re quiet, and meek, and give Homelander no reason to look at you. You wave to the crowd and smile in a small, pliant way. Sage walks up onto the stage and you get the same, small nod that she offers Homelander. You return it with a sweet expression, and fade into the background as Sage and Homelander work. All you have to do is be here, stand silently, and do as you’re told and it will be more than enough. Cameras are angled at your every shift and breath, and you’re still nothing more than a statue. Homelander tells a completely fabricated and implausible story about how he used to fly you to Paris at night so you could picnic on the top of the Eiffel Tower. The Deep shows up and talks about how hard all the lies have been on you and Homelander, his two closest friends, especially after the recent deaths of your teammates. You considered them family, and this is a period of grief, not of—as the Deep puts it—being a total hater on true love. Ashley gives a speech about how when she first met you, she knew you were in love with Homelander because you couldn’t stop laughing with him about nothing. She says you and Homelander have invited her over for dinner, and everyone here should one day hope to have his burgers and your chocolate mousse cake. 

In the hum of the speaker feedback, you hear Ben snort. Suddenly he’s everywhere. Around your body and between your fingers and resting on your head. 

I remember when you tried to make us a cake. I wasn’t sure if it looked or tasted more like actual dogshit. 

Fuck off. You ate the whole thing. 

I’ll eat fucking anything, Sunshine. That cake was a goddamn travesty.

Guess who’s not getting a cake for his stupid birthday. 

I’m a little damn old for a cake. His voice drawls your name on the wind. I’ll just eat you instead. 

Smooth. And you’re never too old for cake, Benjamin. I’ll even put vanilla ice cream on it. 

I thought I wasn’t getting a fucking cake. 

I changed my mind. You’re getting cake, and it’s going to be the fanciest cake you’ve ever fucking seen. And I’m going to put rainbow sprinkles on the ice cream, and there’s not a thing you can do to stop me. 

Can I still eat you? 

Yes. But you’re eating the cake first. And you have to grill burgers. 

For my own fucking birthday? Isn’t the whole point supposed to be that I don’t do shit? 

Would you rather I make the burgers?

You and Ben had tried to make burgers four times. Technically, you had tried. He’d already known how, because he was a goddamn red blooded fucking American man, and attempted to teach you, but you had not been a good student. You’d burnt them every time, but you kept getting distracted. Ben’s muscles would ripple when he flipped a burger and he’d grin at you while he talked about meat and things being tender, and you think you just kept blacking out in an effort to not fuck him right there. After the fourth smoke alarm resulted in you and Ben sitting in the dining hall while Mallory lectured you about fire safety and banned you from the kitchen’s grill, you’d decided this was just a skill you didn’t need to have. Ben could make burgers. He was better at it, and always got focused in a way that made you both want to fuck him—have all that intensity and care turned on you—and just touch him. Run a hand across his forehead, into his hair, and check that he was real. It made you love him more. 

You’re not sure if the phantom is reacting to the burger comment and you calling him adorable, but something rumbles around in your heart and Ben’s voice grumbles. Shut the fuck up. 

It’s a little easier to look mindlessly happy. You can feel this remnant of Ben in you—this thing that is him—climbing up a little higher to sit on the top of your chest, so it’s easy to pretend you’re ditzy and humble and your smile is light and carefree. Ashley concludes her speech, and Sage is up. You and Homelander represent the best of what the world has to offer. Two people who have loved each other from the first time they saw each other, and who, despite the hardships and obstacles, will always prevail. She says Homelander will always find you, and you manage to keep smiling. Ben’s Thing tightens in you, and you can practically see his angry expression, but you keep smiling. You will build a perfect American family, and Ryan Butcher will be returned to where he belongs. 

I haven’t been being a dick to the Kid. 

You blink. What? 

You told me not to be a dick to the Kid. I haven’t been. I’ve been a goddamn angel.

Okay. You fight the confused frown on your face. Why are you telling me that? 

Because you seemed to really damn care about it. I don’t know. Shut the fuck up. 

But- 

You were right. He’s not like Homelander. He’s a little bit of a pussy- 

Benjamin. 

What? 

Don’t call a twelve-year-old a pussy. It’s uncouth. 

But he is a pussy- 

How can he possibly be a pussy. 

He can name all fifty states. 

I can name all fifty states. 

That’s different. 

How. 

You’re a fucking know it all.

Hey- 

You’re a sexy know it all. You look hot when you get riled up, and talking about pretty much anything gets you riled up. If you sat in front of me and named all fifty states I’d get a fucking boner. 

That’s weird, Ben. 

Fuck off. You’d love my boner. 

You lightly bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling. I would. 

You’d suck me off, and look fucking hot doing it, and then I’d eat you out and make you cum on my face- 

You’re trying to distract me from you calling Ryan a pussy. 

No. Shut the fuck up. 

You shut the fuck up. I would suck you off, and then maybe I’d let you eat me out- 

Maybe? 

And then I’d make you clean up and get dressed and learn all fifty states. 

That information will never be goddamn useful, Sunshine. Would be a waste of my fucking time. 

Because you’re such a busy man? Is getting a boner from listening to me talk and then eating me out that time consuming? 

So I will get to eat you out. 

Fuck you.

That’s what I’m fucking asking- 

Stay on topic, Ben. You should be able to name all fifty states. 

Why in goddamn Christ- 

You’ve been around since before Hawaii and Alaska, and you’re barely younger than Arizona. It’s a little sad you can’t, Pretty Boy. 

Well, I’m not a damn loser pussy, so I don’t really give a fuck. 

Rude. 

You’re not a loser pussy either. No woman of mine would be a loser pussy. 

Your heart stumbles a little faster, and Ben’s Thing hums in your body. Thanks. 

Don’t. 

You can’t fucking stop me- 

Because I’m not there, beautiful. If I were on that stupid fucking stage and you thanked me, I’d pick you up, carry you home, and stop you with my cock in your pretty fucking mouth. 

You need to get a grip on yourself. Maybe start putting effort into filtering the phantom better. Because, even in your head, your voice sounds breathless. Okay. 

No big words, Sunshine? Just going to let me fuck your face- 

Shut up. Cunt. 

Brat. There’s a beat of silence, but it’s still louder than the noise of the crowd because you can almost hear Ben’s breath in your ear. I miss you. Come home. 

Soon. You feel something heavy, sickening in that piece of Ben inside your chest. You can’t stand it, it makes your heart hurt, and you need Ben—even this strange fragment of him—to feel happy again. And as soon as I do, I’m kicking your ass and making you apologize to your grandson for calling him a pussy. 

It feels lighter, and Ben’s scoff isn’t painful. Don’t call him my grandson. 

He is, by definition, your grandson. Don’t be a pussy about it, Benjamin. 

Smartass. 

Old man. 

You like it, you fucking grave-robber. 

Am I a grave-robber, or are you a cradle-robber? 

You’re a goddamn grown woman- 

And you’re an ancient, grumpy man-child. 

You love it. 

I do. You don’t repeat the second part, because Ben’s voice doesn’t prompt it out of you. It just falls into a comfortable, happy silence everywhere around you, and you feel safe. You might have never been in more danger—Homelander at your side and the eyes of the world on you—but everything that’s been breaking in you feels a little more manageable. You’re still full of that never ending cold, but it’s not falling out of you or trying to escape. You can sit in it easily, because you can almost feel Ben there and your fire is still growing. Sage is still talking, and you let it pass through you. This will get through you, and you’ll go home soon. Sage calls you the sweetest and most genuine person she’e ever met, and you hear Ben’s snort. She talks about how Homelander treats you like an equal, and there’s a spark of annoyance in Ben’s Thing for you. She calls you and Homelander American Heroes, and you can keep yourself modest and happy as Homelander laughs and waves off the compliment. 

But you can’t stop the momentary static of your heart, or the numb of your body, when Homelander kisses your cheek. A new crack forms—long and somewhere critical—and Ben’s Thing in you riots. Grows louder than the crowd, louder than the ringing in your ears. 

You almost don’t see Homelander freeze. He goes still and rigid, his face twitching and looking sick, and you realize that the cold is leaving you. Homelander touched you, and Ben’s Thing is roaring in some sort of pain, and you’ve lost a hold over the polar feeling in your body. 

Fuck this, I’m coming to get you- 

Benjamin. He’s everything in you that’s good. Everything is cold and you’re afraid and you can’t control yourself and you’re going to lose, but Ben’s voice is still around you and you’re still you. You haven’t broken. You’re so close, you won’t break, and this piece of Ben will help hold you together. You can’t. You know that. 

He fucking touched you- 

He only kissed my cheek. I’m okay. You’re not. You know what this means, even if Homelander had recoiled from you with a look that won’t last. But you’re so close. There won’t be time for escalation, you’ll be home soon. You’ll falter and break when you get home. 

Ben’s voice doesn’t seem convinced. You don’t fucking look okay. You look like you just got goddamn shot, you need to come home right now- 

I’m fine. 

When Ben says your name, there’s some sort of strain in it. The same ache and pounding that you can feel from that thing inside of you. There’s not a single goddamn thing you can do to stop me- 

I know. But please don’t. If you trust me, Ben, please don’t. 

You don’t know why you’re arguing with him. This Ben isn’t real, it can’t come get you. But it’s so deep inside of you, keeping you together as Sage’s speech concludes and Homelander herds you up to the front of the stage, you entertain it. It doesn’t feel fake. It feels like him. The sharp, bitter anger in your chest feels like his, the gravely frustration in his voice sounds like it’s coming from right behind you, and it’s so fucking important that you keep it there until you’re in control again.

I do fucking trust you, but I can’t just leave you- 

Not leaving me. You’re never leaving me. You’re waiting. 

Ben’s Thing stabs into you, and you almost flinch from it. I am waiting. I’m waiting for as long as it takes. But Christ, I fucking hate it. I don’t want to wait, I want you home. 

I want to come home. I want to come home more than almost anything. But- 

Almost? His words are a grunt from somewhere at your side. The hell do you want more- 

You. Fire is building in you, fed by the warmth of Ben’s Thing beating in your chest. I want you. 

That thing roars. Claws against your ribs and heart, and you can’t think about anything else. You’re going through the movements—waving and smiling to the crowd—but everything in you is about Ben. About how you’ve never felt a fervor like this anywhere but in him, and you miss him and want him and love him- 

Fine. He’s relenting. He’s only in your head, but he’s still relenting with a low, tired voice. But if I see even a little bit of fucking blue- 

You can break down the doors of Vought Tower and carry me home. You swallow, and keep your face bright as something in you wilts when Homelander’s arm wraps around you. I’ll see you soon, Ben. I promise. 

I know. And I’ll wait. 

Thank you. 

Don’t.

It doesn’t go dormant, but Ben’s Thing stops being loud. It moves back to resting near your heart, existing always with that arctic sensation in your body. It takes all the strength and will you possess to pull the lingering bits of it—the fear it’s made of—back into you and hold them there when Homelander vaults up into the sky. He’s not touching you on skin again, and Ben’s Thing has tugged much of it out of the air around you, but your blood is still singing, trying to reach anything else and make it feel this. Feel the pure, raw terror that the infinite cold is made of, that’s rushing through you. Rushing out of you. 

But it’s not just fear falling out of your body. It’s something furious that’s for Homelander touching you. And you’ve felt things that aren’t fear move out of you before. You’ve felt heat, want and love and adoration, run out of your body when Ben’s touched you. When you’ve gotten to touch him. 

Homelander leaves you on the roof to find your way back to his apartment, saying he has business to attend to. He looks like he might try to kiss you, but fear and hatred leaks out of you when he moves and suddenly he’s gone.

And you have a theory. You have a little more than five days, this Thing of Ben’s still burning peacefully inside of you, and a theory.

You have to test it. The cold in you is growing, but so is the fire. Both are, for now, in your control. The fire and the cold are everywhere in you and on you, but not around you, and you’re holding them there. If you’re right about this, then everything will work. You’ll go home.

But you have to test it first. 

You spend that night, alone in Homelander’s apartment, making a new plan. You can’t test on Homelander, he needs to keep thinking you’ve gone docile. That you’re out of tricks and are back to being what he thinks you are. You can’t test this on Sage, she’ll figure out what’s happening and you can’t afford that right now. This is the only advantage you have over her, because you’re certain she doesn’t know about it. If she knew, she wouldn’t let you go to rallies, or go anywhere near her. This is the one thing she can’t control or predict or understand.

Feelings. She can’t control how you feel. She can’t stop you being afraid or angry, can’t stop you loving Ben, and can’t prevent how when it all becomes too much your emotions aren’t yours anymore. How they’ve been building up and up  and up, growing loud and feral, and now they’re bigger than you are. You’re more afraid than you can hold in you. Afraid for your life, and your self, and for Ben. And every time Homelander’s touched you or Sage had threatened you the fear has grown until it’s sweeping through your body. 

But it’s not just the fear. It’s your anger, your fury that this isn’t fair. This is wrong and fucked up and you have to be the one to fix it, but you just want to go home. You’re full of wrath for yourself, for Ryan and Becca Butcher, for Hughie and Annie and MM and Frenchie and Kimiko and everyone you love being forced into this. It’s stoking the fire, and that’s why everything is white-hot now. The anger and fear are made of the same thing that pushes out of you in moments when they consume you, and now they sit in your blood to be weaponized. 

The only thing bigger than them is your love. It’s grown so large in your heart and head and soul that it’s become its own animal. It starts in you, and it belongs to Ben. All this love in you is for Ben. You’ll always know him anywhere because your empathy has decided that he is you. He’s something so crucial to you, your love for him is so powerful, that you don’t recognize him just because you know him. You can feel him when he’s not touching you, sense him when he’s close. Nothing has ever been as powerful as your love for Ben, and your empathy knows that. It knows that he won’t hurt you, he’d never hurt you, and that it’s only this strong because of him. Because Ben let you touch him and wasn’t afraid of you, and now he’s everything. Just as much a part of you as the fire has become, and you’ll always return to him. 

You’re so close. 

Right now you have to be angry and afraid and learn what it can do, and then you can go home and love Ben. Spend the rest of time loving Ben. 

But first you have to be angry and afraid. 

It takes four of your five remaining days to prove and understand your theory. You go along with Sage’s orders and Ashley’s requests, because right now the act is vital to keep up. You can hear the protest crowds from the 99th floor, and every time you catch a glimpse of social media it’s all about you. You’re America’s sweetheart and savior and symbol, and this is all you have left to do. 

You test on the Deep first. You hold your anger in every muscle of your body, and ask the Deep about something simple. 

“Hey, Deep?” 

The idiot pauses in the hallway, spinning around to grin at you with a puffed out chest. “Anomaly! What’s going on, does Homelander need me-“

“No,” you give a light, silly giggle, like a schoolgirl who just heard her crush liked her back. You don’t throw up on the Deep’s dumb, shiny suit. “I just wanted to know if you got the funding for your new movie?” 

“Oh, shit, yeah! I mean with A-Train dead, rest in power, brother,” he puts his fist up in a salute and you have to hold down a scoff. “There’s like a fuck ton of money just lying around, and I was like ‘uh, guys. What if I got the money, right?’ and they said-“ 

You’re not listening to what Vought Studios said, because you’re trying to figure out how to touch the Deep without him realizing. You wait until he’s completely engrossed in his story then start to walk, gesturing for him to follow. He falls into a pace at your side, talking about getting good writers that will do his character justice, and you lean to the side. Brush your arm against his, and all the wrath in you flares. 

The Deep’s voice grows louder. Tighter. “And I don’t fucking understand why they didn’t just give me the money, right? I mean it’s not fucking fair I have to pull all this shit together by myself. I just want to chill the hell out, but somehow this falls on me to fix this shit-“ He freezes, because by his last words he was in a full on shout. Almost a scream. “Uh, sorry, I don’t know where that came from. Don’t tell Homelander I was yelling at you, I really didn’t mean to-“ 

“It’s fine,” you smile, and it’s more sweet than smug. But you feel really fucking smug. “You’re just passionate.” 

One down. One step closer. 

Next, you find the writers. Skinny McBrown-Nose and Bald Pussy. You’ve forgotten their names again, and you’d feel a little worse about it if the moment they saw you they didn’t start trying to feed you anecdotes to use about your love for Homelander. 

“What if,” Bald Pussy leans forward with a toothy grin. “You asked him out first. And he said no, because he loved you and wanted to protect you, but it broke your heart.” 

“And you tried to get over him,” Skinny McBrown-Nose jumps in with an up-beat bounce to his words. “But nobody made you feel the way he does. There’s nobody else for you, and you’d just resigned yourself to a life of solitude when he confessed his love for you. He just couldn’t bear to see you with another, and he decided that putting you at risk would be fine, because he’s the strongest man in the world. As long as he’s there, you’ll be safe.”

You blink, because that is shockingly close to being accurate. For them it’s about Homelander and not Ben, but it’s more you than anything else they’ve pitched. 

There is no one else for you but Ben, although you don’t think you’d ever even try to get over him. When this is over you’ll just resign yourself to not being loved by him and dedicate yourself to loving him in secret. 

Ben is the strongest man in the world, but he’d never put you at risk. He hates you putting yourself at risk, and if he knew one of the reasons you’ve been staying at Vought was to protect him he’d probably have an aneurism. 

And as long as he’s there, you are safe. There’s not a safer place in the world than at Ben’s side. 

“I, um,” you have to cover your hesitation, because the writers are looking at you with nervous, expectant expressions. “I think Homelander would prefer he asked me out. It fits in better-“ 

“But this way,” Bald Pussy interjects eagerly. “We hit the demographic of liberal women in the 18-44 range. They’ll love that you took the move first, and that he loved you so much-“

“I don’t know.” You pull all the dormant cold from your blood and focus on it—let it choke you—and lean forward enough for your hands to touch theirs. Lightly. Unnoticeably. Holding their gazes so they don’t look down and see it. “Maybe I should go get him, and you can tell him-“ 

“No!” Bald Pussy’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head frantically. “I mean, no need to involve Homelander, you’re probably right-“ 

You can’t be sure if this is just an average, healthy fear of Homelander, or your fear of Homelander. The fear that haunts you and follows you everywhere. You have to be sure. “I mean, I like it. I think I can just approve it myself-“ 

“Don’t worry about it!” Skinny McBrown-Nose’s voice is a squeak. “I mean, you shouldn’t bother him. It wasn’t that good an idea, and we’ll come up with a better one, so you don’t have to risk it. Right?” 

That’s fear for you. Skinny McBrown-Nose is afraid for you, to talk to Homelander and offer him something he might hate. He has no rational reason to be afraid for you, not with what he’s been told. It worked. 

You agree softly and walk away from them. You have more work to do. 

You fall into random people and bump against passers by. For the first time in years, you’re touching everyone you can on purpose. Doing it randomly is helping you from falling apart, as their emotions aren’t intense or overwhelming. They’re mostly just bland, flavorless neutrality. It’s not a great indictment of the emotional health of Vought’s employees—how soulless and empty everyone is—but right now it’s working in your favor. You can ignore the emotions that each touch gives you and just study the way they react. 

Some stumble slightly, and a lot of them freeze. Several double over before looking around with slack, pained expressions, and one even falls to the ground. Dropping with a strangled sound like you’d shot them. 

And you know you were right. You’ve proven yourself right, and you almost fully understand it. You’re so close. To going home, to being with Ben again, to being done. This is almost over. 

Almost. You just need to find the V. You have just less than two days left, and you won’t fail. Your nightmares are growing worse and you’re still waking up paralyzed, unable to breathe or move or think anything outside of blood. So much blood, all on your hands. Not strong enough to clean them, too weak enough to wipe them on another. And there’s just so much blood. 

But you’ll get through it. You’re almost home. 

The more you do this, the more you feel Ben. His voice is always louder now, and you think you might be going insane. You don’t know if it’s this new power taking you over and driving you mad, or if you just miss him so much you’re losing your mind, but Ben feels closer than he had before. Maybe it’s because you’re almost ready. Maybe it’s anticipation. 

But no matter what it is, he’s still everywhere. His Thing in your chest is almost always alight, and his presence is solid. Just as permanent as your love for him, just as strong and warm as he is. It feels so purely Ben that your body starts to look for him where you know he won’t be. He’s not going to be in Homelander’s bathroom, or in the Seven’s meeting room, or Ashley’s office. But you can sense him all the time, and the phantom is getting away from you. Muttering in your ear at inconvenient moments about random things that were far too detailed.

Why the fuck did you love those stupid sunglasses? He’d grumbled one morning, a little before your talk with The Deep. You’d frowned into the lukewarm air of Homelander’s kitchen. 

What are you talking about? 

Those shit quality, knock-off Soldier Boy sunglasses you always wore. Why did you like them. 

Oh, you’d blinked at nothing, tapping at the bridge of your nose. Why?

I asked first.

But-

Just answer the damn question, Sunshine. There was a pause, and you could almost hear his sigh. Please.

You had to fight the smile on your face, because Homelander could walk in at any second. Well, since you asked so nicely, Pretty Boy, they reminded me of you. 

He was scowling. You don’t know how you know, but you’re certain he was scowling. They were fucking blue. 

Yeah, well- You pause, his words settling in. What do you mean, were. 

Don’t fucking worry about it. How did they remind- 

Why did you use past tense. What happened to my sunglasses. 

I said don’t worry about it, his voice muttered your name, and it was almost sheepish. It’s not- 

Benjamin. 

They broke. 

What. 

When I lost you, they got smashed- 

First off, you didn’t lose me. Stop saying you lost me. Second of all, why are you asking me about my broken sunglasses. 

You loved them. I want to know if you just fucking like sunglasses, or if it’s something else- 

I loved those sunglasses because they made me more certain you were real. You’d cared enough to give them to me when Butcher had dropped them off, and that made me happy. It made me think you cared about me- 

I do care about you. He sounds indignant. Of course I fucking care about you. I- 

I know you care, Ben. That’s why I’m not that mad about them hypothetically being broken, because I don’t need proof- 

Why would you ever fucking need proof. 

Because you’re confusing. You’re the love of my life, Benjamin, and you confuse the fuck- 

His voice sounded like it had somehow dropped an octave when he says your name. What the hell did you just say.

I said you’re a confusing piece of shit- 

No, the other thing. 

I said I love you. You know that. Let me talk. 

Sunshine- 

Homelander had walked in, and you’d had to tune out Ben’s words around you to feign joy in his presence and interest in his words. Ben’s voice had fallen back into a soft sound of static, but his Thing had remained—steady and comfortably—in your chest. A constant, dependable, holding you down until only a few hours later when you’d heard him from nothing again.

You would fucking know what this shit means. 

You’d frowned at the stall of the bathroom, collecting your thoughts and trying to reign your anger back to your body. What shit? 

Manifest Destiny. Doesn’t even make any damn sense- 

It’s the nationalistic belief that Americans had the right to expand westward, and should exert the means to do so. 

Smartass. 

You fucking asked me the question. It’s not my fault I knew the answer.

You’d heard Ben’s snort, and his Thing had rolled over inside you. Brat. 

Cunt. 

Someone had entered the bathroom, and Ben’s voice had gone silent around you—a smell like pine and barbecue fading from the air—as his Thing had remained burning in your chest. You didn’t dwell on it, you didn’t have the time or energy to even think it over once, especially as it just kept happening. Over and over, through the evening and night, Ben’s Thing kept growing brighter and Ben began to intertwine into your senses. You start to spare it thought, especially as the conversations keep starting from silence about nothing. 

I’d never hurt you. 

I know that. You barely managed not to stumble as you walked through the hall, his voice taking you by surprise. Why are you telling me that? 

Because Annie’s fucking wrong. I’d never fucking hurt you. You’d have told me if it hurt, and I’d have fucking tied your hands up if you tried to keep doing it. 

You’re just confused enough to not let that turn you on. What? 

If you kept trying to do your fucking brain magic after saying it was hurting you. I’d have tied you up to stop you from doing it. I’m not- 

Why are we talking about this? 

Because I wouldn’t hurt you. I love you, and I rather fucking ship myself back to Russia- 

You sigh. I told you to stop saying that, Ben. 

He went silent for a second, and his Thing in you rumbles. What. 

Stop saying you love me. 

No. 

Please- 

No. I fucking love you, let me say it- 

Ben, please. 

Stop saying please. I don’t want you begging unless it’s for me to make your pretty fucking eyes roll back in your head- 

I’m not joking- 

Do I sound like I’m damn laughing. I love you-

Benjamin- 

You almost walk into a wall, and have to cut off your own voice in your head to regain your balance. And now you’re certain it’s not worth second guessing, because Ben doesn’t love you. You simply miss him so much your stupid brain is inventing random reasons for him to talk to you. It’s only been two weeks since you saw Ben last, and it’s driving you insane. 

If you weren’t already so preoccupied with trying to get a lead on some V, you might be more worried about that. But right now you need the comfort that’s provided by Ben’s voice rolling through you as he tells you he loves you, and the easy joy that talking to his phantom brings. The way it makes his Thing so powerful and devout to whatever feeds it. 

You still can’t figure out what feeds it, but it’s only growing more and more hungry. It’s still holding your head together, though, so you entertain it. You have a whole morning dedicated to finding V, and Ben’s phantom and Thing can follow you wherever so you don’t break. You have two days left, so you have to play the game and keep your mask on and find the V. If letting Ben haunt you will keep you sane, so be it. There are worse ways to be hungry.

A-Train said Homelander kept some in his room, but you’ve been looking over almost every nook and cranny and shadow and hollow, and there’s nothing. Homelander didn’t throw it away, he wouldn’t, but you don’t even have an educated guess as to where he’d move it to. It doesn’t help that you have to at least try to sneak around Sage’s notice, or that Ben’s voice keeps muttering everywhere about things that don’t matter. It’s keeping you sane—his grumbles and feel all around you, pushing your cracks back together—but it’s a little distracting. You can’t care about breakfast or guns or the movie Palm Springs—you don’t actually remember watching that one with him, you weren’t sure he’d like it—because you have to rummage through cabinets and empty rooms of the dead members of the Seven.

Ben’s voice keeps telling you he loves you. You give up on trying to shut him up, because you don’t have the time. He’s here to keep you steady, and it’s working fairly well. 

I still can’t fucking believe they were keep my shield in goddamn Ohio. 

Uh huh, you nod mindlessly into the air, pressing the wall in Firecracker’s old room like you might find a secret door. Annie probably would’ve mentioned a secret door, she lived here for almost three years after all, but you can’t afford to leave any stone unturned. 

I mean, why even go to trouble of putting it back together if you’re going to put it in taint-fuck Ohio-

Benjamin. Why are we talking about Ohio.

Because if Vought was keeping V in Ohio with my shield, I’ll blow their stupid fucking tower up- 

Your shield was fine, you big baby. And It doesn’t matter where Vought was keeping V, what matters is where Sage is keeping it. Now.

Ben’s grunt sounds from somewhere behind you. You’re right. 

What was that? 

You’re fucking right. You’re always fucking right, so don’t damn gloat- 

I am not always right. 

Yes, you are. You’re going to find the V and come home, because you fucking promised and you’re always right about this shit. 

What shit? 

How people think. Their dumb fucking pussy emotions and thoughts. 

Well, I do try. 

You’ve probably already fucking found the V. Homelander probably didn’t even hide it, because he’s a smug pussy who thinks everyone fucking loves him. 

You almost drop the vase you’d been turning over in your hand, mouth falling slightly open. Holy shit, Ben. You’re a genius. 

Goddamn right I am. His voice pauses in your head, and you can almost see the knit of his brow. But why the fuck do you think that. 

Because Homelander’s a hubristic piece of shit. He won’t think anyone would ever cross or betray him, and if they did he doesn’t think they’d get away with it. 

So? 

You smile, fingers tapping against the vases slightly dusting glass. I know where the V is. 

It takes an effort not to sprint back to Homelander’s apartment. To look nonchalant and bored as you open the door, to call out to see if he’s there, and walk up the stairs carefully just in case. 

You duck under the bed, and there’s a black box. A small, sleek black box without a lock, weighting barely over five pounds when you pull it out. 

There’s only one vial. One small vial of green liquid, with a label on it that reads Project Anomaly, Trial 6. 

It’s your V. Ben’s V. 

It’ll have to do. 

There’s only one last move. One last careful move. One more thing before you can go home, and one more day to do it. 

You make dinner for Homelander. You’re not sure what he likes, but he’s made you eat a lot of corn dogs. You don’t know how to make corn dogs, so you heat up some hotdogs and hope it’ll be enough. 

It needs to be enough. 

When he arrives, your smile is tooth-rotting. You’re small and quiet and weak, and you’re all for him. You’re cold and exhausted and everything in you is taut, but you’re so close.

“Hi, babe!” You’re going to vomit. You can’t, but later you’ll need to cut off your tongue so you can never even risk sounding like that again. “I made you some food.” 

“Food.” Homelander stops in front of you, and you don’t flinch. “What’s the occasion that finally made you stop fucking moping?” 

“It’s an offering,” you give him a simper. It hurts your face. “I want to apologize, and talk about us.” 

Us. You want to scream but you turn it into a sweeter smile, and Homelander’s face twists into a wide, smug smirk.

“Us?” 

He says the word like it’s real. Like it’s applicable to you and him, and you’re not barely alive anymore. So close. 

“Our future.” You pat the seat next to you. “Eat first, you’ve been running around all day.” 

Homelander lowers into the seat, and frowns at the sad, limp hotdog in front of him. “What the fuck is this.” 

“We don’t have a lot of raw ingredients, I did my best with what I had, I’m sorry-“ 

“I am not eating this limp dick excuse for food.” He pokes the hotdog, and turns to fully face you. “Talk.” 

“I, um,” you take Homelander’s hand gingerly, waiting for him to yank it back. He doesn’t. “Sage suggested that I should propose to you, and I just wanted to talk to you about it. Make sure that’s what you want-” 

“Sage suggested.” He scowls at you. “So you don’t want to marry me? What am I doing wrong?!” You stare at him, frozen in place as you try to hold your blood in your body, and Homelander’s voice grows louder. “Fucking answer me!” 

“Nothing!” Your voice is nervous because you love him and want him to be happy. Not because you keep seeing red on your hands and his face and splattered across walls. You’re holding one hand up to his face and it’s to comfort him, and you’re not forcing your fingers to stay steady. He’s so angry, and cold, and everything in him is like a tornado. Moving and changing too fast, making you sick. “I just want to make sure marriage is something you want too! I love you, that’s enough-“

Homelander’s moving, and before you can even realize what’s happening his mouth is on yours. His hold on you is like a chain, uncaring and harsh and wearing you down, wrapping around your throat until all you can do is think no. No no no no no- 

“I knew you’d see it my way.” His words are hissed against your lips, and something finally breaks deep in you. Far, far down in an artery you feel it snap, and if this doesn’t work, you might not survive. 

“Of course,” you have to smile. The world is ending but you have to smile. “Thank you for waiting, babe.” 

Homelander stands up, almost pushing you away, and claps his hands. “This is going to be a fucking wedding. They won’t be saying all those lies about us when they see it, it’ll be befitting of the gods we are.” He grins to himself. “And everyone loves romance. Fucking sheeple will eat this up. I’m going to get you a ring-“ 

“Can you get it from Paris?” You give him a pout. “I’ve always wanted a ring from Paris.” 

“Of course, honey. Only the best for the bride of the century.” Homelander nods, and kisses you again. You’re drowning, falling, dying, breaking- “I’ll go now, Sage won’t bitch about it when she sees how much people love us.” 

You pretend to start and protest, but he’s already gone. And you’re alone. You’re breaking—the cracks are starting to split open and the world is going blurry—but you have to go. You’re on a time limit, and you have to fucking go.

You’re so close. You can’t fail now. 

Homelander’s fast. Paris is far, but Homelander’s fast. You probably have an hour, likely less if he gets word. You’ve already wasted time on the floor, clinging onto the parts of you that are somewhat intact to get your through this. Trying to focus on Ben’s Thing in your chest—bloody and loud—to keep your feet moving. 

And you run. Nobody guards Homelander’s room, people are barely even on 99 lately, so you run. Faster than you’ve ever run in your life, one hand over the original V in your pocket to keep it from falling out. Out the door, down the stairs, not stopping to check if anyone sees you. The fire is scratching under your skin, and you’re going to pass out from the cold you won’t let leave you, but you go. 

Down, down, down. 82. 74. 66. 53. 

The alarms go off. The stairwell lights up red, the blare of a siren echoing off the gray walls, and you keep running.

50. 47. 42. 

A door opens somewhere, the creak and scrape on the concrete barely audible. 

38. 

A man in all black is aiming a gun at you. He has brown eyes, and his hands are shaking. 

His eyes burn out first, and you keep running.

35.  

Three more. One of them has a tattoo of a flower visible on her wrist. It curls and twists with the burns on her hands.

31. 27. 23. 

More bodies. The stairs are littered with bodies, and everything is painted in blood, and the water from the sprinklers is going up into steam. You can’t see your next steps, or the floor numbers, but you keep going. 

Down, down, down. 

A green EXIT sign is glowing through the smoke and mist. You slam into it, and you might hear something crack. 

Go. 

People are screaming, most of them parting around you. A few more bodies drop, a few more flashes of curly hair curling up in smoke and a scar on a cheek growing larger. One man’s shout of stop sounds like your father. 

Fucking go. 

You can see the exit. The doors of Vought Tower are made of glass, and it’s sunny outside. Everything is sparkling, like it just rained. 

GO. 

Someone calls your name. Your real name, your full name that’s carved on a gravestone in Boston. But the voice is wrong. There’s only one voice that’s right, that’s safe, and it’s the deep one that’s roaring for you in your chest. You don’t stop. 

That’s your name again. A woman is calling your name. She’s small, with dark skin and the coldest eyes you’ve ever seen.

She’s not safe. Everything in your brain is gone—replaced with a smooth song that feels familiar and an instinct to go home—but this woman is not safe. 

She’s talking to you, saying words you should understand, but you have to go. She’s telling you that you’re interesting, but she’s still won. That you shouldn’t use that vial in your pocket, because it might kill you. That you’ll never find the right kind, and that someone that makes everything in you scream is coming to take you away. That you’re out of the way, you failed to control yourself and now this shrewd woman has won. 

You can see the sun. It’s warm. It feels safe. The grass is green, and it’s reaching up to the sun. 

And you let go. You stop trying to keep yourself steady and strong, and you let all the exhaustion and loneliness and horror out into the air. Someone screams, and it might be you.

Glass shatters, and something stings your skin. There’s blood on your hands, and you don’t only belong to you anymore. 

But you can feel the sun.

———————

In the week after the Believe Expo, Ben started to lose his mind. 

He’d been in a meeting when it had started. Sat silently a few tables down from where MM, Mallory, and Butcher were interrogating A-Train. Ben had been kicked out of the actual process, because apparently nobody fucking appreciated how all his questions were about Her, and if she was okay. What did her smile look like, if she was even smiling. Was she having nightmares, and was Homelander keeping her locked up. Why was A-Train such a fucking weak pussy who didn’t help her. 

So he’d glared at them from across the room, trying to both listen to A-Train list off stupid fucking passwords and building locations and not break the glass in his hand. It would shatter everywhere, and Ben would probably have to fucking clean it up. 

That’s not glass, Pretty Boy. It’s plastic. 

Feels like fucking glass. 

Well, it’s plastic. You really think the CIA would give us real glass? When most of us can’t seem to stop blowing shit up and Hughie startles at the smallest sound?

Ben had smiled into the air, ducking his head so that nobody would see him looking like a fucking idiot. Plastic can still goddamn break, Sunshine. 

Her voice hummed somewhere in his chest, right next to the Thing. Well, it’s easier to clean. 

He’d snorted, and looked up as the doors from the hall swung open. Hughie and the French Prick had burst into the room, both shouting incoherently and tripping over each other. 

“The bloody hell is wrong with you two, ain’t you able to see we’re busy?!“ 

Kimiko had stepped over Hughie and the French Prick as they untangled themselves, ignoring Butcher as she marched over to Ben. 

He’d frowned up at her. “What.” 

She’d glared at him, signing something she fucking knew he didn’t understand, and dropped her phone in front of him. 

It was Her. A picture of Her, at the Believe Expo, frozen on the stage. Staring off into the distance, stage lights washing out her perfect features, her mouth open and her eyes wide. The headline above the picture read Anomaly’s Speech Interrupted by Terrorist Attack from the CIA. 

“The fuck is this.” 

Kimiko signed at Ben aggressively, and he didn’t fucking understand- 

“She says that it is all over the news.” The French Prick had stumbled up behind Kimiko, translating with a frown. “That it is bigger than the court trial. People are, to quote roughly, ‘losing their fucking minds’.” 

“Frenchie, what the hell are you talking about.” MM had called, still seated across from A-Train. “What’s bigger than the court trial?” 

The French Prick had said Her name, still watching Kimiko. “She is everywhere. The article Kimiko is showing Soldier Boy is from VNN, and there are many more about her and Homelander and the Believe Expo and-“ The French Prick had sighed. “Mon Coeur, I am not saying that to them.” 

Kimiko had turned to him, gesturing again with another point to Ben. 

“Because it will not be helpful.” The French Prick had looked at Ben, then said in a lower voice that Ben had still fucking heard, “this is already not very good-“ 

“If you don’t fucking tell me,” Ben had growled. “I’ll rip off your hands and make you eat them.” 

Kimiko had stepped between the French Prick and Ben, still gesturing at the former with only a brief pause to flip the latter off. 

The French Prick had let out another fucking sigh, and said the words slowly. “There are many… outlandish rumors. About her,” The French Prick had nodded at the phone, still in front of Ben. “And the nature of her life.” 

“Frenchie,” Butcher had drawled from across the room. “If you don’t start talkin without being a cryptic cunt-“ 

“Many are calling her a messiah. Some think she is an insider, a spy for either the CIA or Vought. There are investigations into her past, her paternity, and relationships with Homelander and…” The French Prick had winced as he spoke. “Monsieur Butcher.”

Ben had needed to take a walk. His fist had curled against the table, blood had pounded in his ears, and Her voice in his head had hummed do not kill Butcher. It will be messy and just a huge inconvenience for everyone, so Ben had stood up—the bench screeching as it flew out from under him—and stomped out of the dining hall.

Butcher had, surprisingly, not been a total fucking dickless piece of shit about it. Nobody had even mentioned it as more and more rumors and speculations poured in, each more fucking insane than the last. Ben started to long for Her to haunt him again, because right now he was being suffocated with this version of her that wasn’t fucking Her. It wasn’t even a goddamn person, it was a product, an idea for the fucking masses to project onto. She wasn’t a liar, or a honeypot, or a silly bimbo just caught up in a whirlwind romance that had gotten away from her. She was a brilliant, beautiful, fucking perfect woman. She wasn’t brainwashed—Ben pitied the fucking idiot who would try to, She’d give them a run for their money—or anyone’s fucking bastard child, and she had a PhD. In Anthropology, because she cared so fucking much about people and making the world good. Because She was good. She was the only person in the whole fucking world who was good. She wasn’t Homelander’s or Butcher’s or CIA’s, she was Ben’s. She was the most painfully strong-willed woman he’d ever met, and she wanted Ben.

And he had to just fucking watch, like an undeserving fucking pussy, as people kept talking about Her like they knew her. They didn’t know her. Ben knew her. He knew that this was part of Her stupid plan, and that she’d be home soon—She’d fucking promised—but that no matter what he’d wait until everyone else was dead and the building around him was in ruins for Her to return to him. He knew that, if this wasn’t tearing the country apart and inciting riots in the streets, She’d find it all hilarious. 

That’s the third person this week to accuse me of getting a BBL. She hummed in Ben’s ear as he listened to Hughie ramble on about the newest developments. Like I could afford an ass this good on a waitress’ salary.

He coughed to cover his snort, and Mallory shot him a glare.

“Is there anything you would like to say, Soldier Boy?” 

Ben rolled his eyes. “Shut the fuck up.” 

“I’m your reporting officer-“ 

“You’re still not fucking paying me,” Ben sneered. “I’m not here for you, or your shit fucking ideas. Hughie, keep talking.” 

Hughie nodded nervously, and continued. It was a lot of pointless shit about how they had to keep to their stories, what allegations were worth addressing and what was just nutjobs talking out of their asses. Ben wasn’t really fucking listening, just staring at another photo of Her, in that stupid fucking costume, wearing a smile that wasn’t Hers. 

He missed Her smile. Ben missed every fucking thing about Her, but her smile was a goddamn work of art. When it was real it was wide and toothy and made everything around it brighter. Her eyes would scrunch with it, and it always looked like she was keeping a secret. Something just for Her, about how beautiful the world was and how she got to see it. When She gave Ben that smile, he got to be in on the secret. He got to see every single fucking perfect part of Her—understand a little more about why She loved this shit life so much—and if she let him he’d keep making Her smile until everything was almost as beautiful as She was.

He kept his promise. It had clearly been important to Her—for reasons Ben didn’t understand—that Ben was better to the Kid. She’d cashed in a fucking favor for it, and Ben knew she wouldn’t forget that it was Her last one. She’d wasted them on making him watch TV and read goddamn books and getting her some chocolate from the dining hall in the middle of the night—he’d have fucking done it without the favor, because She’d sprawled herself across his chest and held his face between her hands with a pretty pout on her lips—but She’d never used that last one.

But She wanted Ben to be nicer to the Kid. So he marched into the dining hall for dinner and sat at the almost empty table. 

The Kid stared at him over a book, and Ben grunted. He didn’t have a goddamn clue how to do this. 

“The fuckin hell are you doin here?” Butcher appeared through the kitchen doors, two plates in hand. He set one down in front of the Kid, dropping down across from Ben with a scowl. “You ain’t been to one of these since-“ 

“Shut the fuck up.” Ben muttered. He didn’t need another fucking reminder She was gone. “I live here just as much as you do, you fucking pussy. I can eat wherever I damn well please.” 

Butcher narrowed his eyes at Ben. “Then where’s your food.” 

“I only just fucking sat down-“ 

“You can have mine.” Ben felt his jaw clench as the Kid pushed his plate across the table. “I’m not that hungry.” 

“Ryan, you eat your own fuckin dinner and let me-“ 

“Kimiko gave me some cheese earlier.” The Kid mumbled. “I was showing her my homework and she was eating cheese. I asked for some-“ 

“Ryan-“ 

“I didn’t mean to eat all of it, I was just hungry-“ 

“Ryan-“ 

“And Mom said sharing was good!” Ryan looked at Butcher with wide eyes, and the pussies face fell into a glower. “She said sharing was important!” 

Butcher’s glare turned to Ben, and Ben pulled the plate closer to his body. He wasn’t that fucking hungry either, but Her voice kept ringing in his head. 

Be kind to Ryan. For me. 

“Uh,” Ben looked at the Kid, who was watching him with an openly nervous expression. “Thanks.” 

Was that so hard, Pretty Boy? You were almost civilized. 

Shut the fuck up. 

Her laugh echoed around Ben’s head, and he gave the Kid a small nod. “What are you reading.”

“Of Mice and Men,” The Kid answered, and his voice was so fucking quiet. “Aunt Grace says it’s important for my education-“

“That the one about the huge idiot who gets shot in the head, yeah?” Ben frowned, because he’d read that book. Over 80 years ago, but he’d read it. “It’s-“

“Lennie gets shot?!” The Kid’s face had fallen, and Ben blinked. 

“Uh-“ 

“Bloody hell.” Butcher sighed, pulling the book away from the Kid with a glare at Ben. “Tell him about your homework Ryan. I’m gonna go get you another fuckin book.” 

There was silence for a second after the door closed behind Butcher. 

“You don’t have to listen to me talk about my homework,” the Kid mumbled. “It’s not that interesting.” 

Be kind to Ryan. “I don’t fucking care. Talk.” 

The Kid started slow. He’d been right, it wasn’t that interesting. It was all books and history and science and fucking math. Ben goddamn knew what ecosystems were, and he didn’t give a fuck about calculating percentages, but the Kid seemed to. He got all damn cheerful naming the fifty states, and Ben didn’t have the fucking heart to shut him up. She’d asked him to be kind, and this seemed like the type of shit She’d love. She wouldn’t care that it was all for fucking children, She’d ask the Kid about his opinion on the symbolism in their stupid fucking books and his opinion on the Lousiana purchase.

So he let the Kid talk, all the way until the dining hall finally started to fill with the rest of the team. Annie and Hughie first, followed by Kimiko and the French Prick, all of whom gave Ben odd looks but didn’t interrupt the Kid’s ranting. MM and Butcher arrived—A-Train was still mostly keeping to himself, Ben hadn’t even seen him outside of meetings—and the Kid was cut off mid-sentence as Butcher dropped another book on the table.

Ben stood up. He’d done what he had to, and been nice to the Kid. He could leave.

“Are you not eating with us?” The Kid was frowning at him. “I thought you were going to eat with us.”

Ben wasn’t sure what to do. “I’m not-“ 

“Sit your ass down, Soldier Boy.” MM grunted, not looking up from his plate. “Eat your fucking dinner.” 

The Kid was still fucking watching him with a sad expression that turned into a smile when Ben slowly returned to his seat. 

Ben wasn’t sure how he allowed it to happen, but he was back in the dining hall the next night as well. He kept thinking about how fucking happy She’d be he was talking to the Kid, and how the Kid didn’t seem to care that Ben had tried to murder him at one point. He just seemed happy Ben was there, and his face lit up when Ben sat across the table again. So Ben was there the next night, and the night after that, and suddenly he was fucking eating dinner with everyone. 

The Thing was still fucking trying to tell him something. He still didn’t fucking understand. It kept going on rampages around Ben’s body, trying to force him to get it. To just know what it wanted him to, what the Thing had decided was so fucking important for him to know. And it was still trying to tell Her. She wasn’t here, Ben had to keep reminding the Thing She wasn’t here, but it didn’t give a shit. It was rioting inside of Ben like it did when She was sad and he needed to help. To hold Her until her heartbeat was steady, or talk to Her until her perfect fucking brain was Her’s again. When it was trying to tell Ben to touch Her, that he should touch Her and all the pain and fear written across her pretty features would vanish, because Ben would make Her feel good. He’d touch Her and kiss her and bite her and fuck her until she was happy. He’d do fucking anything to make Her happy. 

And the Thing roared. 

There were points where the Thing would explode inside him, and Her voice would become clear. Like she was right at his side, grinning up at him as she spoke. Telling him about things only She would think of. The real Her, not the echo of her in his head. The Thing would squeeze in Ben’s chest in the middle of the night, and Her voice would start talking all too fast about how she couldn’t come home. She was weak and couldn’t come home. Ben told Her to shut up, because she would. Not coming home wasn’t a goddamn option. 

And She still wasn’t wearing blue. She’d promised, fucking sworn, that she’d wear blue if Ben needed to come get her. But she wasn’t, so Ben just waited. Mallory turned on the Dining Hall TV for some sort of stupid Vought show, and She looked so fucking exhausted and small—shrinking into herself in a way that Ben knew meant she was afraid—next to Homelander. But Ben had to just listen to Sage give a speech about their fucking relationship, and not go help Her. He hated this, but he fucking couldn’t go until She gave the signal. The Thing was raging inside of him, and Her voice was following him—teasing him with a lightness in her voice—but Ben had to just watch. Talk to Her in his head about anything, because that’s all he could have right now.

Then Homelander kissed Her cheek, and the table had cracked under Ben’s grip. Everyone was fucking looking at him, and She looked so fucking afraid. Homelander had touched Her. That weak, pathetic fucking pussy wasn’t supposed to touch Her. Ben should’ve been there to fucking kill him for even looking at Her- 

Ben was moving before he was even aware of it. Stalking down the halls, back to the apartment, because he was going to get Her. The Thing was going fucking feral, and Her voice kept trying to stop him, but nothing could stop him. Nothing was going to stop Ben from fucking killing Homelander, right fucking now. He had his shield and himself, and V or no V, he’d take the shot and he wouldn’t fucking miss. He wasn’t going to keep fucking leaving Her- 

Not leaving. 

She kept talking to him, her voice desperate in Ben’s head. He had go goddamn save her, bring her home- 

Her voice wouldn’t shut the fuck up. She wanted to come home. She wanted him more. She’d see Ben soon, but he had to wait.

He had to keep fucking waiting. He had to put down his shield, put his shirt back on, push his suit back into the dresser and just miss Her. Wait for her and miss her.

After a while, someone knocked on the door. Ben scowled—if it was Hughie or Annie here to talk about fucking feelings, he’d punch their teeth out—and went to answer the door. 

It wasn’t Annie or Hughie to talk about feelings. It wasn’t Mallory or MM or Butcher to lecture him either, or even the French Prick to do whatever the hell the French Prick did. 

It was the Kid, looking up at Ben with an anxious face. 

“You, um, you weren’t in the dining hall for dinner. I wanted to see if you were okay.” 

Ben blinked at him. He didn’t fucking love how he seemed unable to hold a normal conversation with the Kid. It was just a small fucking human. He could act like a grown ass man.

“I’m eating alone. Go back before Butcher starts fucking looking for you.” 

Ben went to slam the door, but the Kid stopped him. Shot out a hand and stopped Ben. “Please, wait-“ 

“How fucking strong are you?” 

The Kid stared at him. “I, um, I don’t know. My dad said I was really strong-“ 

“Anyone ever tested it?” 

“Tested what?” 

Ben sighed. “Your strength. Given you some weights, put you under a car-“ 

“A car?” The Kid shook his head frantically. “I don’t, please don’t put me under a car-“ 

“Calm the fuck down, I’m not going to do it right damn now.” Ben rolled his eyes. “I’ll tell Butcher tomorrow.” 

“Tell Butcher what-“ 

The Kid’s words were still panicked, and Ben sighed, running a hand over his face. “We need to figure out how strong you are. Just so you don’t fucking break something.” 

“I broke a cup,” the Kid mumbled, staring at the floor. “When I got here. And I’ve broken some people-“ 

“That’s not your fault,” Ben snapped, Her sad face flashing with smoke in his brain. “If nobody’s taught you how to control it, you shouldn’t be fucking expected to.” 

The Kid nodded slowly, still staring at Ben. “Will you help me?” 

“I don’t-” Ben’s fists curled at his side, and he cut himself off as he saw at the Kid’s wide, hopeful eyes watching him. Watching Ben like he was better than he was, like he’d somehow earned the Kid’s trust. Ben cursed himself, and sighed. “Fine.” 

“Will you come to dinner?” 

“No.” Ben wasn’t going to relent on that. He didn’t need everyone’s fucking sad, pitying looks, not right now. Not when the Thing was still rolling around inside him, not when he could still see Her face—full of frightened shock—and couldn’t do anything about it.

“Can I eat here?” 

Ben blinked. “What.” 

“May I please eat here? If, um, if it’s okay with you I can go ask Butcher-“ 

“Why.” 

The Kid shrugged, eyes dropping to the floor. “I want to ask you some questions, please.” 

Ben frowned. “About what.” 

The Kid said Her name, and the Thing fucking moaned in pain. “I just, I want to know about her. Nobody will talk about her, and Kimiko said you were-“ 

“You can fucking talk to Kimiko?” 

“I’m trying to learn,” the Kid shrugged, glancing up quickly. “It’s important to understand and respect others, even if they’re different-“ 

“Fine.” 

The Kid looked fully back up. “Fine?”

“You can eat here. Don’t bother getting Butcher, he’ll be a fucking ass about it. If he whines like a dickless pussy, I’ll deal with it.” Ben stood aside in one sharp step, and the Kid walked in the apartment slowly, looking around with wide eyes. 

“Your place is nicer than Butcher’s.” 

“Everyone decorated their own,” Ben grunted, moving to the kitchen. “And Butcher’s fucking boring. No color in that asshole’s place.” 

“Who decorated yours?” 

Ben sighed, said Her name, and ignored the stab through his heart. “Sit the fuck down. We’re eating bagels.” 

The Kid waited silently as Ben pulled out plates and prepped the food. When he stalked back over to the table—The Kid watching him and sitting with good fucking posture—Ben slammed the bagels down and dropped in his seat. The Kid was in Her seat.

He had to be okay with that. She’d kick Ben’s ass if he moved the Kid just because he didn’t think anyone else should ever even try to take her place in any fucking way. 

The Kid took his first bite, and stared down at the bagel as he swallowed. “Is this-“ 

“Strawberry cream cheese,” Ben muttered, shoving half of his own in his mouth. “Better than fucking crack.” 

“Oh.” The Kid nodded, and took another small bite. 

Ben sighed. “She liked it.” 

Don’t lie to the child, Benjamin. You love that shit twice as much as I do. 

“She showed it to me,” Ben amended himself, face dropping into a scowl. “And I love it as well.” 

The Kid nodded, but didn’t say anything else. Taking another bite, waiting for Ben to speak.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” Ben leaned back in his chair, glaring at the Kid. “Three questions. That’s all you fucking get. I don’t have to answer a goddamn one if I don’t want to, and you don’t get them back. So choose fucking wisely.”

The Kid nodded, and looked back down at his plate. Ben shoved the rest of his bagel in his mouth, watching the Kid carefully as he chewed. 

“What’s her favorite color?” 

“All of them,” Ben swallowed, his words becoming clearer. “She liked every fucking color. She said she didn’t want any of them to feel bad about being ugly, so she wouldn’t pick a favorite. All colors had something to contribute.” 

“Even orange?” 

Ben snorted. “Halloween and the damn Grand Canyon.” 

The Kid took another bite, looking up at Ben. “How did you meet her?” 

“She fucking kidnapped me.” Ben grumbled, and the Kid’s mouth fell open. Ben rolled his eyes. “Not like that. She woke me up to kill Homelander, and we lived in a safe house together. We grew,” Ben frowned, searching for the right word that explained how She was his whole life. How he’d decided that, in the end, he would fucking die and kill and bleed for Her. How She made him happy and was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. How She was perfect, and adored Ben, and they’d always fucking burn together. “Close. Once we stopped trying to damn kill each other, we grew close.”

“Okay.” The Kid looked fucking sad, his mouth hanging slightly open.

“Spit it out,” Ben muttered. “Whatever the hell you want to say-“ 

“I’m sorry.“ The Kid’s voice was almost a whine, and he sounded desperate. Talking too fucking fast. “I, um, I know she’s not here because of me, and what my dad did to her, and Butcher says it’s not my fault but-“ 

“Shut up,” Ben’s words were rough, but he was getting worried the Kid was going to make himself pass out. “Butcher’s, for fucking once, right. You’re not your shit-fuck father, buddy.” That felt like something She’d say. “And she wanted to help you. She doesn’t hate you.”

“Why?” The Kid gave Ben a pathetic, sad look. “Why did she help me? After what my dad, what Homelander did-“ 

“Because that’s not the type of person she is.” Ben snapped, and his voice was harsher than he’d meant it to be, but the Thing was bellowing inside him. “She doesn’t hold things against people, even when she fucking should. She wants to help people, and so she fucking does.” Ben sighed. “She thinks the world is good. She’s mean and rude and has a smart fucking mouth, but she still thinks this shit is worth something. And she’s a fucking genius, so she’s probably right. She probably didn’t even damn think to blame you, so don’t fucking do it for her. She doesn’t like people doing shit for her.”

“She doesn’t?” 

“No.” Ben watched the Kid’s soft, eager expression. “She works her fucking ass off for everything, and earns every damn thing she gets. Never even asks for shit in return.” Ben scowled into the air. “She deserves a fuck ton more than people are giving her.” She deserved fucking everything. “Does everyone’s goddamn jobs and all she gets is an apartment and a limited company credit card in fucking Mallory’s name. If the CIA weren’t full of such fucking asshole pussies, they’d just give her goddamn control of everything and we’d all be home in an afternoon.”

“She sounds really cool.” The Kid mumbled, and Ben nodded. 

“She is fucking cool.” He grunted. “She’s fucking perfect.” 

The Kid looked up at Ben with big eyes. “Yeah, it, um, it makes sense why you love her.”

Ben’s whole world stopped. 

He did. 

He loved Her. 

With every single fucking part of him, Ben loved Her. That was what the Thing was. Love. For Her. That’s what it had been trying to tell him. He loved Her. 

She was perfect. She was the whole world and everything around it and between it, and Ben loved Her. She never fucking wavered, and was so fucking smart and beautiful and good, and Ben loved Her. She trusted Ben, she wanted him, and he fucking loved Her.

This was the stupid shit people wrote all those songs that She loved about. Where they talked about it like it was evasive and the most amazing pain you’d ever fucking feel, and how their person was the best person and nobody fucking got it like they did. This pain was fucking amazing, and Ben never wanted to stop feeling it. It made his heart—that’s what the fucking Thing was, and Ben was a goddamn idiot—ache because she wasn’t here, but it also meant he got to want Her. The pain meant She was in sight, and Ben just had to fucking wait. He’d never stop waiting. If the next time he saw Her was in a thousand fucking years, Ben would pick her up into his arms all the same and kiss her until she moaned into his mouth and he could breathe again. Because his person was the best fucking person. Nobody did fucking get it like Ben did. She was better than every other goddamn pussy fucker on the planet, and she was a goddamn force of nature. She made oceans part and lightning strike and the sun followed Her because it wanted to share Her warmth. She was so fucking perfect, so powerful, that she’d managed to make Ben’s heart beat in a way it hadn’t before. He’d been alive for over a goddamn century, and he’d never had everything be about his heart, and how it needed to be in time with Hers. 

This was all the goddamn movies she’d made him watch, where two people would look into each other’s eyes and the music would swell and everything would fade to black as they kissed. This wouldn’t fade to black. This would keep going, and Ben would eat Her pretty face and suck her lips until they were swollen. He’d put wets kisses along her jaw and bite on her neck, and she’d fucking moan and the lights would stay up as Ben fucked her. Really, properly fucked Her like she deserved, made her unravelled and wrecked under him. Everyone would fucking see, because the whole fucking world needed to see Her how Ben saw her. And he’d keep going and going until she looked at him like he was everything, and Ben would keep fucking loving Her until someone figured out a way to kill him. And even then he’d crawl back to Her. They’d have to pull his fucking heart out of his chest and launch it into fucking space where he couldn’t follow it. He’d probably follow it anyways, because space didn’t have fucking shit on Ben, on his love for Her. His love was bigger, more important, and if space tried to take his heart Ben would just have to figure out how to fucking kill it and get Her back.

This was probably like poems and books, as well. She’d say it was. She’d say that love is the most poetic thing in the world, and that love in some form runs through every great story in history, even the tragic and heartbreaking ones. She’d make this shit poetic. She’d hold Ben’s face between her hands and say a bunch of things he didn’t understand, using allegories and metaphors and smiling at him, and it wouldn’t fucking matter what Ben understood. She would be there, telling Ben she loved him and smiling and saying it a million different ways because that’s who she was. Her brain moved too fucking fast, and She’d only be able to tell Ben she loved him in a way that was beautiful. 

Ben didn’t need to be fucking beautiful. This was pretty fucking simple, he loved Her. That was all that needed to be fucking said, there was no other goddamn way to put it. Ben loved Her, like nobody had ever loved anything in goddamn history. Ben loved Her, and whenever he thought the words his heart would feel a little easier in his chest.

Once She was home Ben would get his hands dirty for her and do whatever she told him and make Her feel fucking good. That’s what he was here for now, to make Her feel good, to touch her and praise her and worship her until she understood that she was perfect. She’d fall apart because of Ben, and she’d fucking smile at him after, and that would be all he needed to keep living. She could have all his food, and take all his sleep and oxygen and goddamn peace, but Ben would fucking thrive. Because She’d be there and he could keep loving her.

But now, he had to get through the rest of dinner and show the Kid out while acting like everything was normal. He had to get through the rest of his fucking life acting like everything was fucking normal. Like he wasn’t in love, in stupid fucking love, with Her. 

He’d tell Her. She had to fucking know. Ben would hold it within himself until She was home and happy, then he’d tell her. 

He didn’t have a fucking clue how. He’d never done this shit before, where it really fucking mattered that he did it right. He could get her shit. Something she’d like, that proved that Ben listened. He always fucking listened to Her.

She liked those stupid off-brand Uought sunglasses. She’d wear them all the damn time, and they’d broken when he lost Her. He wouldn’t get Her blue one’s this time. She shouldn’t wear blue, unless it was to tell Ben to come fucking get Her. He didn’t want to get Her Soldier Boy sunglasses, Vought didn’t deserve Ben’s money—technically the CIA’s money, but who gave a fuck—or his likeness. 

Ben got Her green ones. Simple fucking green ones with the same aviator frames, that he could give to Her and say he loved her and she’d smile at him. 

He kept eating with the team. The Kid kept asking Ben questions, a lot about history—like he was supposed have a fucking clue just because he’d been alive for some of it—and a lot about Her.

“I wasn’t alive in the fucking 1800s,” Ben muttered as the Kid showed him a worksheet question. “I don’t have a goddamn idea what that painting means.” 

“The book said it was about Manifest Destiny,” the Kid frowned. “But I can’t find a definition, and Butcher and Aunt Grace don’t want me to have a phone.” 

Ben actually agreed with that. The Kid didn’t need to see all the shit people were saying about him, or about how Homelander and Her were in love but maybe She’d been fucking Butcher. Ben wished he could unsee it. Wipe it from his goddamn brain. He was about to say he didn’t have a fucking clue about the Manifest Destiny shit, but She must have told him at some point. This seemed like shit she’d tell him about, and suddenly her voice was reminding him. 

“It’s the nationalistic belief that Americans had the right to expand westward, and should exert the means to do so.” 

The Kid blinked at him. “Really? Are you-“ 

“I’m fucking certain.” Her voice in Ben’s head had been fucking certain, so he was as well. “That’s what it means.” 

“Okay.” The Kid started to write on the paper, and people began to trickle in for dinner. Butcher sat at the Kid’s side—glancing over the worksheet once and giving an approving nod—as Hughie and Annie sat on Ben’s bench. Neither flinched when Ben glanced at them. MM and A-Train arrived, the fast pussy finally seeming to develop some team spirit, and the French Prick and Kimiko were late. Ben hoped they were finally just fucking. If they kept making silent heart eyes at each other without just fucking, he’d shoot them. The French Prick specifically, because Kimiko would just be a waste of a bullet. If Ben couldn’t fuck his woman, everyone else better start appreciating what they goddamn had.

“You still need my phone for that bloody school shit, Ryan?” 

“No,” the Kid didn’t look up from his paper. “Ben helped me. Manifest Destiny means,” he paused, squinting to read his own handwriting. “The nationalistic belief that America should expand to the west.” 

Butcher scowled at Ben. “That so?” 

The Kid hummed, and Ben shrugged. “I’m fucking right, so don’t lose your stick up your own asshole.” 

“You seem real fuckin sure-“ 

“He is right, Butcher,” MM muttered. “That’s the definition. Not sure how he knows-“ 

“All of you seem to be real goddamn convinced I’m a fucking idiot,” Ben snapped. “I’m not a boring pussy, but I know things. I’m not a goddamn asshole without a fucking brain.” 

“I think we just aren’t sure what you would know,” Hughie mumbled, glancing at Ben nervously. “I mean, you haven’t been in school in a while. And I don’t think they taught westward expansion with any, like, nuance in the early 1900s.” 

“They didn’t,” Ben sighed, and said Her name. He needed to say Her name more, it made his heart squeeze but it always sounded fucking right. “She told me. And she’s a fucking nerd,” he tried not to smile. He fucking missed her. “She’s always fucking right about that shit.”

A-Train was looking at Ben weird again. Ben was about to fucking ask what the hell is problem was, why the pussy wouldn’t just talk to him. Ben hadn’t even ever really tried to kill him—as far as he remembered—and everyone else was talking to him. He’d defiantly tried to kill everyone else at least once, so why the fuck A-Train was being so damn strange- 

“Does she like school?” The Kid was asking Ben with those same fucking wide eyes, and he couldn’t not talk about Her if he fucking tried. 

“She says there are massive flaws in the American education system,” Ben shrugged. “But she likes learning, because she’s fucking insane.” 

“What was her favorite subject?” The Kid’s voice was growing eager, and everyone else was silent. “In school?” 

“English. And the fucking social one. Anything about people.”

“Arts and Humanities,” MM offered, frowning at Ben. “If it’s not STEM, it’s Arts and Humanities.”

Ben didn’t have a fucking clue what STEM was, but Arts and Humanities sounded familiar. “Sure. That shit.” 

“I like English as well,” the Kid was smiling, and Ben couldn’t stop his mouth from twitching. “But I also like science. Biology is my favorite-“ 

“Let the old ass fuckin eat, Ryan.” Butcher muttered, standing up. “You want pizza rolls?” 

“Yes, please.” 

Butcher nodded and stalked off, and the Kid turned back to Ben. 

“Does she like biology?” 

Ben sighed. “She likes everything. I think she gives at least a small shit about biology, because she talked about it when she’d work on my shell shock.” 

The Kid needed to stop asking fucking questions about Her, because Ben was learning he was incapable of just lying or telling him to shut the fuck up. His stupid heart would grab his mouth and use any fucking excuse to talk about Her—about how good she was and how she made everything around her good as well—because it wasn’t allowed to say Ben loved Her yet. 

“What’s shell shock?” 

“PTSD.” 

“What?” Annie leaned over Hughie, frowning at Ben. “What are you talking about?” 

“She was doing her fucking brain magic shit on my head.” Ben snapped. “She asked to, and it was fucking working.”

It had been working. Ben would never tell Her, because she’d get that pleased look in her eyes and bounce around the room, taunting Ben until he grabbed Her and kissed all the smug words out of her mouth—actually, he would tell Her, because that sounded fucking amazing—but it had been working. Ben’s nightmares about Russia and pain had faded, and he didn’t hear drums in the constant background anymore. Now it was only Her, following him and making him lose his fucking mind. 

Annie nodded, and dropped it for the rest of dinner. Ben answered a few more of the Kid’s questions, ignored A-Train’s silent, strange looks, and ate his barbecued ribs. When he was done he cleared his plate, dropping it into the sink, and nearly punched Annie when she came up behind him. 

“Soldier Boy?” 

Ben whipped around, fist’s clenched. “Christ on a fucking cross-“ 

“Why didn’t she tell us about the PTSD treatment?” Annie crossed her arms, standing her ground. “We should know-“ 

“Me and you pussies weren’t exactly buddy-buddy,” Ben drawled. “And you don’t need to know shit about what she and I do.” 

“If it affects the team, we do.” 

“Well it fucking doesn’t-“ 

“It was probably hurting her,” Annie pushed on, and Ben’s jaw clenched. “It wasn’t just vanishing. Whatever she was doing to fix you was going into her.” 

“She’d have fucking told me-“

Annie shook her head. “She wouldn’t.” Annie said Her name with a sad expression, and Ben’s heart hurt. “She, well, you know her. She wouldn’t ever tell anyone she was hurting, not until she had to.” 

“She’d fucking tell me.” Ben insisted. She’d never fucking lie to him, and he’d never doing anything that would hurt her. “If it was hurting her, she’d have told me and I’d have fucking stopped her-“

“Just, listen.” Annie sighed. “I know she cares about you. A lot. And if you care about her, you won’t make her keep doing that when she gets back. It’s not her responsibility to fix you, even if she...” Annie looked him up and down. “Cares about you.” 

“I fucking know that,” Ben hissed. “You think I don’t fucking know that? I care about her more than you’re goddamn capable of imagining-“ 

“Then don’t hurt her.” Annie shrugged. “She won’t say it’s hurting her, but her nightmares were getting worse even before the tower. She’s dealing with a lot, do this one thing for her.” 

Her nightmares had been getting worse. And She’d been staring at corners and shadows when she didn’t think Ben was watching. “How the fuck did you know that.” 

“She’s my friend,” Annie frowned. “She told me stuff.” 

“What other stuff did she tell you?” 

“Enough for me to believe that you don’t want to hurt her.” 

“Stop speaking in fucking riddles-“ 

“Soldier Boy,” Annie shook her head. “I’m not trying to fight with you. Not right now, with everything being so fucked. But just, don’t hurt her.” 

Annie left, and Ben couldn’t fucking move. He’d never hurt Her, he fucking loved Her. Everything in him was dedicated to protecting her and loving her, and he’d rather go back to sleep or ship himself to Russia that let her hurt anymore- 

She knew that. Ben was certain She knew that. She didn’t know he loved Her, and he wished her voice would stop trying to fight with him about that, but she knew Ben would never fucking hurt Her. He’d keep her safe, he’d always care for her and make her happy. Everything good was Her, and Ben’s heart kept beating so she could have it when she came home. 

The blood in Ben’s body had turned into Her. This is what people must have meant when they said love would drive you mad. Her voice, growing clearer and clearer in his head, was still telling about strange fucking things Ben hadn’t been thinking about before. Sometimes it would even say that She loved him, and Ben decided that he was getting a little too fucking into this fantasy. Where he could ask Her voice in his head questions and she’d answer like it was Her. Really Her. When he’d finished buying Her sunglasses—She’d be real fucking proud, he’d used Amazon without calling Hughie to make him do it—Her voice had been tired and sour around him, but still so slightly amused. Sounding like Her. 

Do you think he watches tentacle porn? 

Ben had frowned into the empty apartment. What the fuck are you talking about. 

The Deep. Do you think he watches tentacle porn? 

I don’t fucking know. Why the hell would I know that. 

You don’t have to actually know, Pretty Boy. You can guess, or offer another type of porn. My vote is tentacle, but if you think there’s another- 

What’s that one you told me about that I couldn’t fucking understand. With the dogs. 

Beastialty? 

No, smartass. With the costumes- 

Oh. Furries.

Ben had nodded at nothing. Is there an ocean version of furries? 

Maybe. I don’t actually know. 

You don’t have to actually know, Sunshine. You can fucking guess- 

Shut up. 

No. 

Benjamin- 

No. 

Fuck you. 

I will. When you get home I’m going to blow your fucking mind. There’s not a single goddamn thing I won’t do to you, not if you ask real fucking nice- 

Not a thing? Are you going to tentacle fuck me? 

Brat. 

Cunt. And there probably are ocean furries. Rule 34 and all. 

What the hell is rule 34.

Her snort had rumbled in Ben’s chest. Oh, that’s going to be so much fun to show you. 

You can just fucking tell me- 

No. I want to see your face, it’s going to be adorable. 

I am not goddamn adorable- 

Yes, you are. You’re downright cute, Benjamin. Deal with it. 

Ben had sighed. You’re lucky I love you. 

Ben, please. Stop saying that. 

No. I fucking love you, and there’s not a goddamn thing that will make me stop loving you- 

Ben- 

His phone had buzzed with a message from Butcher about another A-Train meeting, and Her voice had vanished into the hum of Ben’s heart. He’d smiled at her sleepy face, still his lockscreen because there was not a fucking chance in hell he’d change it now, and left to go hear A-Train list out another bunch of stupid fucking passcodes.

He kept hearing Her. Her voice was only growing stronger, and Ben must miss her somehow more than he’d thought fucking possible because she was always there. 

Benjamin. 

He’d tensed, standing in the shower after returning to his apartment from dinner, and repeated Her name back to her in his head. 

Would you hate it if I asked you out? 

What. 

If I told you I loved you, and asked you out. And don’t say you love me. You’re not allowed to say you love me. 

Shut the fuck up, I’ll tell you I love you as much as I fucking want- 

Ben. Please just answer my question. 

No. 

Benjamin- 

My answer is no. Why the fuck would I hate it if you asked me out. And if you told me you loved me- 

I don’t know. Gender roles? Guys are supposed to ask girls out. 

We’re not fucking children. Let me finish my damn sentence. If you told me you loved me, there wouldn’t be a single fucking thing you could ask of me that I wouldn’t give you. And it doesn’t matter, because as soon as you’re home and safe I’m going to tell you I love you and fuck you stupid. 

Stop saying that- 

No. I’m going to make you cum all over me a hundred times in every single fucking position I can think of. Then I’ll make some new ones, and figure out which ones are your favorite, so I can keep fucking you forever. 

Ben had almost been able to hear that small sound She always made when she was trying to hide how wet he’d gotten her. I’d like that. 

Good. Because it’s fucking happening. The moment you say the word, you’re fucking mine, Sunshine. And if you want to suck my cock, I won’t stop you. 

What a gentleman. I’m one lucky gal, having such a generous… Her voice had trailed off, and Ben had seen her pretty lips falling into a frown. Heard the chew of her cheek. Boyfriend sounds stupid. 

Boyfriend is stupid. Ben had scowled, because boyfriend was too weak a word to describe what he needed to be to Her. And girlfriend was a fucking pathetic thing to call the most perfect woman to ever exist. And I’m not ever going to call you my girlfriend, because we’re fucking adults. 

That’s true, hundred year old men shouldn’t have girlfriends. That’s pretty embarrassing for you.

Brat.

Cunt. There was a beat of silence. What would you call me?

Doesn’t matter, Ben had shrugged, even though She wasn’t real and couldn’t see it. As long as we’re fucking together, I don’t give a shit what we call each other. 

He’d want to call Her his wife. Suddenly he was goddamn certain that, one day, he’d fucking marry that insane and perfect fucking woman. If She’d let him. As Her voice hummed and faded away again, Ben decided that whatever she’d give him he’d take. He’d ask, at the right times, what she wanted. If it was everything he wanted. But if she didn’t—she might never want exactly what Ben wanted, not with Homelander as a stain on her head—Ben would genuinely be fucking fine. Not Her type of fine, where she just didn’t want to talk about how much everything was hurting Her, but just fine. As long as She was with him, Ben would be fine. 

His dreams were getting fucking horrible again. He’d wake up from nightmares filled with blood, unable to breathe with Her voice in his head. 

Blood. So much blood. I don’t have time to clean all this blood- 

Breathe, Sunshine. He’d glare into the dark, because even if She wasn’t real it was fucking painful to hear her voice so afraid and weak. Just fucking breathe. 

There’s blood, Ben. It’s everywhere, and it’s not mine, and I miss you. I miss you so much- 

Wear blue, and I’ll come fucking get you, right now. 

No, I’m so close. I can’t. 

Then breathe. 

Ben’s own heart had slowed, and his own breathing became even. 

Thank you. Her voice had whispered, right in his ear. He could almost feel Her soft hand, gently tracing his jaw in the dark. I’m sorry. 

Shut the fuck up. Don’t ever thank me, or apologize. 

Please- 

No. I don’t want it. I want you home, because I fucking miss you. Nothing else. 

Okay. Silence, then. I’ll see you soon. 

He’d sighed into the dark, and stared up at the high ceiling. He’d forgotten to turn off the bathroom lamps, and there was light leaking under the door of their empty bedroom. I’ll see you soon.

They were still looking for V. A-Train had given them a list of warehouses and Vought storage spaces, so right now Ben’s job was to comb over them with Butcher, Hughie, and the French Prick for clues. There were hundreds of warehouses and cargo ports and underground bunkers, and Hughie kept finding fucking more. There was one in Sacramento that A-Train had claimed was full of V, but Hughie couldn’t find it on any records. It had seemingly disappeared off the face of the damn planet. There were fifty more like it, a lot of others in fucking places like New Orleans and Austin that held supe gear, and several in Akron and Portland and Chicago that were label miscellaneous. They’d kept Ben’s shield there. In a fucking miscellaneous warehouse. 

“This is getting us fucking nowhere,” he muttered, crumpling another paper in his hand as Her voice turned back to an easy song in his head. “It doesn’t fucking matter where Vought kept them. Sage would fucking hide anything she didn’t destroy.” 

“You got a better fuckin idea, Gov?” Butcher snapped, not looking up from his own papers. “We ain’t got much to go on, we’re doin the best with the shit we’ve got.”

“Our best is fucking dogshit-“ 

“Maybe it’s offsite?” Hughie paused his tapping of the computer. “Vought has, like, a lot of shell companies, right? Maybe Sage moved it there, off of any records.” 

Butcher nodded slowly. “Frenchie-“

The French Prick sighed. “I will go tell MM.”

“What about Homelander,” Ben grunted, frowning at Hughie. “Are you looking where he’d keep it?” 

“We can’t be sure he has any-“ 

“He does.” Ben’s snap was cold. “He might be the one keeping it offsite, where Sage can’t fucking find it.” 

“Lad, he’s ain’t totally fuckin wrong,” Butcher glanced up and Hughie with narrow eyes. “Homelander ain’t tryin to hide it from just the CIA, he’s tryin to hide it from everyone. And Vought’s his fuckin playground. He might be keepin it wherever he damn pleases.”

Hughie sighed. “Maybe, but I can’t check that without the list of shell companies.” 

“Do your fucking braking shit,” Ben scowled. “Isn’t that your whole fucking thing-“ 

“It’s hacking, not braking. And it’s not my whole thing-“ 

Hughie cut himself off as the Kid pushed into the dining hall. 

“Is it pizza night?” He sat next to Butcher, right across from Ben. “I know it’s early, but I’m really hungry-“

“It’s Friday, ain’t it?” Butcher started to pull his papers into his chest, shoving them down to Hughie. “And we can eat early. We’re the cunts in charge of ourselves.”

Ben returned his papers to Hughie as well, because this wasn’t going to do fucking shit. There wouldn’t be V anywhere, Sage was too smart of a bitch to leave it lying around. Ben could eat dinner, and then hang over Hughie’s shoulder until the man proved himself fucking useful.

He ate Her favorite type of pizza. He’d been eating Her favorite type of pizza, because it reminded him of Her. Of her smile and the soft look on Her perfect face when Ben would get it without her asking. She didn’t need to ask. Ben knew everything about Her that he needed to in order to keep her happy. It was how he was able to answer all of the Kid’s questions, and usually that knowledge would make his heart a little slower. Make Ben feel a little more at ease that She be safe and happy with him. That there was at least one way in which he was deserving of Her. But tonight his heart was going a mile a damn minute and he couldn’t fucking figure out why. He felt like something was choking him, like every nerve in his body was burning and he was cold. The pizza was warm, the dining hall was warm, but Ben felt cold. And it only got worse and worse. He felt fucking sick, something felt wrong. The longer the night went on, everyone having joined them to eat and talk about anything but the mission—a recently imposed rule by MM after Butcher had said the words supe jizz might have fuckin V in it and everyone had lost their appetites—the worse Ben felt. He was dying. Everything fucking hurt and he felt like he was going to fucking collapse- 

The whole room lit up red, and deafening alarms started to sound through the building. Ben and Butcher were up first, MM and Annie close behind them as they stormed to the door. 

“What’s going on-“ 

“Stay right fuckin there, Ryan.” Butcher roared, and the Kid froze in his steps. “Hughie, don’t let him out of your sight. Everyone else-“ 

“We don’t know what’s going on, Butcher.” Annie’s words were loud, but unsure. Ben could even fucking hear her heart racing over the sirens. “It might just be a fire drill-“ 

“We ain’t supposed to be hooked up to the drills,” Butcher snapped, pounding the wall and opening a full fucking arsenal panel. Someone should’ve told Ben about that sooner. “And we ain’t supposed to get alerts unless it’s defcon 1. It might be-“ 

“It’s not Homelander,” MM held up his phone. “I’ve got a Google alert on the fucker, he was just in France-“ 

Ben caught the gun Butcher was tossing to him. “It’s fucking something.” He grunted. “Something’s real fucking wrong. Get a gun and start moving.” 

MM frowned. “How the hell do you know-“ 

The doors burst open, and one of those pussy fucking agents—the man—yelped as five gun’s clicked with barrels aimed at his head. 

“Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot-“

“What the fuck is going on,” Ben didn’t try to make his voice nice or kind. Something was going on, he’d never felt this type of goddamn suffering in his life, and when he’d paused for just a second he’d realized Her voice was gone. It wasn’t humming softly around in his head and heart anymore. It was just fucking pain. 

“Soldier Boy, sir, I’m sorry to bother you but-“

“Fucking talk!” Ben roared, his ribs starting to cave in. “Stop pussying around and use your goddamn words-“ 

The agent shouted Her name, and the gun broke in Ben’s hand. “She’s in the lobby, but nobody can touch her-“ 

Ben didn’t wait to hear more. She was in the lobby. The sky felt like it was fucking falling and Ben couldn’t really see beyond something red lining his vision, but She was fucking here. He was sprinting down the hall, and into the elevator with Annie, Kimiko, and somehow Butcher the only ones managing to keep up. His fists were clenching and unclenching, nobody was daring to fucking speak, and as the elevator started to drop the pain began to subside. Like it knew he was getting closer. It knew She was home. 

The elevator had barely dinged before Ben was out of it, ripping through the metal with his hands. They hadn’t stopped in the lobby—they’d stopped three or four levels above—and people were trying to get on. Scrambling forwards, then falling back with surprised sounds as Ben pushed past them. All of them looked fucking afraid, like they were running from something. 

There was an overlook into the main lobby. The first seven floors had hallways that wrapped around the entrance, and Ben had a feeling that if he just kept walking towards what everyone else was fleeing from, he’d get there. Butcher and Annie were calling after him, but Ben didn’t fucking care. She was so fucking close, he had to fucking get to Her-

He heard Her screams first. They were raw noised of pure fucking pain, and she was probably trying to fucking say something. Ben could only hear his blood in his ears, and hHr screams, and her heartbeat. Fast and wild and pounding out of her chest.

Ben could hear Her heartbeat. That was Her heartbeat. He’d recognize it underwater and in deep space and buried twenty feet under the ground. It had made him turn around at the Believe Expo, because he’d have just kept walking and telling Her voice to stop torturing him with ideas that she might be there, but he’d heard her heartbeat. And this was Her fucking heartbeat.

She was alone, curled into Herself in the center of the lobby. Ben could finally fucking see Her, four floors below him, collapsed on her knees and screaming. Covered in blood, clothing scorched, and fucking screaming. Everyone was either fleeing, passed out in an odd pattern across the floor, or watching with wide-eyes from a wide circle that had formed around Her. Nobody was helping Her. Why was nobody fucking helping Her- 

She wasn’t looking at him. She wasn’t looking at anyone, her eyes screwed shut as she screamed again. It was the worst fucking sound Ben had even heard. He needed to fucking get to Her, now. He’d survive the jump down, he wouldn’t even fucking feel it. He took a step back, readying to go, go to Her, he’d wasted too much fucking time and he had to get to Her, but a small hand yanked him back. 

“What the fuck-“ 

Kimiko was glaring at him, pointing at the people scattered around Her and signing something Ben couldn’t fucking understand. 

“I need to help her-“ 

She shook her head, gesturing to the weak, knocked out pussies on the floor. 

“They’re not fucking burned, there’s not even any fucking fire. And I’d fucking survive it anyway-“

“It ain’t fire, Gov.” Butcher was out of breath, shoving his way forward with a glower at Ben. “If you hadn’t just bloody run, you’d have heard what’s goin on.” 

“If you pussies don’t let me go and shut the fuck up, I’ll fucking kill you-“ 

“It’s the empathy!” Annie was right behind Butcher, her voice desperate. Below, She screamed again and Ben died a little bit. “People were trying to help her, but they kept screaming and collapsing. There’s not any fire, she just,” Annie’s eyes landed on Her, flinching as She screamed. “They’re feeling Her. Anyone who goes too close to Her feels whatever she’s feeling.” 

“And they’re all fuckin passing out from it, Gov.” Butcher sighed, shaking his head. “We just got to let her tire herself out, if anyone gets just a little too bloody close they’ll-“ 

There was not a chance in goddamn hell Ben was going to wait. She was here, she was home, he was done fucking waiting. If he felt that pain, or passed out, or even fucking died, at least it would’ve been to get to Her. 

He yanked his hand away from Kimiko, sending her stumbling backwards, and jumped down to the lobby. 

The floor cracked under him, and Ben braced himself for the pain. To roar and scream like she was and fucking crawl to Her if he had to. 

Nothing came. There was a dull kind of ache, but no pain. Everything that hurt was the noise of the alarms and the horrible sound of Her screams. He took a careful step, closer, and still nothing. Another, and the alarms and gathered crowd fell into the background. Her heartbeat was louder, and it was all Ben could hear. Everyone could fucking watch with stupid pussy gapes, all that mattered was Her. 

Her eyes were still closed, and when she screamed again he heard the words, running from her blood into his. 

Ben. 

He ran. It took two, bounding and powerful strides to grab Her. Hold Her in his arms. To fall to his knees at Her side, and pull her up into his chest.

Her screams stopped. Ben cradled Her head in his hand, his other squeezing her waist to make sure She was fucking real. He felt a flash of something boundless, something infinite and indestructible, and then she passed out. 

Ben carried Her to medical. He wanted to carry her to bed, to let her just rest, but he had to make sure she was okay. That someone with a pussy fucking degree would look at Her and tell Ben she’d be ok. Everyone was parting around then, and Ben didn’t give a fuck. She was in his arms, and everything was going to be okay. 

They gave Her a bed. Every doctor on the staff popped their head in—Ben thought they might be drawing straws for who’s turn it was to check on Her—and the French Prick came in with a vial of a golden liquid, attaching it to Her IV. 

“The fuck are you doing,” Ben grunted, but didn’t move from Her side. He’d pulled a chair up beside Her, and wasn’t going to fucking leave until her eyes opened. Until She could look at him and say she was okay. She was going to be okay. She had to be fucking okay. And if she wasn’t, Ben had to know that so he could figure out how to help. If he could fix it or heal it or just had to stay there, at Her side until she smiled. Whatever it fucking took.

“It is a suppressant.” The French Prick glanced at Ben’s scowl. “It will not hurt her. It will help.”

“How.”

“We do not know what will happen when she awakens. This will make sure people other than yourself can approach her safely.” 

Ben nodded slowly, looking back at Her face. Perfect, at complete ease in her sleep. “Fine.” 

Then it was just them again. Ben’s hand was in hers—nobody could make him stop touching Her with a fucking nuke of Sage’s gas pointed to his chest—and she was sighing in Her sleep. 

Perfect.

He loved Her more than the whole fucking universe, and he wouldn’t be able to tell her that when she woke up. When Her eyes opened, it was going to have to be about her. Ben would have to fucking swallow the words, and tell her he loved her when she was ready to hear it. When he was convinced beyond a doubt she’d be okay, and that she’d keep smiling at him no matter what she felt for him. She wouldn’t leave him. She adored him. Even in her fucking sleep her fingers had twined themselves into his, and Ben had never been more certain of anything or anyone. He was certain he loved Her. He was certain he didn’t deserve her, but that his whole fucking life from here on out was going to be about earning her. This was all about Her now. 

Everything was Her. 

And Ben couldn’t say it where She could hear him. But he had to say it, now, or he’d explode. 

“I wanted to hate you,” he started in a low voice, watching Her eyes flutter in sleep. Perfect. “I should’ve fucking hated you, and I really goddamn wanted to. You seemed like everything I fucking despised. People who think they’re better than me because they’re too weak to see the gray of the world. People who sit in ivory fucking towers and think they’re worth more because they’re smarter than me. People who think they deserve to tell me what to do, pussies who are too fucking good for anything.” He sighed. “I really fucking tried to hate you. It would’ve been easier. Made this stupid shit so much fucking easier. But you can never make anything easy, can you Sunshine. You have to be the most beautiful fucking pain in my ass all the goddamn time.” 

She shifted slightly, heart still slow and steady, and Ben smiled. “You wouldn’t fucking stop proving me wrong. You don’t think you’re better than me, you are better than me. You’re better than fucking every sorry pussy in the world. You see all the gray, but you still keep doing good things, and that’s so fucking hard to do. I’ve been trying to, for you, and Christ, it’s exhausting. But you just do it, like there’s no other option. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever fucking met, and you’re fucking funny, and you never think you’re better. You explain everything you say if someone asks, and you’re not nice about it, but you do. You love answering questions, you love people, and I don’t fucking get it. I don’t fucking understand how you’re so fucking perfect, and why you couldn’t just let me hate you. Why you couldn’t just be a fucking bitch, why you kept smiling at me and laughing with me.” She hummed in her sleep, and Ben reached a hand out. Brushing his thumb along Her cheek. “You’re so good, Sunshine. I couldn’t hate you, because you’re just good. You’re too good for everything, but you’d never lord it over anyone. You’re the most beautiful woman in history, and you’re a goddamn brat, and I could never really fucking hate you.” He felt a lump form in his throat, and She leaned into his hand. “I love you.” He sighed Her name, listening to the easy sound of Her heartbeat. “I love you. You burn, I burn, and I fucking love you.” 

She was safe. 

She was home. 

Ben loved Her, and they were going to be okay.

End Note:  Can you guys tell I’m a whore for Chekov’s Gun? We did it squad. She's home. Thank you all for sticking through the darkest part (there WILL be more angst, but like. hurt/comfort. Lined with fluff and character growth that doesn't make us want to die), and every form of support you've shown me. You guys are the best, and I'm very sorry for doing that to you. See you soon!

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[akkivee]

something i like about stage canon is that with the sasasama duet from track 5, it lends itself to the assumption that after their break up the next time samatoki saw sasara was thru radio as he climbed up to stardom and it validates my hc that media was how samatoki found out sasara was just fine without him lol

[aventurineswife]

Aww, no more Yor!Reader? Well, I guess it would have been overdone eventually. 😅

How about I share an idea instead about Reader acting as a lawyer/legal consult for Aventurine? (Bouncing off of my friend’s recent obsession with lawyer characters lol.)

So, Reader is a lawyer studying the laws of various worlds. Their work laptop is full of legal texts and documents, which they use to keep track of information gained and help make sure Aventurine doesn’t step too hard on someone’s toes. coughsunliketopazonbelobogcoughs

Reader is also partially the reason why Aventurine was able to get away with attacking the Astral Express — by taking his and Ratio’s witness accounts of their “meeting” with Sunday and the power of the Order being forced on Aventurine to brainwash him on threat of death within 17 hours. (I know I saw a post pointing out how Sunday basically broke diplomatic immunity by doing this, tho I can’t remember who. 🫠) Who can say for sure that Aventurine threatening to detonate a Stellaron wasn’t the result of (him struggling against) the Order influencing him? Reader can even point out that if the Family tried to go after Aventurine, Sunday’s actions coupled with the Family’s lying about death being impossible in the Dreamscape would be grounds for a counter lawsuit.

Emphasis on Reader partially being why Aventurine got away with his gamble. Even without Reader being Aventurine’s lawyer, the IPC’s got a fuck ton of money. 😅 Reader being there just makes things a lot faster and more convenient.

Reader’s pissed about Aventurine gambling his life like that, tho. 💀

“I TOLD YOU TO BE CAREFUL WHEN DEALING WITH [ACHERON] AND WHATAYA DO?! YOU GET FUCKING HAM-SLICED AND YEETED INTO A BLACK HOLE!!!!! 💢💢💢”

“Objection! Gambling with Your Life is Not a Legal Strategy!”

Summary: You find yourself grappling with the aftermath of Aventurine’s latest reckless escapade—one involving ham-slicing, black holes, and intergalactic legal battles. As his ever-resourceful and exasperated legal advisor, you’re left to clean up the mess while Aventurine, the ever-smug gambler and IPC executive, teases you with his charm. Beneath the banter, a glimpse of sincerity from Aventurine leaves you questioning whether there’s more to him than his reckless bravado.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Crackfic, Lawyer!Reader, Dubious Morality, Fluff and Angst, Overworked (and probably underpaid or not) Reader, Banter and Wit, Slow-Burn Romance (implied), Reader Yelling at Aventurine (deserved tbh).

Warnings: Mild language (Reader vents a lot), Legal jargon overload, Brief mentions of violence and manipulation, Reader and Aventurine arguing, Crack-level absurdity in legal scenarios, Aventurine's traumatic backstory hinted at but not deeply explored.

A/N: Thank you for your understanding 🙏💖 and I hope you like this! This may be a bit ooc and I mostly have forgotten a lot of things so yeah🧍‍♀️

You glared at Aventurine from behind your laptop, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you typed out yet another damage control memo. The smug blond executive lounged across from you in his plush office chair, one leg draped lazily over the armrest. His perpetual grin was as infuriating as ever, even with fresh bandages peeking out from the collar of his shirt.

"Really, darling," he drawled, twirling his peacock-feather earring, "I think you're overreacting. Things turned out splendidly, didn’t they? I'm still here, the Stellaron didn’t detonate, and Sunday's little 'dream empire' has a massive PR disaster on their hands. All thanks to your impeccable legal wizardry, might I add."

You slammed your laptop shut with enough force to make him flinch. "Splendidly?! You were HAM-SLICED, Aventurine. HAM. SLICED. And then YEETED INTO A BLACK HOLE! Do you even comprehend how many laws of physics, ethics, and basic sanity you violated in a single day?"

He chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "But you saved me, didn’t you? My charming legal champion, swooping in with airtight arguments and enough loopholes to make the Family’s lawyers cry."

"Don’t you dare flatter me right now." You jabbed a finger at him, your other hand pointing to the stack of legal briefs on your desk. "Do you know how hard it is to defend you when you keep pulling stunts like that? I had to argue in front of three intergalactic tribunals that Sunday's Dreamscape Order literally brainwashed you into threatening a Stellaron detonation!"

Aventurine leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "And you did it flawlessly. Honestly, I should hire you full-time. Leave that dusty legal research behind and become my personal strategist. Think of the fun we’d have!"

"Fun?" you repeated, incredulous. "FUN?! Watching you gamble your life away every other Tuesday isn’t my idea of fun, Kakavasha."

His grin faltered for the briefest moment at the mention of his real name, but he recovered quickly, standing and striding over to your desk. "You know I can’t resist a good gamble," he said softly, his voice unusually earnest. "It’s who I am. But having you there… knowing you’ve got my back? That’s the only reason I can keep playing the game."

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity. "That’s… disturbingly sweet," you muttered. "But it doesn’t excuse the fact that you’re reckless, irresponsible, and—"

"Charming?" he offered with a wink.

"Infuriating," you finished, swatting his hand away as he tried to steal one of your pens. "Now sit down and let me finish drafting this counter-lawsuit. If Sunday or the Family tries to come after you again, I want them buried so deep in legal hell they’ll be begging for the black hole treatment."

Aventurine laughed, a genuine, unguarded sound that made your chest tighten in a way you refused to examine. "You’re one of a kind, [Name]. I don’t deserve you, but I’m keeping you anyway."

"You don’t have me," you shot back, ignoring the warmth creeping up your neck. "I’m just here to make sure you don’t get sued—or sliced—again."

"Of course," he said smoothly, settling back into his chair with a self-satisfied smirk. "But I’ll win you over eventually. It’s only a matter of time."

You rolled your eyes and reopened your laptop, trying to focus on your work. But as you typed out another legal argument to shield Aventurine from his latest bout of insanity, you couldn’t quite suppress the smile tugging at your lips.

Maybe he wasn’t entirely unbearable.

[toaarcan]

I know this discourse is going to start flaring up again because Takes Off just released, and I've seen bits of it already, but the point of Scott Pilgrim as a series is not that Scott has to go through character development and stop being an ass in order to 'win' the girl of his dreams.

It's that Scott and Ramona are two fundamentally very similar people with a long list of exes who they hurt in very similar ways and they both need to stop that and grow as people in order to have a healthy relationship with each other.

This is highlighted mostly in Books 4-6. Volume 4, Scott Pilgrim Gets it Together, has Scott and Ramona's relationship hit a low point because they both mistake the other for cheating. Ramona thinks Scott is getting too chummy with Lisa, and Scott thinks the same about Ramona and Roxie, and they nearly fall apart because of it.

Volume 5, Scott Pilgrim vs. the Universe, contrasts Ramona finding out that Scott two-timed her and Knives and becoming outraged by it, and Scott being told that Ramona did the same thing to Kyle and Ken. In fact, Scott almost loses to the Katyanagis, and only manages to pull out a win because Kim lies about Ramona having off-screen growth to give him enough motivation to fight back.

And it's in Volume 6, Scott Pilgrim's Finest Hour, that this finally gets hammered home. In the aftermath of his and Ramona's breakup, Scott slips into a self-destructive depression where all he does it sit around the house and play old videogames, until Wallace convinces him to go into the wilderness to find his feet again. After Ramona returns, she reveals that she attempted to go into the wilderness and find her footing again, but all she did was sit around her dad's house and watch old TV.

They're so similar to each other that they even mope in the same general way.

They're both hot messes who did some dodgy stuff, the major difference between them is that most of the people Scott hurt were, y'know, relatively normal, while Ramona's exes are mostly crazy people who decided to join up with a "League of Evil Exes" whose main goal is apparently "Murder any of Ramona's future partners and take her back by force."

The books are relatively light on details for how the League actually worked, but it's clear from the second episode of Takes Off that all of them besides Gideon believed that whomever killed Ramona's new partner would automatically be with her again, and they're shocked when Matthew tells them that she rejected him. Meanwhile, Gideon's overall objective wasn't elaborated on in the show, but it's presumably the same as it is in the books: Cryogenically freeze his own seven exes, Ramona included, and use the Glow to brainwash them all into being his girlfriends at the same time.

In Takes Off, Ramona is able to mostly resolve her issues with the Exes herself, over the course of her investigation into who took Scott and faked his death, but the overall difference between the book timeline and the show timeline is that one spotlights Scott's growth, and the other spotlights Ramona's growth.

They're perfect for each other, and it's because they're both hot messes who need to grow the hell up before they can have healthy adult relationships.

[animefreak1145]

Rest(Adler x Bell!Reader)

Summary: You’re here only because of what you heard about Russ. Out from the shadows of another life Adler carefully constructed for you(with a few edits with your own hand) back into the fold. You immediately tracking him down to Bulgaria in those months(because of course he doesn’t want you involved, that arrogant bastard of a man), doing your best to help him out this pit of a trap that he’s pinned in. That someone else pinned on him.

They’re dead once you figure it out.

(Or where you discover that you and Case don’t work well together. You despise mirrors being thrust onto you.)

| Only hints to imply how Bell is alive and being a secret throughout the story. Nothing clear cut. Fill the lines yourselves. |

Created with @makeyourpeacenow. Cross posted on AO3

Words: 24k

Tags/Warnings: Post-The Final Countdown Mission | Solovetsky Ending, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Angst, Action/Adventure, Drama & Romance, Codependency, Bell and Adler are obsessed with each other, Everyone is concerned about the psychos, Mostly Marshall, Manipulation, Mind Games, Bell does it this time, Adler too of course, Reader-Insert, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Mild Smut, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Older Man/Younger Woman, Character Study, Case Deserves Love, Bell too, Justice for Case and Bell, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault but not true, Mind Regression, Hallucinations, Cognitive Dissonance

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You tried to go solo at first, picking up the crumbs of the bread trail Russell had left you. 

Finding Rook was no easy feat, but it’s not a discovery you find worth celebrating, not as the circumstances stood. Commotion from down the cliff-hugging road had driven you into the bunker, derelict as the rest of the house. Unaware of who had arrived, friendly or otherwise, had left you with little choice but to corner yourself there. 

Your only reassurance was the old soviet-tech surveillance that you nearly managed to reconfigure, the familiarity of it nearly foreign as you worked to fix it, mentally cursing whatever idiot had wired the home in such a convoluted way. 

Audio… online. 

It was gritty, the audio cracking through the old speakers in a volume that nearly had you jump—of course the headphones you plugged in weren’t picked up by the system. 

Your heart skipped a beat when you heard it. Woods. 

Right. Friendly, then. Other voices, too, but you didn’t care much for that. It’s enough for you to holster your firearm and to work up the nerve to crawl out of the bunker you’d isolated yourself in.  

You didn’t cower at the gun that trained on you, opting for an unimpressed quirk of your eyebrow. The young man wasted no time in dragging you before Woods. Later, you’ll discover his name is Marshall, Troy Marshall. 

The shock on Woods’ face when he saw you was paralleled by your own. 

Your equal shock at seeing Woods, all movement and loud and free, being stuck in a chair and more reserved must’ve snapped him out of it.

“What the actual fuck?! Bell?! Is that you?!”

You winced, your hands that were raised moving slightly so you could put a finger to your ear. “You’re still loud. Knocking any extra mannequins on the floor with that tank of yours?” 

Woods stared before letting out a guffaw, hand slapping to his head.

“It is you, you little shit. What happened to not a word?”

Your lips quirked, teasing as Marshall and Case looked at each other in confusion.

“I feel I can get a break. The whole dead thing breaks off smalltime deals, I think.”

“But you’re not.” Woods straightened in his chair, and you spot just how quickly his mind was working while you assessed one another. “Adler has a shit ton of explaining to do.” Woods glanced towards Marshall and Case whose guns remained trained on you, quick to inject levity into the situation. “What are you doing? This isn’t a fuckin’ cowboy-duel. Put your guns away, trigger fingers!”

Marshall hesitated, allowing himself to tear his eyes from you, glancing at Woods while Case lowered his firearm, postponing holstering until he could properly grasp the situation.

“Are we supposed to know who this is, old man? This isn’t Sevati.” Marshall looked at you, brows pinching as he tried to figure you out. You could spot where his heart is without him even having to say his next words. “Did Adler send you here too? For Pantheon?”

Your brows relaxed at the verbal confirmation, friendly. Definitely friendly.

“You can say that,” you nodded, shrugging your shoulders casually.

Marshall’s brows only pinched more as Case merely tilted his head at you, quiet. “It either is or isn’t. Who are you?”

Oh no. You’re having fun.

You smiled sardonically, hands moving to your hips as Woods sighed.

“Depends who calls.” You could spot the young man’s growing irritation while the other only continued to assess you, not taking his eyes off of you. You met the quiet man’s eyes, something pulling you to. It felt familiar. “You can call me by my name.” You offered your name before looking to the side out the window, the Black Sea unusually quiet. “My friends call me Bell.”

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It pissed you off that you couldn’t be involved in grabbing team members. Woods had torn into you when you complained, accused you of not being companionable enough to those that had yet to earn your trust. You’d only huffed then, and muttered something about how Woods had really stepped into the mentor role. He used to hate rookies, called them fuckin’ idiots due to their inexperience. 

You’d been stuck with Woods who was trying, and struggling, to pick up the pieces of what happened in the last decade. You were good at skimping on the details, stubborn as always. 

Although, you also supposed you only had Woods to truly talk to about any of this, decade and now. You’d only given him tidbits. More than what you would say to the others, but less than what he wanted.

There was a look in Woods eyes that he’s not satisfied with your answers but it seems he’s still nosy for another useless question. You could feel his stare burning your head from the other side of the room from where you worked, computers open, routes mapped out for where they’ll go in to get Adler.

“Can you spit it out already, Woods?”

“Thanks,” Woods sarcastically spat before you heard him lower his beer bottle on the table by his cot. “How long you’ve been fucking the bastard?”

You startled, ears turning hot even as you turned your chair to look at him in a mix of askance and disgust. You hadn’t forgotten how coarse he could be, but it didn’t soften the blow each time he reminded you. 

“Woods!”

“What?! I’m just asking!” Woods raised his hands as if to surrender, but he clearly liked getting a rise out of you. Just like old times, always through Adler. “I thought the fucker would be icy for his whole life, but all he needed was someone like you to match his psycho.”

You turned your body back to the computer, throwing him the finger as you grumbled while he only laughed.

“You’re so nosy,” you remarked, your tone tainted with a sliver of disbelief. “You’ve turned into a gossip in your old age, old man.”

“That’s uncalled for.”

You went back to reviewing the map after a roll of your eyes. Near silence, save for the sound of glass against wood each time Woods took a drink and rested the bottle on the table. You were starting to feel your brow twitch in annoyance, you could hardly work when you knew he was there, undoubtedly staring at you for your attention. 

“I didn’t realize you were so prissy when it comes to Adler.”

“Oh my God,” you groaned under your hands, rubbing your temples. “Your ‘kids’ need to hurry up and bring these people in before they find your dead body on that chair.”

“You got something against disabled vets?” It was so sudden, so out of the blue, that you pulled a face at the absurdity of his words.

You turned, ever so slowly in your chair, gobsmacked. Eyes wide.

“What?”

“Prejudiced.”

Your exasperation was growing as you shook your head at him. Woods who had the special ability on how to pull your leg.

 “I’d be prejudiced if I—if I didn’t kill you for your constant poking and prodding like I would for anyone else… !”

Woods looked up in mock thought.

“I don’t know. Still sounds prejudiced to me.”

“I’m going to ignore you now,” you finally said, undignified, and turned back to your work.

“You can try,” he warned with jest. Maybe it was the alcohol, or that fact that was just you and him in the safehouse, but he seemed lighter than he had been before. Looser. “But you got a decade’s worth to catch up on me fucking with ya. It’s a lot to work with.”

You clicked a little louder on the keyboard, your fingers a little more forceful than necessary.

That Marshall and Case needed to hurry up. 

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Case found that the woman, ‘Bell,’ was… interesting. Mysterious.

Her answers were short each time he asked a question, tight-lipped in an annoying yet smooth way. Her eyes were either cooly assessing or seeming to have found him funny somehow, while other times she appeared bewildered by him. He wasn’t sure why.

He first noticed her analysis of him immediately when they met her. He dismissed it at first; he was used to people trying to figure him out, being scrutinized under a microscope. Yet somehow… it was disconcerting—messing with his head. From how she’d tilted her head at him when he denied treatment for the blow to his head—courtesy of Sevati’s part of the deal—to now when he’d asked what she thought of Adler.

“...you’re odd,” Bell stated by the computers to the wall near Felix’s own desk. The remark had been rather abrupt, Case could only blink.

“That’s rude,” Felix said, typing away behind his green shades. “At least that’s what others say when I also point out the obvious.”

“You think I’m odd?” He didn’t know why; he thought he was fairly normal. (Better.) “What makes you say that?”

Bell only pressed her lips together, frowning at him.

“I hear from Woods you’re pretty calm,” she started tamely, and Case agreed with the sentiment. He was calm. “Quiet. A good shot. Nearly invincible at times. Although, I don’t call your head being cracked by a butt of the pistol, invincible. You’ve been with Marshall for years.”

“Yes, and?” Case poked. He didn’t see the point in her statements, if there was any.

“And nothing. That’s it. You don’t talk about much else, even to your longtime friend.” Bell pointed at him, motioning all around his body from down to up. “Odd.”

Case decided to leave her and move on to talk to Felix. Her eyes never seeming to leave him even after he left the room to find Marshall and talk. Marshall never looked at him like there was something to be seen, something hidden to be unearthed. Just there.

Just Case.

It was only later on in the day, that Case found himself with the same observation Bell had of him, towards her. “What are you doing?”

Bell was crouching near Woods’ chest, seeming to stare intently at a certain item Case couldn’t see from the angle he’d stood at—just at the entrance of the room with the evidence board. He was torn between averting his gaze to avoid staring at her behind untowardly and scrutinizing her snooping.

Bell turned around and gave Case a dry look. “Well aren’t you nosy,” she remarked, supplying another one of those non-answers that she’d perfected.

Case’s brows pinched, incredulous of the hypocritical nature of it. “Are you self-aware?”

“I don’t know. Are you? You trail back to every conversation there is in this house.” 

“… not every one.” That wasn’t the point. “You shouldn’t look through people’s stuff.”

“Uh huh. I’m just… making sure of something.” Case noted the slight upturn of Bell’s lip, an imperceptible smile at the little picture with Woods and the recently deceased operative, Alex Mason. The moment was over before Case could properly comprehend it, and Bell stood, crossing her arms at Case. “You look through people’s stuff too.”

“Your accusations are baseless.”

“Uh huh...” If possible, the woman even looked more unimpressed with him than before. Something in him bristled. He held it back. Like always. “You normally look through Marshall’s drawings and people’s files in their own rooms or do they happen to just fall in front of you?”

Case eyes slightly narrowed, tilting his head. 

“Are you watching me?”

Bell shrugged.

“Someone has to. Especially somebody who claims he isn’t nosy. And odd. I’ll give you this, you don’t have good tracking skills like I do when it comes to information.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” He kept the air nonchalant, blasé with his raised eyebrows and dubious look. 

“That’s what I’m calling it. I’ll let you get back to your little chase, Case.” Bell snickered before leaving the room.

Case remained standing, looking down at himself in quiet thought.

Am I really that nosy?

It happened again, right after they arrived and achieved in getting Adler back to the Rook.

Case was in the room where he was certain Adler had been residing, whilst the man was downstairs with Bell, organizing for Iraq—if their mild arguing could be called that. (Case lost interest when it seemed they were going in circles over Bell’s role in all this. Rare for him, losing interest. But something in Case… pricked at how Bell watched him. Like he was ready to turn, and she was prepared to pounce and bite his neck once he does). Bell not touching the room since they’ve been here, it made Case wonder once more at their relationship; Woods had painted it like they were Bonnie and Clyde. He already fiddled with the voice recording earlier, now he was trying to see what kind of medicine a man like the infamous Russell Adler took and what exactly he was hiding to need to cover the label. And to take it with whiskey as a shot.

“Good luck finding anything here.”

Case jumped, his eyes darting from the medicine on the bedside table to Bell leaning at a doorway.

She looked around as if she hadn’t said anything, eyes trailing over the room in mild concentration.

“He keeps his room clean. Any possible information you can gather from what you can see is because he’s letting you look, everything else is hidden; I haven’t had time to check the boards or the walls.”

“...I’m not trying to get information about Adler.”

Bell finally faced Case, eyes cool as she tilted her head, a nonplussed “Oh?” being released from her lips, carefully expressionless. 

Dangerous, Case supplied in his mind. He could see the threat of teeth, a bite worse than her bark.

“I was just taking a look,” he admitted, unashamed. His curiosity was only surface level, anyway. Bored. If they told him to stop, he would. “I wasn’t planning to dig around more than what’s already out to be seen.”

Bell raised a brow.

“You’re… polite. Still nosy. Though, not as nosy as me; I dig until I’m satisfied.”

Case didn’t quite understand Bell’s play, he only knew there was one. “You know everything about Adler, then? Is he trustworthy?” Maybe she’d answer now.

“You tell me. And not what Marshall repeats to you. You’ve seen him in action now. What do you actually think of America’s Monster, Russell Adler? Not Woods. Not Marshall. Not Sev. Not even Felix. You, Case.”

“Is this… a test of some sort?”

“Yes. You’re failing so far,” Bell said simply.

Case tried to think of what he gathered since he first saw the man to what he’d observed around the safehouse.

“… he’s capable. Knowledgeable. Seems to have good camaraderie with Woods, so he cares for those he knows. Appreciates loyalty. Secretive as you’ve said. I… have so far not seen what others say about him. For that moniker.”

“It’s gonna scare you off if you see it?”

Case’s brows furrowed.

“Why would it? He does everything for a reason surely. Not baseless.”

Bell blinked and the cool look in her eyes disappeared before she seemed to look at him in a new light. He couldn’t tell whether or not he’d displeased her yet.

“Careful, Case. You shouldn’t follow him baselessly.” 

“Don’t you?” Case quipped.

Bell smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. Displeasure, then.

“I know what goes on in his head, you don’t. You have no reason to blindly follow someone like him. You need to be careful who you take orders from, or you’ll find your own moniker slapped on your face.”

“What would that be?”

“Case the Doormat, that’s what.” Bell snapped. Case wasn’t sure where this was coming from. He was having a hard time reading her; was she upset at him for willingly following her lover? Frustrated? Jealous? Something else? “You need to stick with your own morals and ways and not whoever you’re around. Pick someone to shadow and at least commit to it.”

“I follow whoever gives the order at the time.”

Bell’s brows furrowed, and Case could see she was analyzing him again. Turning over what whatever information she saw with each word he intoned. Every twitch of muscles and shuffle of his feet.

Dangerous, a voice said in his head.

“The Perfect Soldier type. Not used to someone like you. Follow all and loyal to none. What would Marshall say?”

“Marshall is my friend, I’ll do what he wants.”

“Right. But say you’re not near Marshall. He’s not in the team. You’re his friend so you know how Marshall sees things. How he works. Friends usually have the same moral code or views. So,” Bell finally stepped away from the doorway and took a step towards Case. “If you were ordered to do something the exact opposite of what Marshall would do, would you do it?”

She was trying hard to make sense of him, to find a loophole in how he functioned. He wasn’t intimidated by it, it was clear to him, after all. “I thought you appreciated me having my own opinion. Why should I copy Marshall’s? Which is it?”

Bell huffed out her nose, stepping back with a shake of her head.

“You’re fucking frustrating for a pawn,” she said bluntly, and somehow it felt incomplete—like she was vying with more to say but somehow thought better of it. “I don’t know whether it’s pathetic or pitiful.” Then, softer, quiet enough that he almost didn’t catch it: “You remind me of myself somehow.”

Case blinked. That was new. He thought she didn’t like him.

“Really?”

Bell gave him a look, meeting his eyes.

“Somehow,” she repeated and she left the room again in deep thought.

Case later on, slumbered on the couch with the TV—and wondered if he passed the test. He wondered why he felt as if she was right about them being similar.

He wondered if she hated being someone’s shadow and what she saw when she stared at him, able to so formlessly follow anybody.

He wondered why it bothered her so much—it didn’t bother him.

But… was that also the problem?

Case wondered if, inversely, the other problem was how easy it was to see her as nothing but Adler’s shadow, it was certainly a sentiment Marshall held—not that Case strictly had or agreed with all of Marshall’s sentiments—and Case felt it were apt enough, for a surface level descriptor. 

She’d called him a doormat, and he ought to have been offended—but he wasn’t. It just was. Then she’d claimed he reminded her of herself—and Case found himself considering that. 

If she was Adler’s shadow, who was he? Everyone’s shadow? Shadow for all. He wonders if that would be his moniker.

Case—Shadow for All, maybe. 

… America’s Shadow? He snorted at the imagery it inspired. Maybe not.

Everything reached a head when they found the facility on American soil in search of information on the Cradle. (The Cradle.) 

Bell was already irritated—miffed at how she felt she was slowing Adler down from tracking Gusev, with him back in the safehouse going over his resources, making phone calls and exhausting his connections in the area, working to track the Russian there as he waited for her with a sort of patience only reserved for her. (Their relationship was more, Case observed. Where Bell goes, goes Adler nearby—always in the corner or the next room, never further. Orbiting. Where Adler goes, Bell did her best to stay put, but like a magnet she gets pulled into the man’s space. Not lovebirds. Just… planets circling one another. Constants. Case couldn’t imagine what it is like—to be seen like those two see each other. They saved the world together before, Adler said. “Adler saved me,” Bell said at another time when the shaded man was nearby. Case spotted how interesting the man’s smile looked. Secretive. Yet filled with weight. There was something more. Case has yet to figure it out. Marshall couldn’t figure it out either. He found it odd. Marshall thought Bell was more dangerous than Adler. Dangerous, Case repeated. Co-dependant psychos, Marshall might have muttered after a few beers). 

Case never pictured the man being able to sit and wait.

The ladder broke, the rusted metal crumbling under his weight, and Case was stuck with Bell just as Bell was stuck with Case. Masks broken. Something in Case panicked. He reined it in just to answer Marshall’s concerned call.

“Masks are broken,” he informed dutifully, forcefully calm—blasé. Bell looked incredulous at his tone, and the lack of urgency therein. “We’re compromised.”

“Well, you’re still alive, that’s something.”

Case spotted Bell still before her eyes narrowed into something fierce at Marshall’s words. Case didn’t like it, it reminded him too much of (his brother) something better left forgotten. When Marshall’s orders continued, Bell looked as if she were seconds from snapping Case’s neck for Marshall’s gall, merely because his neck was the closest thing she could wring with her hands.

Gall? Gall at what?

What was wrong with following orders?

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“But we’re fine,” Case unhelpfully supplied. Again.

“What the shit?” You hissed, the abrasive gas started to make your throat itch uncomfortably. “You just admitted to Marshall that we’re compromised. We can’t go further. Throw a rope, Marshall!”

“Hey! You guys are alive down there! I don’t have rope right now. Sev and I will meet with you later! Just stay there if you’re so concerned, Bell,” Marshall stated over comms, his voice grating in your ear.

You saw red, you couldn’t accept this—not from him. 

“What the… what the fuck?! Marshall! Sev! No fuckin’ rope? What kind of amateurs…” You broke out into Russian, cursing, and dug through your pack to find a rope with a hook. You had your doubts about it, but it was all you had to work with. “Come on, Case. We’ll find our way up to them like this.”

“I don’t think that’ll work.” He stared at it dubiously and you huffed. You knew that. “You heard Marshall—we’ll meet up with them.”

Your jaw tightened as you eyed Case, who seemed perfectly okay with following Marshall’s easy going tune, when you knew the gas was burning his throat just like yours, your vision already getting somewhat hazy like you knows his was.

“We’re going up to them like this. End of discussion. You didn’t seriously think we’ll both waddle around here with gas in the air until we meet up with them. Are you a fool?”

“What does it matter? Marshall said we’re alive. We would be able to do it.”

You couldn’t tell if it was the gas that made you feel violent towards Case, or if you truly wanted to strangle him.

At your continued silent fuming of what you want to do, the both of you with no weapons, Case decided to speak. Again. 

Unhelpfully.

"Marshall said—" 

"I don't care.” You knew what Marshall said, and any reminder of his dismissal was enough to send you nearly over the edge.

Case narrowed his eyes as you tried to throw the rope with the hook above, only to curse and miss as it splashed down to the water.

“Suddenly acting better than thou towards me when I know you would listen to Adler.”

You darted your head toward him so fast that you think your vision might have blurred even more. His eyes were looking really punchable right now.

“Adler—“ You tapped Case’s chest with the hook twice, dampening his chest with each jab. “Isn’t here. And even he’s not this much of a rushing fool when biological weapons are involved! Your ‘friend’ should be tested! Is he even your friend?!”

Comms squeaked in both of their ears.

“Guys! Shut the fuck up and stop wasting time. Don’t drag Case down with you, Bell. You’re either in this mission or you aren’t.”

A bit late to back out now, you thought bitterly.

“Dragging...?! You little—“

“It’s my call, Bell. Do I really have to call Adler to have you listen to me?”

You felt the rage in you burn at that threat. It rose in your chest to your throat at the knowledge you wouldn’t want him to do that, to bother Adler over something so trivial. The knowledge that such a juvenile threat works. The knowledge just how easily they’re using you just like they’re using Case.

You discovered you don’t care much for Marshall.

You remained silent in your resentful concession, so Case answered for the both of you.

“We’ll find our way.”

“Good. See if you guys can find the power down where you are. It’s hard to see up here.”

You and Case didn’t answer, but you did curse again when you saw a screen flicker on the further you stumbled into the room, your head starting to spin—rice paddies in your periphery and you weren’t sure if the bell you heard was more than the memory you hope it was.

Case flinched at a mannequin, a suppressed yet audible gasp left his lips.

“We’re going to kill each other,” you deadpanned, your voice absent of the dread you felt. A familiar numbness came upon you, to protect your mind just like a decade ago. “это пиздец. у меня все было хорошо...”

“Did… you see that...?” Great. Case, Case actually sounded scared.

You laughed bitterly. Seeing a shadow of someone wearing a woven bamboo farmer’s hat run across the room, the silhouette of an Ak-47 in their arms and the phantom weight of an M16 in yours. 

“God. We’re so fucked.”

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The halls were quiet in the lab, Marshall used his flashlight to glance in every possible direction as Sev moved behind him. His uneasiness at how quiet the comms have been the last few minutes reaching a head.

“We haven't heard from Case in a while.” Marshall knew his friend was quiet, but Case knew when to give updates—when to fill in on new information. Case was a professional like that, and Marshall admired him for it. 

The lack of updates made him feel as if he might’ve made the wrong call, somehow. 

Sev’s next words, mildly concerned, only confirmed it.

"Bell hasn't insulted you in two minutes, Marshall.” Marshall bit his lip, careful where he stepped as he breathed deep through the gas mask.

It was no secret the two of them didn’t get along. She found Marshall trying to establish authority over Adler amusing—or that’s how Marshall saw it. It didn’t help that she added in a quip of her own, that she’d only follow one man unconditionally to the depths of hell, and it isn’t him.

Marshall didn’t think Adler was going to deny Bell’s clear loyalty, but he also didn’t expect just how easily the man accepted it. As if she just stated the sky was blue. The grass is green. The sun is yellow.

Bell will follow Adler to hell.

Marshall’s understanding of relationships was that you make sure your girl is protected, even from her own words. A little shush and a shake of the head, maybe an endeared smile or taking it as a joke.

Adler hadn’t reacted at all.

Just took another drag of his cigarette, staring Marshall down blankly, as if he thought that every word from Marshall’s mouth was just simply, and entirely, wasted breath. And it may as well have been, considering how little change Marshall’s assertion had brought about. A tilt of Adler’s head in Bell’s direction—acknowledgment to what she said—kept up that sharp smile on her face, softening at the edges at his motion. She beamed at the man. 

Marshall’s heard the stories of Adler. All the man’s monikers. There isn’t much anybody at the CIA who hasn’t. 

Someone as cocky and arrogant as Bell following anybody anywhere, let alone Adler? A linguistic and decoder genius that made someone like Felix impressed? Willingly following a wildfire? Marshall wasn’t used to someone like that.

Loyal yes. To Jane. To Old Man Woods. He thought he was loyal to the CIA but it’s just a lie. Blindly loyal?

Marshall liked having his eyes wide fucking open, thank you.

And Bell has made it clear just what cliff she’s willing to fall off of, back first.

Still, he could begrudgingly admit that the woman has her moments where even he thinks she’s funny. In an irritating kind of way.

Marshall cleared his throat as he checked the hall to their left, flashing at decorative chairs and an elevator that didn’t work. For now. They needed that power on.

“You don’t think she’s upset I used Adler right?” He knew well enough that they didn’t have to get along, exactly, to still be able to function well in a team, but it certainly didn’t hurt if they weren’t at each other’s throats. 

He didn’t have to see Sev to know she just rolled her eyes at him. “Using the ‘daddy card’ on a woman never goes well.”

“Uh,” he didn’t stumble, but it was a near thing. “What kind of father-daughter relationship are you seeing?”

Sev whipped her own flashlight at him, almost blinding his eyes—but he could see her deadpan.

“Haven’t had much bed experience in that, have you?”

“What...?!” 

Sev laughed and Marshall was thankful no one could tell he was blushing. “Get off my back, Sev!”

“Troy Marshall, the good ol’ Christian boy. Scared of a little salacious conversation.” 

“Oh, fuck off, Sev!”

Sev laughed again. The moment made Marshall’s shoulders loosen a little in tension. Still, he feels the weight of leadership.

Had he made the right call?

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“What the fuck, what the fuck— whattheFUCK!” You were running, M16 in hand blood rushing and your eyes(Needles, needles, needles, the red room, the red light, there’s a bell ringing—“We’ve got a a job to do”) as VC were chasing you. No end to them. They keep popping up. You’re sweating. The air is humid and hot but all you see are computers and desks and the lab. The lab, the lab, the lab. Tears were going down your cheeks as you ran and shot. Run and shoot. Jump the pits, drag your leadened feet through shallow streams, dodge the snipers in the trees.  “Russ…!” You yell brokenly, to nothing to no one. There’s no one here to hear. “Help…!” Your voice cracks, dehydrated and exhausted

Your vision is swimming. It’s being blocked. (Didn’t someone tell you to wait by the lobby?) Lobby? No. Trees? Leaves? Foliage. 

“You hid in the shadows and took out the VC one by one.”

Right. Yes. Stealth. 

You picked up a bow. Where did the M16 go? You dropped it. By the other key card.

Key card? Right. Key card. You need the key card. You need the key card to go up.

Up?

No…isn’t it through?

“Go through the door, Bell.”

You fall back to the floor as the Red Door lands a foot away from you, almost crushing you. The Red Door kills. The Red Door has secrets. 

Secrets. A weapon. What weapon? It’s new. It’ll kill millions.

“Where is Perseus planning to activate the codes, Bell?”

Perseus. The nukes. Yes. You must stop the nukes.

You get up and go to open the door but it’s locked. You let out a cracked laugh, hand to your face. Only for something cold and hard to smack you. You blink.

You’re in front of a computer dashboard for keycards. There’s the red one in your hand. The second one. You picked it up.

Picked it up? No. You killed VC for them. No. Perseus soldiers. No…Adler?

You killed Adler?

No, no, no, no, no.

“We gotta job to do, Bell.”

Yes.

You put the keycard in. You see one is still missing of the four. Where’s your partner?

(Who?)

You…don’t know. Actually, your team died. You were the only survivor. The only survivor of the crash.

It’s so bright. You can’t see. You stumble.

You land on the grass, you’re searching blindly for a weapon. VC are rushing at you! Shooting at you! You use the logs as cover, wood splintering off as bullets narrowly miss you.

You shoot but you keep hearing a ring.

(A bell?)

Why is it ringing?! The gun is broken. Throw it.

A VC throws a dart at you, but it’s not a dart. It’s a needle. You try to move but you’re stock still,  on the ground, you can’t move—you’re being held down.

You both feel and hear as the needles squelches into your eye.

You scream.

You scream yourself hoarse. Your throat is breaking. Someone is dragging you.

No. Choking. You’re being choked. 

You can’t breathe! Russ, please! You can’t breathe! Please stop! You don’t know where Perseus is! Stop!

“Bell?! Bell calm down! Sev—shit! Case, Bell?! Stop! It’s us! It’s us!”

There’s no us. Where’s Russ?! Where’s Adler?! You need Adler! You feel something coming out your mouth, it tastes like bile.

“She’s aspirating! Sev! Hold Case down for a sec.” You feel yourself get rolled over and you’re breathing, no. Choking. Is Russ your friend? If so, where is he? Where’s Russ? “Bell. I’ll call Adler after this. Just stay with me! How did you two even make it up here?” 

“Marshall, we have to knock her out.” Someone says, a woman. Park? But she’s British. You spit at the leftover vomit, adrenaline rush coming back full force. Park or Lazar? Lazar or Park? Who? Who? Who? Save who? “We can’t carry them both like this.”

“Shit…sorry, hold on Bell.” 

Hold? The grapple. Grapple who? You have to choose! There’s RPG’s! You struggled, trying to find the rope. Where is it? Where is it? 

“Marshall, you’re too soft!” 

A soldier got you in the head because all you see is black.

▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▛ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▟ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚

A phone rings.

“Yeah?” a voice throaty from smoke use rasped out, smoke exhaled out in that very moment. Casual.

“Adler,” Marshall greeted grimly. The pause the older man made on the other line caused Marshall to bow his head and squeeze the phone, tense. 

Sev glanced over her shoulder, pausing from her checking on Bell and Case as she drove. 

“Yeah,” Adler said, tone shifting in a word. Something simmered under the surface. Bubbled.

Rip the bandaid, Marshall. Just like mom used to do. Just like what you do for Terry.

Marshall let out a resigned sigh, he knew it wouldn’t go over well. 

“It’s about your girl.” 

“... ETA?”

“It’ll be another few hours before we arrive. Seven.”

“Have Sev make it five.” Marshall glances at Sev, her acknowledging that she heard with a dip of her head. “And Marshall?”

Marshall lined his shoulders up, prepared for whatever the man was about to say. “The explanation better be good.”

And just like that, the man hung up.

Could someone make such a casual sentence sound like a threat?

Marshall discovered Adler could. On a more light hearted day, he needed to figure out how to do that.

Right now, he had to help his team.

▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▛ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▟ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚

“What the fuck, Adler…?! I was just asking! She’s a part of my team whether she or you like it or not! Why Vietnam?! Case snapped, but not like this!”

Adler saw Troy Marshall had heart, he knew it would be the kid’s demise one day if he didn't change. The weight of it dragging him down. Too much compassion didn’t get you far in their world, and he respected those who knew their limits, those who knew they couldn’t go any further, the path they’d begun too treacherous.

But the kid had an uncomfortable amount of balls holding him back, too.

Adler smoked outside the front of the house, despite the rest of Marshall’s ‘team’ being an hour out. He wasn’t the kind of person to get restless, but he knew he couldn’t wait inside the safehouse, Woods’ heavy glances on him.

He walked up when they put the car in park, his mind going over every scenario again (Sims, this is scenario 17–), wondering exactly how shit hit the fan, what could have possibly happened. 

She was unconscious in the passenger seat, and Adler listened carefully to Sev’s explanation; she’d been like this for hours—subdued and knocked due to how uncooperative she had been. The few times they noticed Bell was awake, she hadn’t reacted to what was going on, or their voices, silent with her head bowed deeply to hide her face.

Adler only pressed his lips in answer to her words, gently taking a hold of Bell. Laid her down on the nearest suitable surface—a couch between the weapons bench and main entrance. He leaned on the armrest near her head after grabbing the nearest ashtray and placing it on the side table so he won’t leave her side, his hand combing through her hair as she rested. The contact seemed to soothe, somewhat. The only reaction were her brows forming lines between them, a weak noise escaping her lips.

Adler’s eyes narrowed beneath his shades before glancing at the others, and he feigned preparing a smoke as he put one between his lips.

Woods wheeled down by the other end of the couch, an obvious frown at the sight of Bell. Her skin was clammy, hair sticking to her forehead, her form boneless—unrelaxed yet pliant.

Felix came from the side hall of the basement and small bathroom, a hot towel held in a gloved hand, and cautiously maintained distance as he handed it off to Adler. He’d immediately understood that Bell had been impacted in an unforeseen way. It was apparent the moment Adler had helped her from the car, carrying her into the safehouse. 

(Look at that, he’d mused. Bell had made a friend of the germaphobe.) 

Adler nodded in thanks, pressing it to her head as Felix shifted over by the weapons bench, fiddling with the computer there, feigning work but facing the others, silently concerned. Sev leant atop the weapons bench too, lingering after she helped Marshall haul a worse-for-wear Case in the chair near the fireplace; the warmth would do him good.

Adler’s eyes finally faced Marshall, whose form was stood directly across from Bell, Woods and himself. It felt judicial, in a way—plaintiff, defendant and witness. Marshall, with a guilty air about himself, stood with a tense look on his face, staring down at Bell before the young man cleared his expression to face Adler. 

Marshall took one look at Adler and knew he was on borrowed time; he noted that it wouldn’t be wise to delay this any further and begun firing off what had happened. Their successful lab entry, followed closely by the mishap with the broken ladder for Case and Bell—their gas masks broken, exposing them to the compound-leak in the air.

“They were contaminated?” Felix asked in alarm, Adler was positive that the had German squeaked from how high his pitch rose. Felix’s eyes moved to and fro, darting from Bell to Case who was leaning his elbows on his knees, hunched over. “You brought them here?”

“And then?” Adler cut off the German’s building hysteria as he started muttering in dialect, something of the sächsisch variety, quickly going over the chemistry of most biological agents —especially those related to the Cradle as defined in the document from Hussein’s palace. He no longer idled at the workbench, clicking away. He needed more details. 

“And then…nothing,” Marshall supplied before straightening his shoulders, and despite it all, Adler was having a tough time seeing the man—it was just a kid hiding in a soldier’s skin. “The gas released in the lab didn’t display any nasty or violent side effects on them. Not like how we inferred back in Hussein’s sick playhouse with the lab tank he had in his basement. So I called it—for them to continue the mission.”

Woods expression broke a little, leaking disappointment mixed with shock.

“Kid…” Woods shook his head. 

Adler’s eyes went to Bell, his hand holding the towel to her head before moving it to wipe her cheeks. Similar to a decade ago, a half wit plan based on a whim atop the cliffs, arctic air cutting his cheeks similar to hers.

“What do you need me to do, Russ?”

Marshall took his silence for him to continue. Well, for Case to attempt to pick up the rest of the report, given that he was with Bell. Adler faced and assessed Case, who was heavy laden and despite his exhaustion—sequenced the events to the best of his abilities. How Bell immediately seemed to react to the gas, spotting things that weren’t there, and while Case had his own issues — he was sparse on providing details, he kept it hidden and focused on Bell, relegating his own reaction as insignificant. Adler picked up that Case was unnerved—only due to how Case’s boot was tapping every so often, a muted pattering against the hardwood flooring. The dismissal of his own wellbeing—his health—reminded Adler of Bell somehow, before Cuba. How she’d worked tirelessly in pursuit of her own people. 

And then Case mentioned it. Vietnam. 

Damn it all, Adler fumed, throwing away the used cigarette in the ashtray on the floor, lighting another with a flick of his lighter. 

Bell kept muttering about Vietnam, and an alarmed Case told her to stay by the lobby—just until he could retrieve the needed keycards for elevator access, where they’d meet Marshall and Sev on an upper floor. But he didn’t see her when he got them. Only knowing she also went to get keycards when he arrived with the last one from the right side of the lobby.

“Vietnam…” Marshall uttered, nodding at Case in thanks as he took over. “When me and Sev found Case and Bell seeming—seizing—over Case’s yelling, Bell kept screaming. But it was just…” Marshall paused, brows furrowing deeply, mind deep in thought as he started to pace with a hand to his head.

“Just what?” Adler asked, impatient. Calming when he felt Bell’s hand try to reach in his periphery. Adler let her take his hand and bring it closer to her face, and shifted slightly against the armrest of the couch to accommodate the movement.

Marshall stopped, turning towards him.

“She was… it sounded like she was calling for you, Adler. And—and not to you, but for you— pleading for you to stop…” he paused momentarily. “To stop whatever you were doing. And Perseus.” Adler felt her hand tense around his, her nails pressing crescent indents into the back of his palm in stress. “Why would she mention Perseus? I thought that guy was handled back in ‘84.”

Adler felt Woods glance. 

Adler took a long drag, embers lightning his face before he exhaled.

“Didn’t Bell explain anything to you guys on her background?”

Marshall scoffed, incredulity breaking through concerned perplexity. 

“Tch, no. She’s been tightlipped since we caught her slither out that bunker she cracked opened. Most she ever talked is how she got more involved in the field after ‘84. She didn’t specify what part of the underground exactly, just that she did.”

He could work with this.

And Woods would cover, too.

Adler glanced at Woods, a small frown around his cigarette.

“Didn’t tell them how you knew Bell, Woods? Despite how she helped save the free world with us? Thought you liked her.”

Woods shrugged, a sarcastic quirk of his lips.

“What can I say, I like to take all the glory.” 

Adler managed a quick smirk, seeing how Woods will play along, before shifting and taking another drag. All eyes on him as he gathered his thoughts, the timeline, fact and fiction.

Time for a story. 

“A story? I don’t know…Will this really work, Adler?”

He made it work for a decade. He just needs…some extra exposition for new audience members. He’ll make it work.

He thumbed the back of Bell’s hand before beginning.

“Bell extended her services to us a decade ago. Information came out that the man we all thought was Perseus had nuke codes that will kill millions. Bell was an ex-KGB operative that heard about it through mutual friends.”

Woods nodded. It was easy to build off of truth, not hers, but rather the countless other soviet defectors they’d recruited throughout the Cold War. “Just like another KGB operative that was sick of the Soviet’s shit. Belikov helped us out there too.”

Adler took an another drag, exhaling as he made a small glance towards Case under his side shades. This was where he had to be careful. He wasn’t sure what exactly Case remembered or how much he withheld.

“She helped with that fiasco. During that time, I took her under my wing you can say. After that, she went to semi retirement. She just wanted to help us with Perseus. We let her go on her way. She accomplished what she was meant to.” Adler could feel the pistol in his gloved hands, speech over and done with. Before he paused. A camera. Thoughts of books. Of a story. He remembered how he cursed in his head before he rationalized the opportunity. For an ear on the other side. “It didn’t stay that way. After the debacle of sleeper agents in ‘84, she took a more active role again instead of working on decryptions and linguistics. She reached out to me. After that, it’s history.”

Marshall turned over the information in his head while Sev quietly mused to Felix that no wonder he got along with Bell; they were both homebodies with the their tech at one point. Felix rolled his eyes before he tore his gaze from the computer to look at Adler.

“Curious, though. Case mentioned that Bell kept going on about Vietnam.” Felix quickly glanced over at Bell. “Impossible it was for that war. Too young.”

“Ehhhh,” Sev interrupted, hand to her cheek. “Might be. Never doubt a woman’s skincare routine. She was ex-KGB wasn’t she? Perhaps they sent her there when they already took over in Vietnam for a mission before she defected.”

“No,” Marshall said, raising a hand with pointer finger up, shaking his head slowly before gaining speed just as his hand moved up and down. “No, Case made it seem way more serious than a backwards one time mission in Vietnam. Something about your explanation is fishy.”

Adler rose a brow, free hand grabbing his cigarette.

“Fishy, huh? What’s fishy is how you’re leading this team to the ground, kiddo. You’re not exactly impressing me with your false macho bullshit.”

Marshall stilled. Everyone’s eyes now on the two of them—Adler’s inscrutable expression and Marshall appearing as if he were seconds away from snapping.

“What the fuck, Adler…?! I was just asking! She’s a part of my team whether she or you like it or not! Why Vietnam?! Case snapped, but not like this!”

To his knowledge, Adler thought. Case was more secretive than he let on.

“Just asking. Right. And your team?” Adler didn’t spit the word out, buts it’s a near thing with how icy he says it. Adler scoffed. “You’re lucky the world is facing a threat because I would take Bell and myself away from this. Or start calling the shots myself.”

Marshall’s eyes flashed, taking a step forward. Adler’s eyes narrowed at the kid getting near Bell’s body on the couch with so much emotion. This was already a fucking mess and the last thing he needed was for it to turn violent. 

“What—“

“Marshall!” Woods snapped. Marshall tried to take a deep breath before turning towards Woods—who only shook his head. “Lay off of him, would ya? Bell’s his protege and you fucked up. Bell will tell the rest of her story if she wants to tell you.”

Marshall’s hands clenched at his sides, while everyone else watched. Sev and Case looked in a more subdued fashion, whereas Felix made no attempt to hide his wide stare. 

“You won’t get answers to anything with the way you’re acting. You earn answers. And with the stunt you pulled?” Adler added, taking a major inhale, his third cigarette throughout this ordeal. Hold gentle around Bell’s hand despite the tension. “Consider yourself on the blacklist of needing to know.” 

Marshall opened his mouth before glancing at Bell. He relaxed, clicking his mouth shut. 

“Fine. But just…you can help her right? Your girl?”

“Of course. Now go, Marshall.” Adler moved and scooped her up, bridal style as she turned her face into his chest, blinking languidly as he made for the stairs. She might’ve mumbled something against him, despondent. He paused on a step, aware of their audience that had yet to disperse. “Don’t come in my room unless you want a bullet lodged in your head. Woods?”

“Ay, ay. You heard the chain smoker, everyone. Now stop hanging around like it’s a play and get to work!”

Adler entered his room and laid Bell atop his bed. He brushed her hair slightly with his thumb off of her face. 

He sighed.

“This is a shit show. But I got you, Bell. I got you.”

“…R…uss…?”

Adler’s hand dipped to your parted mouth, you tried hard to open your eyes.

“Easy.” Adler shushed, a light kiss to her forehead. “It’s me. I have you.”

“…’Na…m” Adler watches your lip trembling, a tear going down your cheek. “VC…Hue City…”

“That’s a long time ago. We’re not there anymore. That war is over.”

Bell let out a choked sound. Adler couldn’t tell if it were a sob of despair or relief. Perhaps both. 

“So…real…” 

“Yeah?” Adler grabbed her hand, placing it over his scarred cheek while he hung his shades from his collar. “As real as this feels?”

Bells eyes fluttered open and Adler finally took a look at them. Blown wide yet hazy. Not here. Adler did his best to not get affected by it. She didn’t need that.

Bell thumbed the scar on his chin. 

“Per…seus. He’s real.”

“He’s dead. He can’t get us,” Adler intoned, a quick kiss to her palm. “Nothing can get us. I’m here.”

This time, Bell did let out a cry. Pulling her hand away so she could hide her eyes and turn her back to him.

“You. You can get me. Needles. It…hurt.”

Adler pressed his lips together, aborted further attempts to grab Bell again but remained seated on the bed. She seemed to seek his presence before, on the couch. 

“Do you want me to leave?”

Bell shot up, much faster than Adler would have been comfortable with, but before he could nag her she yelled a loud, “no!”

Bell blinked out her fear, instead looking down and not meeting his eyes, clenching her hands around the sheets.

“No… stay… please?”

Adler didn’t need much convincing. He hasn’t seen you like this in a long time. 

“Scoot over a bit. And lay back down for me. You need to rest.” Bell did so, almost falling over with how much room you’re willing to give him. Sacrificing your comfort for his. Adler sighs at it. Back to square one again with their relationship. So hard to make it seem even between them and she’s back to this. Adler laid down but motioned his hand at her to come closer. “Come closer. You’ll fall.”

Bell looked hesitant. Eyes going back and forth from his hands to his jacket pockets to his shades. As if searching for something.

He sighed again before slowly sitting up, taking his jacket off and emptying out the pockets she kept glancing at; he threw everything useless onto the floor.

“I don’t have anything. Come, Bell. I won’t hurt you.”

Bell bit her lip, jittery eyes meeting his even ones.

“Needles?”

“No.”

“MK-Ultra.”

“No,” he repeated evenly again. He didn’t need it for her. He wasn’t lying. 

Bell placed a hand to her left shoulder, hesitating.

“Bullet?”

“…okay. Only for you, Adler. Just don’t miss the shot.”

Adler’s eyes tightened, closing before opening them again to meet hers.

“No. Never again. I need you to rest, Bell.”

“…okay. Whatever you say, Adler.”

Something twists in his stomach but she clambered closer to him, much closer than he thought she would. Head tucked into his neck and arm thrown over him, he could feel your tears on his skin. Adler can only slowly and gently lay a hand on your waist to not scare you off. 

He’ll let you rest. But later, he needs to know what happened.

For now though, Adler felt Bell’s deep inhale—as if wishing to memorize his scent and felt her breath on his neck. For now. 

“Sleep for me, Bell.” 

He felt her eyelashes flutter against his skin, eyes closing in answer.

For now, his girl needed rest.

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You’re off-kilter. 

Not only because you can’t go down to the bunker anymore(red room, red room, Red Door—“Normal forms of interrogation weren’t working.”), or be anywhere near all the televisions—from the living room to the security feed (you flinch as napalm struck, a near deafening roar in your ears, diving for cover from the flames—only for Woods to coax you out from under his cot, your limbs trembling as you realized it was just the thunder that struck outside, before distracting you with a story with him and Mason and Mason’s son—David. Your fear and blood pumping slowing at the look Woods has in his eyes. Sad yet proud at a boy who’ll soon be a man. Your dignity was saved that the others were in the training grounds or the kitchen.), but because you can’t even go on the mission with Russell (Adler? Your old friend. Not old friend. Liar. Adler always lies. “You have to stay, Bell. I’ll handle Gusev. Trust me.” Adler always lies. You were pathetic how you wished for you to go, or him to stay, weak for even asking just once. Back to severe co-dependency. As if Adler’s plan of forcing you to be independent and make your own plans never happened. Back to not only wanting to be near him but needing him near you. Needy for praise. Adler finally having you to let go of the lapels of his jacket with his breath to your ear, “You can do anything, Bell. You can handle this for me, красивая. Stay and help me watch the kids from killing each other while I’m gone. You will, won’t you?” Of course. You can do that for Adler. ▚ Anything for Adler. ▟ You’re living for him alone. ▚) and at least help the others in the casino with the heist live on the ground. 

You feel useless. 

You can still help in the technology side of things, but what good is that when half of the tech in the safehouse is underground? Underground where your dread compounds, heart racing to the point it hurts. Ears ringing, your shallowed breathing doing nothing to help your panic.

Each time you blink, something skitters on the screen, reminders of a war you shouldn’t remember—of imposed pain that was never yours.

So yes. You may be moping. 

It doesn’t help you are still upset at Marshall for Case’s treatment back in the mission. But it does help to distract you from your miserable trauma you’re trying to shake away, because the man upsets you again about Case’s role in this mission.

You heard the plan from your spot near Woods cot, the both of you going over necessary supplies and exfil. Your head whipped back at them as Case just stood(Always just standing there. Willingly being led like a lamb to slaughter. You would do anything for, Adler. You did. You killed a man because you knew Adler would prefer his death over capture.) and seemed satisfied at the plan in place. Perfectly willing to be a tool.

“Wait—Case is going to be part of the bait of this mission?” You ask incredulous, hands tight around the binder Woods gave you to look over. The older man was staring at the side of your head, but you ignored it as you stood. “Even after what happened? It wasn’t just me that went through that gas.”

They all turned their heads from the evidence board towards you, Sev shifting on the desk she was sitting on. 

“True. But Case’s bender that accompanied your horrible acid trip has calmed.”

Marshall nodded at Sev’s words, putting the folder in his hands to his side for a moment as he slightly shook Case’s shoulder with a smile, his touch light—companionable. It nearly made you frown.

“Case would’ve told us if we couldn’t depend on him, anyways. I’ve known Case for years and he’s one strong motherfucker. Ain’t that right, Case?”

Case chose silence as his answer. You noticed he hadn’t stopped looking at you with a slight frown since you spoke up, a subtle downturn of his lips.

(Why were you defending him? He didn’t care. You wanted to punch him for it.)

He was scared. He’s a person. 

“Now all the subject needs is a name.”

He’s a person . 

Felix cleared his throat to gather attention, leaning on the desk behind his favorite computer screen, looking as apprehensive as you felt towards all of this. 

“I do share your concerns, Bell. Made it apparent to Marshall here.” Felix tipped his head towards the man for show; Marshall looked away in turn, letting go of Case’s shoulder at Felix’s stare before the German turned towards you, a bleak turn of the lips. “But, I digress. The short half-life of the gas indicates it’s in neither of your system’s anymore, although I am having trouble sleeping at night despite that—“ Felix couldn’t help but add.

“Get to the point, Felix,” Sev cut off, exasperated. 

“Right.” Felix looked miffed at the interruption before he gave you an understanding expression. “Case has demonstrated he is capable for a mission such as this, and has insisted on it the moment Marshall mentioned it. There are no obvious side effects displayed—unlike what we have observed in you, Bell.”

“Thanks,” you cracked sarcastically, too tired and self-deprecating to snap that you weren’t useless. But for the life of you, you couldn’t help but meet Case’s eyes with your searching ones. “That true, Case? Able to take a few punches for the team? I see that Marshall isn’t volunteering for that—willing to play some cards instead.”

“You know the kid isn’t like that, Bell,” Woods defended, because of course he did. You saw what Woods saw—a mirror of the veteran’s younger days. But it was different;  Woods wouldn’t treat Mason like how Marshall treated Case. How everyone treated Case. How Case treated Case. “Case has insisted that what happened was no big deal. Hell, the guy’s invincible like that. Almost like me.” Woods tried to joke, to make you crack a smile. You didn’t.

Only stared at Case.

How long would he be quiet?

(You were quiet about seeing Vietnam on screens a decade ago. A secret. You didn’t want to disappoint Adler. Seen as soft. Something to throw away.)

What are you trying to do, Case? You wonder, spotting how Case’s jaw twitched in discomfort at your assessing gaze. What are you trying to prove? To who?

Marshall took a step towards you, hand to his chest in defense and obviously on the defensive.

“What makes you think I’m just throwing Case to the wolves, Bell? Just cause at what happened in that last mission doesn’t mean I don’t care about my team mates.” Your hand twitched at your side. You could picture it. Socking the young man in the jaw. Maybe that would spur Case out of this pitiful pit he’s put himself. Marshall took a breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose before facing you, eyes open and full of regret. You couldn’t help but glance at it. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about what happened down there, Bell. That was the wrong call. But this—this plan is the right call. We need to help Adler find Gusev and the casino is the key, whatever is in B24 is the key.”

Your lips thinned before scoffing and looking away, waving a hand at him in dismissal. Despite the obvious manipulation once more—you’ll give him some leeway due to his own obvious betrayal of one he saw as a friend.(See how it feels? A part of you thought with petty yet cruel satisfaction.)

“Yeah, yeah fine. Do what you guys want.”

You turned back to work with Woods, trying not to silently stew and focus on what Woods was saying and ignoring his stares. When the others moved to leave the room, you did stop Case from moving by the evidence board; grabbing his wrist firmly, opening your mouth to speak quietly.

“Case, what are you—“

But he beat you to the punch as he connected your gazes, causing you to falter at Case’s incredulous irritation.

“Why do you keep fighting?”  

“I—“ you blinked rapidly. “What?”

“Why do you keep fighting?” Case repeated, his tone growing more bewildered each time he spoke. You wondered for a second if he thought you were purposely trying to challenge Marshall’s authority—as if you you found amusement in destabilizing the dynamic of the team. “What’s the point in what you’re doing? It’s easier to just accept it.”

“Breaking a subjects will and erasing their mind is a difficult and painful process.”

Your eyes slit, tightening the hold around Case’s wrist.

“What?”

Case shook his head, he almost looked like he was pleading with you.

“Just stop. Just accept. Is that so hard?”

You bit the inside of your lip so you wouldn’t reach for his throat to tear it out—it’d be much more merciful than this pitiful display.

(It’s been so long since you wondered—your fate if you just talked. Confessed. Where did loyalty get you? To Adler, you answer, sure. But where did that leave you? To Adler, you answer, pathetically, longingly.)

It slapped you in the face, what pissed you off so much about Case. It disarmed you, making your hold loosen around his wrist and letting him escape with a final yet tense incredulous look towards you over his shoulder.

The way you easily fold for Adler, despite your natural loyalty and cognitive dissonance acting up on how exactly he got that loyalty from what occurred a decade ago—compared to Case who folded for all, found it easier to just accept than fight, unlike you.

Your loyalty was fictitious, then earned through years—falsehoods and reality mixing. You followed only the one, whether it was pre MK-Ultra or after—you would do everything and anything for the one you call yours.

Case—just took the easiest route in life and followed whomever. He couldn’t see himself fighting for one side—even if that side was himself. He did whatever was asked of him, no matter the consequence. The willing doormat welcoming all types of scrapes and scuffs off of shoes.

Dangerous, you thought. It made you sick. 

Your stomach only turned further at the thought of how long, or rather how quickly, it would take Adler to realize the same thing about Case.

You didn’t know from what.

You needed a distraction before your mind connected to what exactly Adler would do with a perfect soldier like Case—wandering after you finished with Woods for something to do. Only to find Felix in his customary spot, his favorite computer set up. You moved to join him, your presence usually welcome behind the computers, like always before the man raised a gloved hand at you, so sudden it nearly startled you. 

You wondered if he had a job for you, if you were needed elsewhere. 

“Please keep your distance,” the German said tersely. Blunt. “I rather like dreaming of unicorns and rainbows and not general horrors of my life.”

Ouch. You raised your hands in mock surrender, lips twisted up.

“I get it. Sorry.”

“…oh. Here.” He picked up a floppy disk and threw it in your general direction, you managed to catch it haphazardly. “Take a look at that please. It’s the encryption system the casino uses for their facility and I have exhausted enough time on that with no improvement.” Felix took a breath and he actually looked pained as he met your stare. “I’m stuck. I, Felix Neumann, finally admit I am stuck and need your help. Don’t rub it in my face.”

Your mouth parted at him, throwing his pride away so easily when they were in a childish and ego inducing competition before.

“…you want me to?”

“That gas really did a number on you.” Felix said in answer before giving you a shooing motion towards the computer by Sev. “Go. And don’t come near me till you finish that.”

You decided to take a quick look at Sev’s computer, raising your brow dubiously and throwing him a rising smirk.

“Easy as pie. Didn’t the Stasi train you for—“

“Oh. Good. You’re alive and back. Please leave before finishing that sentence and I decide to not be courteous to you.”

You crack a small smile, just an iota.

“…thanks.”

Felix made a noise, but outside of it—nothing. You decided to put your big boots on and help. 

Enough with the moping and Case; time to actually help.

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Case really wanted a towel.

Blood stuck on his face and neck, firm and baked on by the sweltering heat of Iraq. It stuck no matter how much he tried to wipe it with gloved hands—the gloves weren’t much better off. He paused from trying to wipe, eyes observing the way the copper stained deep in his gloves. How it wanted to get deeper. Past the cloth. Past his skin—entering the flesh and in turn the muscles and making him squeeze. His fingers furled unconsciously. 

“You can dispose of him now.”

(“…̷t̷̷h̷̷e̷ ̷d̷̷o̷̷c̷̷t̷̷o̷̷r̷, ̷g̷̷e̷̷t̷ ̷t̷̷h̷̷e̷ ̷d̷̷o̷̷c̷̷t̷̷o̷̷r̷!” Very good, Case, the voice in his head—female—said. But it wasn’t in his head. Not then. She was right there—she said to kill him—his—his—)

His vision turned, pain shooting through his temples, quick and short. Not enough for an obvious wince, but for him to squeeze the hand in front of him into a tight fist.

“How we doing, Case?” He turned to face Adler who was sitting in front of him on the back of the army supply truck they were in. Rolling along back to the outskirts of the camp that Captain Sims was in(“Both of you can get out of my sight! We’re done, Adler! I don’t want you to set one motherfuckin’ toe on my grounds after that stunt!”) but separate from the commander. Case didn’t think they might be friends anymore; he didn’t understand why. Gusev needed to be disposed(̷D̷̷i̷̷d̷ ̷h̷̷i̷̷s̷ ̷b̷̷r̷̷o̷̷t̷̷h̷̷e̷̷r̷?). Adler, as always, seemed unaffected at what transpired—a smoke around his mouth with blood visibly on the base of neck, stains all over the front of his uniform. His shades half-heartedly cleaned from stubborn wiping, accompanied by Adler’s mild muttering annoyance, the most emotion Case has heard, save for the older man’s disappointed tone toward his old friend, hearing him mutter about needing cleaning wipes. “Hold on. Here,” Adler reached into the back pocket of his pants, a hand towel already soiled(that’s how his face was mostly clean, must’ve been when Case was still staring at the dismembered lower half of Gusev’s body, whereas Sims was focused more on the man.) and tossed it at him. 

Case caught it, giving him a quiet thanks and nod of appreciation—despite the towel already being used. He’s thankful he just has it. It’s the same man’s blood they’re wiping off, after all. No need to turn his nose up at that.

Adler took a deep inhale, embers quickly eating up the cigarette before he tapped off the edge to the side.

“Thanks for that back there.” Case glanced at the man, Adler’s tone still light but appreciative. Holding weight. “I know it caused a mess on ya. Tried to take the brunt of Gusev’s guts before Sims attempted something else.” Adler cracked a light smirk. “Didn’t want him to have something else to complain about. Having a man’s blood literally on his hands, whether true or not, would’ve pushed Sims over the edge.”

Case believed it would. 

When Adler gave the order to kill(̷D̷̷i̷̷s̷̷p̷̷o̷̷s̷̷e̷) Gusev, Case wasn’t watching anyone else. His vision blurring, his ears seeming to deafen his surroundings and only focus on Gusev’s erratic breathing and final plea—only for Sims to grab Case back. Unluckily for the man that reminded Case of Marshall, the momentum of grabbing Case’s shoulder instead of Gusev and his inattention to Adler’s subtle movement of destabilizing Gusev’s feet—it caused a short, curdling yell within the propeller. The metal squeaking in protest much worse than when Adler threw a rock in it—blood spraying upon Case’s front. Adler managed to shield Sims and Case from the majority of it, the sound of the skull thumping around and metal cutting through bones and flesh echoing in Case’e ears. Case watching as the man’s top half was gone, only everything from the waist down was untouched—outside the guts and skin trying to stay attached to said dead scientists waist. All while Sims went off on Adler. 

The man’s only defense is that he—Gusev, that is—slipped.

Sims used Case as his witness, pointing at him as Sims was in Adler’s face about to wallop his old friend. The only indication the man gave at his friend’s anger was the mild frown on his lips.

Except, Case didn’t do what Sims wanted. Agreeing that Gusev slipped. Sims snapped his head from Adler to him faster than blade cutting through bone(Not funny. ̷J̷̷u̷̷s̷̷t̷ a̷  ̷l̷̷i̷̷t̷̷t̷̷l̷̷e̷.), face practically all snarl. Adler raising a brow in reaction behind the man’s back at Case’s defense.

Sims cursed at him almost nearly as much as he did Adler once he let a few seething breaths in(“Another copy of you, Adler. Fantastic. Both of you trying to bullshit me…?!”) before he couldn’t stand the sight of them—or the body—anymore. Despite Adler’s weighted words towards Sims it became personal, it actually making the Captain pause before he walked away, a shake of his head and a disbelieving huff through his nose. (“Everything and everyone is personal to you with how much you’ve done the same dance. Well. I’m not willing to do the shitty Macarena with you anymore!”) 

Case looked out from the open back of the truck, watching the scenery of fire and tanks in the distance—explosions and gunshots and stealth bombers dull in his ears. 

“You don’t have to thank me,” Case dismissed as he wiped his face particularly roughly. Without a mirror, he wasn’t sure how much blood was still caked on—but he could feel it. “Gusev was a danger to millions. I understand.” Adler hummed, Case glancing at the man to see a brow quirked above his shades at the words. Surprised? Why? “…have you done gruesome kills before? Or was this a special case for Bell?”

Adler’s cigarette was in his lips for a quick puff as he answered, the smoke being breathed out with every word.

“Vietnam had no shortage of those. And it was easier to just throw him in there since we kept waving the threat in his face,” Adler did a half shrug, as if it was normal to throw people into propellers out of convenience. A walk in the park for a man like him. America’s Monster. (“It’s gonna scare you off if you see it?” No. He isn’t scared. He’s sure now where a man like Russell Adler lies. ““̷S̷̷e̷̷e̷? ̷H̷̷e̷’̷s̷ ̷a̷ ̷m̷̷o̷̷n̷̷s̷̷t̷̷e̷̷r̷, ̷l̷̷i̷̷k̷̷e̷ ̷t̷̷h̷̷e̷ ̷r̷̷e̷̷s̷̷t̷ ̷o̷̷f̷ ̷t̷̷h̷̷e̷̷m̷.”)”Bell had a part to play in that, true. But I would’ve wanted the man dead anyways. He made a deadly weapon that will kill millions. What happened to Bell in that mission however, sealed his fate—Sims or no Sims. Bell would’ve done the same for me. Maybe worse.”

Case frowned in thought, looking down. He knew Bell was loyal to Adler—greatly. He didn’t doubt Adler’s words; her loyalty was sound, based on what he’d overheard when Sev asked her, after the casino mission, prodding for more details. Felix in the living room, as well, while he and Marshall were in next room over. (“Nosy,” he heard her mutter as she passed by him, knowing innately how much he strained his ears, getting as close as he could without appearing obvious. Marshall trying to make light of her word and tone, said animatedly “What? I didn’t do anything, I swear!” Bell wasn’t amused, her brow rising at Marshall before moving on. At least the cold shoulder was mutual between them both; Case didn’t like her eyes on him anymore.) How she expounded that Adler saved her from the CIA, not wishing for someone like her to work with them despite other KGB operatives under their paycheck. Might’ve had to do with her connections to Perseus—and how she’d discovered those plans, Case guessed. That the man was the only reason she was alive, and why she’ll reciprocate everyday for him for that. 

“She doesn’t like me much,” Case confessed before he could rein in the words. Before he could get bewildered at the action and stop, he kept going with far much more emotion than he planned. His verbal deconstruction of her behavior spilling from his lips, now that there was somebody to tell—Marshall was his friend, sure, but Case always was the listener between the two of them. He didn’t mind. “She finds me odd, despite also saying we are similar somehow.”

Adler’s brow quirked, a smirk pulling his lips.

“Oh? That’s strange. After the stunt you pulled in getting me out the black site, you would’ve earned her respect there; Bell can be hard to please until you prove herself. Although,” Adler nodded his head absently while taking a drag, “she doesn’t like Marshall at all. Can’t say I blame her; she holds on to grudges tighter than a knuckle duster in a bar fight. Spiteful woman,” Adler chuckled softly to himself as he exhaled the smoke. He shifted on the seat of the wooden bench, the truck driving over bumps and sand hills that could be felt between them both before Adler faced Case again, shades hiding his eyes—yet Case couldn’t help but feel as if their gazes were meeting. “Never thanked you for watching out for her down there. Or trying to with the circumstances. Pretty calm despite having to inhale gas as part of a mission.”

Case’s skin pricked. 

“It was a necessary mission. Marshall needed us,” Case evenly answered, acutely aware of the subterfuge that accompanied Adler’s reputation, Marshall had fumed about it—made a show of establishing authority over it. “And I did my best with Bell but… the circumstances of her disappearing when I came back were unforeseen. I am sorry for not doing better.”

“…mm hmm.” At the absent hum, Case felt a spark of offense. “Speaking of Marshall, how’re you going to break it to him about Gusev? You’ve been friends with him for years, right? Based on what I’ve seen, his stomach might turn at that.”

This felt familiar.

“If it was ordered to do something the exact opposite of what Marshall would do, would you do it?”

Ah. That was why.

Adler was doing what Bell had. But unlike him feeling seen by Bell, with Adler it was different. It was as if… it’s an unmasking.

“I don’t see why Marshall would be involved at all in changing the events that happened.”

“And what event is that?” Adler asked, leaning slightly forward to tap away the ash of his cigarette.

“Gusev slipped.”

It was silent as Adler searched his gaze, for what, Case couldn’t say. When Adler appeared to have found what he was looking for, both his brows rose up—the most surprised he’s seen on the stoic man. 

“That he did, Case. That he did.” His brows settled, a victorious ghost of a smile around his cigarette as he leaned back in his seat. “You’re one hell of an interesting soldier.”

(“I think you’re going to make one hell of an operative, Case One.” At whose dispense? After whose sacrifice? ̷H̷̷i̷̷s̷ ̷b̷̷r̷̷o̷̷t̷̷h̷̷e̷̷r̷ ̷w̷̷a̷̷s̷̷n̷’̷t̷ ̷s̷̷u̷̷p̷̷p̷̷o̷̷s̷̷e̷̷d̷ ̷t̷̷o̷ ̷d̷̷i̷̷e̷. “We were the first and last trial volunteer.” No he  ̷wa̷̷s̷̷n̷’̷t̷!)

He had to say it. He had to.

He couldn’t hide this anymore!

Case opened his mouth like he did with Woods, about to spill everything—just as how Gusev’s guts were actively being spilled on the runway—to confess. Bell had already seen him and Adler is looking through, he has to say it!

What happened a decade ago—

We can’t talk about it, the female voice in his head interrupted harshly, his vision turning orange and yellow at the edges and another sharp pang shooting through his temples in warning. Remember? 

(“Remember your training, Case One. You can never speak of the Cradle program. Or the Pantheon division. Never. Doing so could have unpredictable consequences.”)

“Here. Have a smoke, Case.” Case blinked away his blurry vision to find Adler offering a cigarette from his expensive brand, he either hadn’t noticed Case’s mental struggle or made a point in not mentioning it. 

Case took it and put it in his mouth dutifully, not bothering to say he didn’t smoke to Adler who was already lighting it for him. Taking an inhale through a cough. Not the worst substance his lungs have been subjected to, still unpleasant. 

“The expensive brands are stronger.” Adler said in answer to Case’s difficulty, but his tone suggested that he wasn’t ignorant to Case’s inexperience. More… knowing. “Enjoy it, Case. We have quite a ways to go.”

Case frowned at the cigarette in his hand, eyes narrowed at the ashes already gathering at the end. 

This was one of the strangest orders he’s ever received.

Because Adler didn’t offer it, did he? 

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“You’re quite adept at this. Using a virus and handing the floppy disk carrying it to Sevati, not only to take out their radar but for their computer and security system to do what we please. Leaving no stone unturned, as they say.”

“I do love it when you give me random compliments, Felix,” you responded with a smirk, typing away on the laptop and maintaining your balance on the moving helicopter as they flew over the Vorkuta camp, awaiting on the others as they facilitated the ground assault. “Although I can do without the surprise in your tone. Lessens the impact of your words. You should work on that.”

You could barely hear Felix’s mutter through the comms as he manoeuvred the helicopter around in the cockpit, but you were able to catch “Arroganz ist die Schwester der Einsamkeit.”

Perhaps too soon with an inner wince, still in mental recovery due to the gas (not so much hallucinations outside of the auditory ones your mind foolishly created when in the safehouse, or when using the training course. Still, no T.V. The nightmares haven’t stopped.) but Felix meant no harm, innocently blunt, and you can roll with the punches easily enough with humor as your defense. 

“Awwww, what happened to you saying us traitors of socialist regimes should stick together?” you replied back in German. “Here I thought we had a connection, Товарищ.”

“Putting words in my mouth and twisting it, I see,” Felix replied with distaste as he circled back around towards Vorkuta, spotting that they were still in the clear from any more possible reinforcements. “Fabrication, typische KGB.”

You snickered as you typed and watched the security footage, monitoring closely that Adler and the team below were on the right track. Clearly hearing the man was just putting up a front to keep up their false rivalry, the back and forth of using words such as ‘adept,’ ‘acceptable,’ ‘adequate’ or ‘satisfactory’ when it comes to judging the others’ more than mediocre skills. God forbid you actually tell the man you’re impressed at his abilities without even having to go out in the field; It’d ruin this whole dynamic you’re going for!

…perhaps you were a little shit, like Woods always says. 

Adler only implies “bratty” to you. (Don’t focus on what happened the night prior after Russ told you the news of Gusev’s death. Your cheeks pricked anyways. Adler doesn’t always  lie. Not much anymore.) 

You couldn’t help it with Felix however. You liked the man. Didn’t mean you trusted, too soon for that (you only trust one man implicitly and wholly, always. Ironic due to the circumstances around it, you realize, but you’ve had a decade to accept it. You’d give Woods second on your very small list, however.) but you genuinely enjoyed the man’s presence.

And a fellow intellectual! Those were becoming rarer and rarer nowadays. 

You couldn’t help but overhear the conversation between him and Sev the other night after the casino mission(Case did as well but he just stood there saying nothing and not adding onto the conversation, soon leaving after Felix told him “Not now, Case.”) as you were entering back into the house, only to pause. Passing by a self-righteous Sev and the bowed head of Case(Look at him, a mere shadow on the wall—wishing to not be seen by me. Too fucking bad. ▛ Ï̵̙͖̓ ̸̝̬̏š̷̠̭è̷̞̖̔e̵̢͝ ̷͔̈́y̸̱̰̿̅õ̵̟̕u̵͙͎̅̈́.▞), you grabbing a book you left on the table near the bay windows. You got near Felix, who was still warming himself by the barrel fire, and leaned your back against the banister. 

Once he protested about your presence and not wishing to “puff our peacock feathers” right now, only for you to say that you weren’t as you turned a page—he calmed, brows relaxing as he turned back to looking at the fire in thought. The only sounds between you two being of the crack of the fire or a turning of your page. It didn’t take long before Felix decided to speak first about your choice of reading. Making a snide comment about Nietzsche with you replying with a brow raised if he had something against the Ubermensche philosophy, before you winced. The meaning of what it was meant for, and Felix’s concerns about himself, not connecting until you said the sentence. Too soon; you opened your mouth for an apology—only for him to snort at you. Yes. Snort. Felix. Instead bringing it back to you if you disagreed being called Sharikov from Bulgakov’s Heart of a Dog. It made you smile. 

It didn’t take long for the both of you to go back and forth, all the authors that had commentary about their home country’s view of communist and socialist ideals. The conversation shifting somehow to Adler and his plan of contacting someone from CENTCOM.

“How likely do you think that this contact will assist?”

At this point, you joined Felix already closer to the fire with your book in the waistband of your pants, the lighting too poor to continue on reading, anyway. Staring at how the flames moved with a pensive yet confident expression.

“Adler is always two steps ahead. Despite his…well, what others call recklessness—he plans very well.” 

“You respect that about him,” Felix pointed out, making you hum distractedly, your smile turning a little softer (“Are you enjoying this? You’re risking the entire operation unnecessarily.” “It’s not unnecessary, it’s calculated.”). “…very intriguing. A love story between a CIA agent and ex-KGB. Was that possibly another reason the CIA wanted you dead and for Adler to do it?”

You snorted, hands rubbing to get more heat. 

“We’re not like Sev you know. Shame about what happened with her though...” You frowned, momentarily thinking of what you would do if Adler died. You moved on quickly to not dwell on it. It’s a thought you’ve had often, you already knew how you would react. “And if you’re hinting if I was trying to seduce him… no. I wasn’t. I just felt that him and I… we clicked. It’s odd. Not many can feel a connection like this—knowing the other innately and how they think. It’s like…we knew each other for years.” You’re getting too close. You had to be careful. Your lips formed a sharp smirk as you met Felix’s eyes over the fire. “Too bad for the CIA however; Adler didn’t want to play their game.”

“Two steps ahead,” Felix reiterated. 

You nodded. “Two steps ahead. I aim for the same. Maybe even three.” You couldn’t help but add, cocky, “that may be my Soviet side trying to prove my superiority, however.”

The man didn’t roll his eyes but it was a near thing.

“Arroganz.”

Your grin sharpened.

“Спасибо.”

When the two of you went in, Felix added a quiet yet heavy “thank you.” You threw him a mischievous look over your shoulder, brow raised. “Whatever for? Us traitors need to stick together.”

Your eyes carefully watched the security footage, the ground team now having infiltrated the sub-levels of the former gulag. Until they split. Case—by himself; your eyes narrowed before removing a transmitter, disguised as a landline phone, from your jacket to listen in.

You weren’t joking with Felix. You liked maintaining a three-step lead.

And after what you saw when Marshall, Adler, and Case came back from Kuwait—straight after the plan being made for Vorkuta (Case stopped you after you… “spoke” with Adler by the cliffs, catching you when Adler has already gone up to their room. Looking desperate, which made you pause from your disgusted sneer on your face. Except, he didn’t say anything. Opening his lips as if he would talk, but nothing coming out. Only stating with a pained voice, “There’s a reason I’m like this. I can’t say but…you…” his hand was trembling around your bicep as you watched the man, your pity only growing. Along with suspicion. You watched his fingers furl, before unfurling again. Shaking. Your gaze trailed up his arm to study his expression, lingering at the slight crook of his nose, half healed cuts and light bruising from Kuwait. He was either struggling to find the correct words, or struggling to talk entirely—it was hard to tell. “You…you see, don’t you?” he managed to get out before his eyes shuttered and he stepped back with a quick shake of his head, apologizing before quickly leaving. Something happened in Kuwait. You could tell when Adler made his report and talked to you on the cliff. You saw Case the other day. You thought you did. You’ll make sure you do.) you swallowed your fear and went down to the bunker. (Don’t go in the red room. A b̷̜̏e̵͙̙͋ḻ̶̨̎͠l̸̼̒echoes in your head.) Tinkering with the technology down there along with stealing from Felix’s stash. Perhaps it was an invasion of privacy (It didn’t matter a decade ago. It doesn’t matter now.) but you’ll do everything and anything to keep Russell safe.

Even if it means bugging comms and the whole house.

You activated the transmitter, although knowing you already couldn’t hear them due to being underground—layers of dirt and concrete tended to be effective in blocking transmissions—this would ensure that you could check the audio later on. 

You don’t trust Case on his own.

It didn’t take long; they soon collected Harrow, hauled her back onto the chopper and spoke over her head—talking around her about making her talk. 

Adler took the seat next to you, shoulder to shoulder as you kept working on your laptop. His warmth and presence grounding you despite your mind running through every possible scenario(“Let’s run through scenario 1A.” “Christ, what’s happening with her?” “Bell, we’ve got a job to do.” Your new job is to live.). Including as to why Harrow had a smug smirk on her face looking at Case, who had her next to him on the chopper, keeping her in place closer to the cockpit with Marshall on her other side.

Only for her eyes to wander towards you, brows furrowing deeply. The stare wasn’t bothering you, but it seemed it was bothering Adler; he leaned forward on his knees and moved closer to you, taking up your space—as if to shield you. You didn’t mind, her stare beginning to discomfit you yourself.

“What’s got you staring at her so hard, Jane? Why don’t you instead focus on the information you can tell us on the way to our hideout? Make this easier for us. Mostly for you.”

Harrow’s eyes flickered towards the man, you recognizing the hate in her gaze that rose before it quickly subdued. Her focus flickered back onto you, turning something over in her head before there it was. A flicker of recognition.

Great, you thought sarcastically.

Harrow’s smile was like a knife, cutting.

“I never thought I would see the day of a corpse walking around. Aren’t you supposed to be rotting in the ocean somewhere?”

“Too bad for you lot,” Sev cut in, standing and holding onto a bar to leverage her balance against the moving helicopter, eyes grimly satisfied on behalf of you(you did like the woman. Friendly. Cunning. Focused on vengeance. Although hasty. A danger.), but the subject matter made an awful feeling churn within the recesses of your stomach, the heavy laptop on your lap grounding you as your mind raced. “Adler here decided to say ‘fuck you’ to your ridiculous orders of killing someone who helped you.”

“A lot of those nowadays,” Marshall added, side eying Harrow with that angry yet betrayed look in his face. Still hurt. Still sees his friend when it’s just an enemy(A lot like you. Is that what you looked like? Solovetsky —you said Solovetsky—). You turned your eyes back to your laptop, biting your inner lip—pausing when you felt Adler’s hand over your knee, a comforting squeeze before standing up and joining Sev on the bar. The touch not lost on Harrow whose intense stare seemed to burn towards your knee, her brows pinching deeply with a frown to match. “The CIA seems to like throwing and using people away. I won’t be surprised if it was Pantheon’s influence too.”

Harrow released a disbelieving chuckle that you couldn’t hear over the whip of the rotor cutting through wind; you could only tell by the shake of her shoulders—the odd smirk pulling the corners of her lips, shaking her head.

“So naive, Troy. You can’t blame the Pantheon for everything. Always having to believe the best in everything, even in the previous CIA. But you,” she faced back towards you, pivoting as much as she could, and despite you trying to ignore the manic woman, you lifted up your eyes over your laptop to meet hers. Her smirk was lopsided as she stated your name—yours, not whatever the CIA had made up for you, not Bell. A sour taste in your mouth. “Or… as we liked to call you—Bell. What an interesting name. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

R̵̨̠̣̣̥̍̉į̷̳͖̰̀͆̿̽ṇ̴̻̦̏̄̔g̵̯̑̈͗̅̕

                                                R̷̪͒̅i̶̮̲̎͗ņ̶̼͝g̸̱͍͆

                      R̴͎̳̽̌͂̕͠͝ḯ̵̢̱̖̹̮̱̩̑͂̀͑͘͝n̵͉̗̈́̔g̵̣̣̊

                                                           R̸̢̢̛̪͕̦̜̥̝̯̘̙̗̖̣͔̝̞̘̬̍́̂̀͋̅̚͘͝í̷̧̡͔̮͓͎̲̪̖̤͙̥̘͙͇̣̯͙̣̮͎̥̏̊̓̊̽̂̆͑͜ņ̷̛̭̗̱̠̖͖̝̼͓̣̲̲͕͓̠̤͖̣̱̘̯͔̈́͗̏̀̓̑̒͆̄̄̈́̋̀̋̈́̓͂͗̚̕͝ͅğ̴̨̧̧̛̙͉͓͈̬̦̩̯̯̪̦̰̥̻͓̹͍̥̳̫̤̿͌̑̉͆͂̎̂ͅͅ

“Enough,” Adler commanded, taut and appeared as if he would knock Harrow out any moment now with the stock of his assault rifle. You focused on that picture instead of the sounds in your head, your fingers trembling over the keyboard. He stood over Harrow, brows deeply pinched—the only indication of his cool anger. “Stop with the games, Jane. Talk. Or even Marshall won’t stop me from getting what we need from you.”

Marshall gave Adler a look before facing Harrow grimly. The woman, instead, was staring up at Adler, with her brows up at his threat. Her eyes shifted back towards your knee, and her disbelieving expression turned into a curl of the lips—another connection made with her eyes turning viciously amused yet disgusted.

“It doesn’t have to be like that, Jane. Why don’t you start explaining—“

Harrow started laughing, throwing her head back. It was so sudden it made Marshall jump, the others staring at her in confusion but it only made you tighten your hand to a fist—slowly closing your laptop and stowing it away, cautious as you watched the woman snicker.

“Oh—this is—“ Harrow inhaled a breath, trying to calm herself down but failing as she released another short yet harsh laugh. “I can’t believe—This is a day of firsts. Really, Adler?” She asked, brow raised in cruel mischief. “You and her…? What an actual fucking shitshow because of course a man like you would,” she spat, all rage and bite in that one word before facing back towards you with a gaze filled with sadistic spite. “But of course, you always had a jó̵̦̰̤̈̑͑́̍̍̔̌̒́̀͘͜͝b̸̞̹̼̟͔̰̠͖̫̥̼̓̇̈́̋̀̀̑̎ͅ—“

A metal thwack met a skull, Harrow’s head falling towards her chest, her body held upright in her seat by the seatbelt alone.

“Woah, man! What was that for?!”

“Jane has a mouth on her,” Adler answered easily, fixing his gun and moving back to sit by you. You releasing a breath you did not realize you were even holding (She almost said it. The phrase. “We got a job to do.”) as Adler put his hand back on your knee, all casual and languid. Not like he just smacked the shit out of someone. You try to ignore how touched you’re feeling at how quick and protective he is now. (Adler from a decade ago wasn’t. Not much. Not like this. Russell is yours. Is he? You haven’t spoken at length about your suspicions of Case. Or what Adler may be planning from his own observations he’s had with you about Case. Stop it. You’re not like Case.) “She’ll keep talking and making up stories to get you wound up.”

“Wonder where she got that from,” you managed to quip. A distraction.

Sev raised a brow at the light shrug Adler did in response to your words.

“Well, well. How many protégés do you have laying around, Adler? Who also want to kill you.”

You’re loose tongued, you think. You’ll blame it on the gas as to why you answered the way you did. Plus the threat of sudden disclosure, your blotchy past nearly staining the fragile team-balance.

“Two for both, isn’t it?” you asked Adler genuinely, rotating your head towards him and all. Adler threw you a dry look beneath his shades. You tried not to shrink. You failed. Damn gas. Damn his icy blue eyes you can get lost in just like the touch on your knee. (Just like on the cliffs near the boulders when Adler said “I handled, Gusev. Just like I said, Bell. He’s shredded into tiny little mad scientist pieces. The gas won’t get you, лапушкаka. I got you,” he said to your ear, all low, breathy and husky to your needy and torn mind. His scent all around you, with your back to his chest—of course you grabbed him roughly and kissed him when he speaks so sweetly of another’s death.) “Too much?” You let out a short hysterical laugh, hand to your head, shifting in your seat to hide what’s rising low in your belly. “Not the same across the board when it comes to being in your bed, though.”

Felix made a choked sound even you could hear from the comms, the most he’s spoken since Harrow got in the chopper. You suddenly feel like you’re twenty eight again, cheeks heating as Sev let out a whistle, Marshall looking uncomfortably towards the floor. 

Adler didn’t have much of a reaction, only staring at the side of your head. His stare only making your cheeks prickle more. He can see. (The kiss turned wanting, your hands wandering to the base of his neck with beautiful wheat tresses and the other to his lower region. He made a delectable sound from the back of his throat that lit a fire in you. You wanted him here and now. All your fears of Adler from a decade ago gone when Russell turned the both of you, more hidden behind the boulders of the cliff under the moonlit sky. Shushing your whines softly or with a kiss and a burning touch from your abdomen to the waistband of your pants, quickly feeling out how needy you are already with his hands that make and unmake you. Have made and unmade. You don’t care, you want him now—not just his hands. Russell stopping you with a raspy chuckle, his large hand over your own on the tent of his pants. “Not now, Bell. Let me take care of you. Besides,” the both of you were laying against the rocks and pebbles, digging into your back but you didn’t care, desperate. Stilling only when Russell’s words breathed against the shell of your ear. “You’ll sing a little too loud if I fuck you. The kids may hear.” A kiss to your ear. The insertion of another key to unlock, make you break open with a gasp as he picked up the pace. “Is that what you want, Bell? Нет. Ты просто хочешь, чтобы я увидел тебя в сперме, покрывающей тебя и мои пальцы, хм?” He easily switched, knowing your weakness when he spoke your mother tongue, his mouth roving from your ear to neck, free hand from roving to pinching to starting to tug your pants farther down. You’re thankful you didn’t wear jeans, you’re so close. “Только для меня. Я тоже могу тебя съесть, а ты можешь дергать меня за волосы, как всегда, милая.”) 

Adler sees. Because he lets out a chuckle with a light smirk that makes you shudder. Just like how he looked with your juices dripping down his chin.

“No point in professionalism now. Too many types of fucking going around since this whole business started.” 

Oh no. You do feel twenty eight again. The only good thing coming out of that gas and regression. You really want to jump his bones right now. His need to take care of you be damned. Wait… bones? You’ve turned from hysterical to very hysterical. You’re more poetic in your head than that. Oh no. He can tell what you’re thinking because you keep staring at him and assessing. In front of everyone. You see him tilt his head at you, falsely curious with his lips a touch up, hand rising from your knee to the top of your thigh in one fluid motion.

Your head’s turns so quickly you see stars, opening up the laptop once more and faking work to get him to stop. So you can stop.

You really need to get your head together. Right after he gets his hand off of you.

▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▛ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▟ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚

Marshall knew he shouldn’t listen. Just like he knew in a deep part of him, that the Jane he thought he knew never existed. But he didn’t want to give up on her, not yet.

He always admired her tenacity, her ambition—how much she climbed to be where she was today. How she opened up to him about her journey of climbing up the steep cliffs to be right below the Director of the CIA. Just like how she admired his art, his drawings—his skills. Something settled in his stomach, whether it was nerves or warmth or a mix of both he didn’t know, when he saw she had it framed in her office. The drawing he gave her in private, her eyes alight and glittering up at him as she smiled softly up at him. He thought he did a smile back. Maybe a little awkward. A little hopeful.

The hope was gone. She’d been strapped to a chair, legs and wrists tied where he and Adler were interrogating her in the storage room of the house, windows tightly closed and dark. No way for her to know where they were.

And despite how he’d tried to be soft with her, reason with her—trying to find something, she dodged the question. Rolling her eyes at him even attempting to ask her about her evil master plan. Backhand compliments that used to be true and real but instead she twisted it—how studious he was, how annoyingly persistent, how his gentlemanly behavior was getting him nowhere fast. He thought he would be able to get through to her as a friend. He couldn’t. So he stepped back with a hand rubbing his face and motioned for Adler to take over—her mentor. The one who helped her refine her skills, sharpen her attributes (there’s a bitter taste in Marshall’s mouth, a part betraying him that Adler’s wildfire spilled onto his friend— and now she’s burning) and grow in the CIA.

Except it backfired. Marshall saw the way her eyes changed, the subtle shift of her lips curling. The sarcastic amusement in her eyes were gone, more dark. Twisted. Before she settled back into the sarcastic quirk of her lips, but her eyes didn’t change as Adler tried to get it out of her. That she’s helping no one. That will she really be responsible for thousands of deaths. Jane gave the same answers she gave Marshall. Shorter. Curt. Before she seemingly couldn’t take it anymore, the final straw when Adler implored her to take responsibility. 

“Responsibility?” She strained, shaking her head at Adler whose face was leaned down towards hers, his hand around her restraint on her wrist. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite. Is that what you’re doing with your precious project, Bell? Taking responsibility?” She rolled her head to try to face Marshall who was just a few feet away with crossed arms, his brows furrowing as he met her eyes around Adler’s form. “Why are you working with Adler of all people, Troy? You know what people have said about him. A man who kept a terrorist asset alive? Against the CIA’s wishes? Do you really trust him?”

Marshall frowned, thinking back on Adler’s explanation as well as Woods and Bell’s own.

Perhaps not so much ex-KGB, after all, as actively KGB like they’d said—claimed. Maybe even part of the Perseus ring, a low level person in his circle. 

“I don’t care what Bell was before.” He maintained eye contact with conviction. “She saved the world. That’s enough. Hell, we got a guy that was actively in the Stasi while betraying them at the same damn time.”

Jane clicked her tongue disappointingly at him. 

“You don’t know the whole story, do you? You wouldn’t be so chummy if you did.”

Marshall’s eyes narrowed before shooting Adler a look. He recalled how meek the woman had been the days following the gas incident. How, in her quasi-consciousness, she’d called out for Adler to stop—something.

“What’s she talking about?”

“You’re falling for her words on purpose,” Adler stated with a shake of his head, lifting up and away from Jane with pressed lips. The man had been doing that a lot to him lately. Ever since his mistake with Bell. Disapproving shakes of his head or disappointed sighs. “She’s trying to get you riled up and distracted and it’s working. Jane. Stop fucking around, where’s the weapon?”

“Come on, Marshall,” Jane cajoles, moving her hands as much as she could to motion a finger to her head. “Think. Something isn’t right with Bell. She’ll never be right in the head.” Jane turned to Adler with a sneer. “Adler I’m sure likes it that way. Don’t you?”

He’s trying to not doubt. They don’t need this. Jane is playing them. 

It’s pissing him off it might be working.

“Jane, just—“ Marshall flapped a hand around as if to motion for her to stop but he instead let it drop with a heavy tired sigh. Adler stepped back with a stoic expression towards Jane as Marshall stepped forward with a gentle yet firm hold on her shoulder while the other was atop her hand. “Just stop. Stop, okay? Woods wouldn’t lie to me. I trust him. Please, Jane. Just tell us the plan. I don’t want things to get ugly. It never has to get ugly between you and me.”

Jane’s eyes met his—and all Marshall saw was a stranger who pitied him. Her next few lines cemented where she stood—where she chose to make her stand. A hill she was willing to die on. Marshall’s head spun wretchedly, his mind unable to discern why. 

“You should know by now, Troy. Don’t trust anyone. Remember?” Jane moved her head back, top of her head against the back of the chair with a victorious smile on her lips. “Besides. It’s too late. Whether things ‘get ugly’ between you and me or not—they’re coming for you. And the plan will continue.”

Marshall’s eyes squinted behind his glasses, his mind going to the worst case scenario as Adler cursed softly behind him.

“How would they know?”

“Move, Marshall.” Adler pushed Marshall’s hand away from atop Jane’s own, pushing her sleeves up and feeling around with his digits before Adler’s expression turned hard. “Tracker. Thought of everything, huh?”

“You taught me to,” Jane quipped neutrally. No hint of bitterness or gloating—pure discretion.  

Adler turned his head towards Marshall, hand still firm around Jane’s arm with a grip tighter than strictly necessary. It made Marshall want to say something, to suggest they afford her gentleness, as if there was a sliver of chance she might come around. But—

He didn’t. Dread, or perhaps regret, began to compound—his mood taking a turn for the worse; were they doing the right thing?

“Change of plans, Marshall. We’re going to do this my way.”

Fuck. That’s all Marshall could think as he stared down at his once friend. His once something. What could’ve been. Fuck, Jane. What have you done?

▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▛ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▟ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚

The moment you heard the words, all perfectly constructed and subtle—too hard for others to tell on Adler’s meaning but you knew, you knew—a crack of betrayal occurred that no one else could hear.

“I’ve got something tucked away that can help.”

He lied, you thought, grip on the desk you were leaning on tight as Marshall gave his permission (Adler always lies.) and began to walk out the room. You were trying to not scream at Adler, whose gaze finally turned in your direction, a frown tugging his lips. He had no right to feel upset on my behalf, he l̷̺͌i̸̛͇é̶͇̹̇d̶̰͝! 

After he took a slow deliberate step towards you, seeing how you tensed—close to bolting away—he sighed through his nose and nodded at you instead, his head motioning out the room; Woods rolled to be by the man’s side, his own gaze knowing what Adler meant and a frown of his own pulling down to hide in his beard.

“Grab Felix to help you set up the house. Even when I have everything set up, we need to keep constant hands to make sure that Pantheon can’t get through.” Your eyes thinned, mind working overtime trying to find Adler’s meaning as he kept his gaze on you—being open and respecting your distance. (A lie? Adler was always good at baring his neck at you to show trust even a decade ago. Must be. He’s playing again. He s̵̹̄͝a̸̧͍͙̣̒͛͆͌͜͠i̶̝̟̖̝͈͂̃̈́̒d̷͇̠̠̮̖͊̆͑͝ he didn’t have it.) Sev followed after Marshall as he left the room, but of course Case was staring, his brows mildly furrowed so Adler couldn’t quite speak freely like you thought he wished. “Harrow is gonna get all that I had in the back burner. I’ve kept it for situations like this.”

It’s not for you—

—you heard him say in your head, jaw clenching as you stared at Adler in silence before your gaze turned towards where they held Harrow, in the storage room. Only to loosen your grip and relax your jaw as you thought back to your openly vulnerable position with Adler when you first arrived from the lab. Adler never said he didn’t have it, only ever responded to your questions of whether he would use it on you again. 

It was never meant for you.

(Right. This is Russ. He’s Russ. Adler’s mostly gone.) 

You nodded in understanding, watching how Adler’s shoulders interestingly relaxed a pinch before you focused on Woods—asked if he had a secret cache of deadly explosives stowed anywhere. The rugged man grinned up at you, noting how you didn’t appear like a rabbit about to bolt, and rolled his wheelchair to show you, his laugh remaining as obnoxious as ever despite the circumstances. You ignored how Case’s curious gaze seemed glued to your back as you went to work. Exactly what he witnessed and assumed was far from your most pressing issue.

By the time everyone else converged in the Evidence Board Room, you and Felix were still outside the front of the house setting up; sandbags and various weapons were arranged within easy reach for your crew. It was during this that you couldn’t but keep glancing at the lack of gloves on Felix, frowning as you loaded an AMES-85.

“… sorry.”

Felix paused his ministrations of setting up the RC-XD’s, eyes wide and blinking openly at you.

“This is a first. I never thought I would hear any word that may even hint at an apology from you. I doubted it was even in your vocabulary.” Seeing at how you stayed silent, only pressing your lips and avoiding his gaze before moving on to the next gun to load up, Felix rose a brow. “What’s brought this on, meine Freundin?”

“You weren’t supposed to go on that mission. In the casino,” you elaborated when you saw Felix’s confused look in your peripherals. “It was supposed to be me. You shouldn’t have needed to break your code. I�� have my own set of rules I follow.”

“Involving Adler I imagine?” Your lips quirked at how the German man clocked you. Uncaring at how openly you are when it comes to your feelings about the man, despite the irritation still simmering. Your mind calmed after Adler’s words after all. You believe him. He wouldn’t lie, not about this. Not when he brutally killed a man for you so you didn’t go through that gas again. (“Or…as we liked to call you—Ḅ̷̧̞̳̳̈̇͘ȅ̶͓̗̈l̵̥̀̌l̵̠͕̖̠̟̋́̅̚.” A bell rings in the echoes of your bruised mind, distant. Not as clear. Fading.) Felix assessed you before turning back to what he was doing, checking over all the different grenades and extra armor plates as he walked past you—the air crisp from the forest yet carrying that ocean hint from the cliffs. (You shouldn’t like standing over those cliffs so much. But you do. You should’ve died that day. The reminder that this is where you began your life anew—reincarnation. “The shot won’t be fatal. Not if you get help quick enough. They’ll have soldiers patrolling around that we may have missed. You got to do this right, Bell. You understand?”) “What’s done is done. My burden is not something you should carry, it was my choice after all. And with this assault coming to our doors, I can’t exactly lounge behind my desk while all of you do the work now, can I?”

“Ah, I see how it is.” You check the scope of an AEK-973 and aim it towards the hilltops to check the quality, smirking. A soviet gun you were distantly familiar with; it felt more at home in your hands than any American iron did. “You don’t want to feel burdened by having me—of all people—protect you and one-up you in the field. Perish the thought, Felix.” At Felix’s delicate huff, you lowered the scope and looked at him a bit more serious. “Did Sev make you change your mind?”

Felix held C4 in his hand, and double checked the detonation wires with critical eyes as he answered.

“Not necessarily. She merely… had me open my eyes on rearranging my priorities.”

“I see… and this is the result of said ‘rearranging’?” 

You caught the C4 charge he threw at you, raising your brows when you noticed he added an extra charge to make it more explosive.

“Klappe zu, Affe tot,” Felix said an answer with the common tight lipped smile he does. “They’ll have a hard time getting us with this in hand.”

You raise your brows, a sharp smirk as you threw the C4 charges up in the air a few inches, catching it in clear approval.

“без усилий не вытащишь и рыбку из пруда.” You handed them back to him with a teasing pat to his shoulder. “Not bad. If I didn’t know you any better with how you stick your nose up, I would think you would be trying to seduce me, товарищ.”

Felix rolled his eyes and moved away from your touch as you both walked around the house, headed for the backyard to prepare the resistance effort there.

“To listen to your constant jabberings even more? Your presence is barely tolerable as it is with how distracting your large head is trying to fit through a door.”

You snorted a laugh.

“I upgraded to ‘tolerable’ have I? And here I thought I would be the arrogante Frau forever. Don’t fall for me too hard like the Berlin Wall, Felix. You’ll get hurt.”

You heard Felix mutter something or another again in German, now clearly wiping away at his shoulder where you touched as if to show.

It wasn’t long after that you had everything in order, you having to swallow back the nerves building in your throat as you went back in towards the Evidence Board room or how Marshall coined it—the ops room. Adler was leaning against the wall by the CCTV’s they had set up in there, smoking before he took notice of the both of you approaching. 

He let Felix pass but he managed to obscure your view, preventing you from staring at Harrow and Marshall, her eyes glazed over as he held her hand and spoke comfortingly in her ear. 

The scene was concealed by Adler’s chest, clad in his Henley shirt, his hand lifting carefully to your cheek. Allowing you time to move. You stayed.

(You’ll always stay.) 

You didn’t flinch, but your eyes did shutter at the touch, his thumb grazing below your eye. You rolled your head forward to lean against his chest, Adler easily maneuvering to accommodate the action, placing an arm on your waist and holding his cigarette with his other hand.

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing it?” You murmured into his shirt, blinking your eyes sluggishly. The others were too focused on Harrow to pay attention to whatever the two of you may be saying. You didn’t know why you felt tired all of a sudden. As if seeing the image of Harrow, even in those few seconds before Adler blocked your vision—your body remembered just how hard it was.

Ṱ̶̃o̶̖̒͂ ̵̧̧͋o̴̖̭̕ṕ̵̘̲e̴̠̜̋n̵̗̹̾ ̷͇̍̔ṯ̵̂̏h̸̤̊̂e̵͉̰̔ d̸̨͍̘̯̟̱͈̗̫̳̓̈́͠ơ̶̮o̶̢̪̣̣̫͍͖͕̹̥̊̓͆̀̎̉́̚̕͠r̸̛̲̫͉̹̓͑.

Stop it, you told yourself, as if that would hinder your reopened wounds from spilling out, slapping a bandaid on a nasty gash. I’m not doing that anymore. It’s Harrow. It’s Harrow!

“No. It couldn’t be me,” Adler softly answered in your ear, unknowingly stopping a bell that started to chime its cryptic song. “It has to be someone she’s close to. Trusts; I don’t think Jane has trusted me for a long time.”

Adler spoke with a hint of resignation, his resolute nonchalance troubled, as troubled as the typically stoic man could be. You couldn’t see his face to confirm your suspicions, only humming in acknowledgement as he inhaled a deep drag from his cigarette. He moved you slightly back, and you lifted your head to see him motioning his cigarette towards you. The embers burnt, freshly red, glowed with new life as he exhaled from the side of his mouth, blown so that you wouldn’t have a plume of smoke in your face—stinging your eyes. The proffered cigarette prompted you to think; Adler was fully aware of how clean you are from nicotine (him being the sole reason). He however sated the part of you that stared longingly at the smoke coming out of his lips with a cool exhale into your open mouth, prompted or otherwise—he certainly wasn’t in the habit of actually offering. 

“Your favorite de-stressor?” Moving your hand up, you didn’t take the offered cigarette, but rather limply held his wrist, your touch light as you thumbed his pulse point. 

“Second,” he corrected quietly.

You rose a brow as you faced him, a suspicious ghost of a smile rising.

Adler’s answer was his own brow rising, a shadow of a teasing smirk to match. You rolled your eyes before rising to deliver a quick peck to the side of his mouth, deriving comfort from the mouthfeel of his scar, the smell of his skin. You took in his warmth by nuzzling into his chest again, fully focused on his presence. 

You will for Harrow’s increasingly apprehensive words (spilling from her lips, bleeding from her mouth) to fade off somewhere in the distance.

“I don’t need it. You know I have to take it from your own mouth for me to like it.” You preferred  the delivery of the smoke directly rather than actually using it the “normal” way.

“Taking it like that might be more harmful than the normal way,” Adler nagged, you don’t know why. He does it when you ask. Sometimes unprompted as well. It always leads to something or another. You’re not asking him for it right now however. Not appropriate. 

Adler sighed, placing his cigarette between his mouth, freeing his hand to settle on base of your neck, weaving through some of the hair there and scratching at your scalp. It made you unconsciously lean more of your weight against the man as you breathed out contentedly. “You shouldn’t be letting me do that so freely, Bell.” Your brows pulled together, pulling your head back slightly to see Adler’s visage was a hint taut, his lips more pressed than necessary around the cigarette. Before you can ask what was wrong with him, his hand roved from the back of your neck to the side of it—his thumb at the apple of your cheek as he gazed searchingly down at you, using his other hand to grab at the cigarette so he could freely talk. “… after this mess is cleaned up, we should go to Berlin.”

The perimeter alarm sounded just as you were about to question him, his sudden yet vulnerable sounding statement. Bodies sprung into action as Felix announced they were coming from the north; you stepped forward a few feet away from Harrow, your eyes on the way she seemed to be not here. Her eyes closed, murmurs and mutters escaping—hands furling and uncurling. You glanced at Case, who seemed to be watching her the same, a set grim line for a mouth. And his eyes…

Vengeful? You frown at what you saw, only for orders to be barked for Woods to be the one to finish extracting information from Harrow while the rest of them held the perimeter—or at least attempted to defend it. Woods? Alone?

“Wait!” You spoke up, now between the door of the ops room and Adler’s table that he enjoyed using for his smokes. Marshall paused giving orders to offer you his attention; the others did the same. “I’ll stay with Woods. Just as an extra measure if they manage to get through.”

“Bell, are you sure?” Woods was looking at you in clear concern, gaze flitting from Harrow to you. Strange to be involved on this side of things, for once, but you were careful not to look too discountenanced; you’ve had a decade to get ahold of yourself. 

You nodded, hand tightening on your side as you grabbed an XM4 and a Grekhova from the table, giving Adler a nod along with Woods—determined.

“I’m sure. We can’t risk anyone trying to stop us from getting the information we need. Besides,” you threw Woods a smirk that didn’t reach your eyes, but you hoped it still sent the message, “I can’t leave you with just your tank, Woods; nothing wrong with a little extra firepower. You can try to kick my ass on the Nintendo once this is over.”

Woods snorted as he returned your nod, his eyes rolling up in exasperation. Marshall mirrored the gesture of affirmation with haste. 

“Got it, Bell. You and Woods handle Jane, then, while we focus on defending the house from all sides. Close the ops room, Bell—“ 

You looked up with wide eyes as Adler strode easily across the room towards you, your gaze rising as he neared closer. Using a loose—although firm—hand on your upper back, he pulls you in to plant a quick yet searing kiss. You felt your face heat up, acutely aware of the audience in your peripherals, as you fisted around his form-fitting shirt. He leaned back, and there was a split-moment that he paused—engaging you with a soft look—before he gave you a steady nod, returning to load magazines with quick fingers. You wonder if the gas had fucked you up more than you thought, for him to offer his affection so publicly. The action used to soothe your still frayed mind. Sev whistled, loud and impressed, as Felix stared before averting his gaze. 

Marshall appeared as if he was stuttering without saying anything; he blinked himself out of his mild stupor before he continued. “O—kay, listen up!” 

You stepped back, away from the table, into the ops room and slid the metal door closed. You didn’t hear the rest as you closed the door, turning your back to it with your firearm lax in your hands, observing as Woods picked up where Marshall had left off.

It was… strange. Watching Harrow as Woods tried to guide her through, despite her obvious fear, as if she were a little girl. You didn’t catch much—with Adler distracting you—but from what you could tell from observing Harrow’s fast mutterings (You looked like that. You never asked Adler and he never explained. About the murmurs and the visions you saw, of how you must’ve been trembling in place just like Harrow was. Did you switch from English to Russian consecutively? To German when you saw the sticky notes? They gave you an adrenaline shot too. Harrow is lucky.) something had happened to her parents. Someone had killed them.

When she said the name, it threw you and Woods for a loop.

“Her parents must’ve been working with terrorists,” you lowly interject when Woods called Adler’s name, appalled - disbelieving. Your gaze cool as you flicked towards Harrow’s form on the chair (You tried the p̴̢͒̚ͅẖ̸̇r̶͊͜ã̶̞̿s̶̡̮̾e̷̢͋̕, this is what you get.) to assess. “Adler doesn’t touch innocents.” You know that. You know it intimately. 

You must’ve talked louder than you thought because before Woods could agree, Harrow voiced her denial, her voice thick and desperate, you thought.

“No! You—you don’t know anything!” It’s as if she forgot to breathe between words; the hatred, force and desperation in her tone turned her voice hoarse—and bitter. “Adler killed my parents. You must know it. What he is, what he’s doing to you despite his shitty charms. He used you—and is still using you! Adler is disgusting—a wretch.”

You gritted your teeth, tightening the hold on your gun while Woods defended you.

“Stop it, Harrow! Bell isn’t brainwashed anymore! That’s not what we should focus on. How are you so sure it was Adler? You were a kid.”

“N-No…” a slight dither, “it was! I know it was!”

“How can you be so sure?”

Harrow was hesitating, you could tell by just how deeply disturbed she appeared at the possibility—the chance that the Pantheon used her desperation against her. The desperation of  a child that, for years, had tried to find a reason for her parents’ death; a child that needed for there to be some kind of sense behind it, a meaning.

The ever-growing pool of hateful pity rose in you, your expression turning colder when the woman started panicking. So lost. So fearful. Confused. At war with herself and her supposed convictions—denial that she got played in the first place like a fucking third hand used up doll with hope to make things right or being the self righteous bitch that thinks she’s in control.

What’s gotten her into such a tizzy? You watched as Woods’ own pitiful expression towards Harrow, a touch of concern as her eyes shuttered in time with her feet moving on the floor, as if she wanted to flee; he muttered about her rising heart rate as he felt around the pulse point in her wrist. Your fingers were clenching and unclenching around the fore-grip of your XM4, strong contempt at her - what she’d done; framing Adler for the intelligence fuck-up that was Panama. And yet Woods still had this concern, concern for who he thought Harrow was, only for it to be lie. Despite how the man put up a front, you knew his inside was soft. He had to be. 

She’s acting like they gave her multiple doses. I wasn’t this pathetic . Giving all this information so easily.

You couldn’t stand the sight anymore; you turned your focus, instead, to ensure the door of the ops room remained secure. You moved things from Woods’ desk a few feet away against the wall—out of the way—and turned his desk over, careful in your effort to not disturb the… interrogation exercise, forming a makeshift blockade. A bit of cover if the ops room were to be compromised.

Woods had his full attention on Harrow, too busy focusing on a seizing Harrow, coaxing her to say the last bit of information needed—where they’re deploying the Cradle, to bother nagging at you about messing up his stuff. You double checked his own weapons, too, and ensured that they were loaded and serviceable before placing them within reach of him, going as far as propping the shotgun carefully between the outside of his thigh and the sides of the wheelchair to hold it. 

She passed out? Woods’ sharp curse when you handed the weapon off prompted your gaze to lock on her, and you saw how Harrow’s head was completely forward and slack. Woods gave Marshall updates as he tried to shake the woman awake, firmly insistent that they weren’t done yet—as if she could hear, somehow—and that she needed to push through it. Your lips curled, sneering. She expects to lead the CIA when she’s so feeble in mental strength? This ambition of hers is just a pipe dream; she’s nothing more than just a mere ant. (Unlike you. You were better than that, you were going to be P— -̷̛͎̏̕) 

You would’ve grabbed the woman’s hair by the scalp and slapped her if Woods hadn’t handled it; she finally spilled just as separation wore off, her true self coming through—the version of herself that’s just a smug bitch who thinks she knows it all. Too late for her—Woods had managed to get the information that you needed.

Your ears pricked at an explosion near the ops door, the metal groaning from the impact. Getting behind the desk you turned over, you turned the pin of your XM4 to fire and held it ready, soberly anticipatory.

“Woods!”

“Shit!” Woods begun to roll his wheelchair back, and away from Harrow, to support you. Pantheon’s attempts to breach the room were audible, and it was clear that they were making headway, each attempt less fruitless than the last. A split second of shuffling has your eyes widening with realization—they were going to place a breaching charge.

The gun was held steady in your arms, your scope aimed towards the ops room’s point of entry as you crouched behind for protection—at the ready. “Yeah, I got it! I need to make a quick call to Livingstone!”

The silence was eerie, your heart hammered and you didn’t dare tear your gaze from the door. You forced yourself to breathe evenly and hoped that Woods would get the message out in time. 

“Woods,” you said in warning, hearing the heavy footfalls right outside the door as soldiers cleared back, preparing for the detonation. 

“Gettin’ there,” he barked. 

Just as you heard the distinct transmitted tone from the transponder, Woods just managing to get the message out, the Pantheon blew open the iron door; soldiers filed in—the lead equipped with a riot shield. 

You focused on the man with the shield and Woods used his shotgun, his sights set on the others filing in from behind the lead soldier’s sides, forming a human barricade between you—and the exit. 

There was only one way out.  

You shot the man’s feet, Rules of Engagement damned, and downed him just as you needed to reload. No time. You took out the Grekhova as more soldiers came in, cursing at the seemingly constant waves of them, and scrambled back—away from the desk—due to the speed of their flanking. 

Woods faltered in his support, cursing as he had to throw his shotgun away and reaching for his pistol, M1911, as you came by his side to support him. Seeing how soldiers were getting closer and closer. Hand to hand it was. 

You took a sharp inhale, lunging forward and closing the gap with the soldier in front of you before they could react. Your hand shot out, gripping their wrist and turning it down. The soldier snarled and tried to twist away, but he was so slow. 

You struck his wrist with your free hand, aiming for the grip on his firearm to loosen, succeeding. You grabbed it and gave a swift kick to his ankle, his balance faltering. That’s all you needed—you shoved the barrel of his XM4 under his chin at an angle, pulling the trigger as the fully automatic firearm sprayed into his skull. There was little time to think about the sensation of warm blood splattering down the side of your head. Shot in the head with his own gun. You scoffed, he shouldn’t have lost it so easily, then. Shouldn’t have let you get so close; a firearm’s only good when there was a bit of distance. 

Before it could fall, you grabbed the corpse by the shoulder straps of it’s armored vest, struggling to keep the dead weight upright as you shielded yourself. 

Bullets continued to come your way, your eyes hard as you tried to cover Woods, too, as he kept shooting with his pistol. You free your dominant hand, using the back of your palm to quickly wipe the slickness of sweat and tacky blood from your cheek before reaching for the corpse’s thigh holster—a GS45 fastened there.

Freeing it from the holster, you messily cover your right, conscious of the magazine capacity, as Woods handled your left. The longer you held the corpse, the more your arm started to burn with the effort—easily over eighty kilos of dead weight. 

It was unsustainable; a sharp surge of irritation when the pistol stopped firing, punctuated with a dull click.

“Ебаное дно!” You clicked your tongue, unwilling to give up until they had you six feet under. The soldiers advanced significantly—well within arms reach of you.

Too close.

You threw the dead body towards them, utilizing the temporarily distraction to grab a homing knife from your thigh strap. Immense pressure erupted from your shoulder, the feeling of powerful force indicated a shot was made—whether the bullet grazed you or worse was hard to tell, it hurt all the same.

Gritting your teeth, you grunted but kept your aim true as you threw the homing knife.

Bullseye. 

The blade impacted the one you shoved the body toward. Meeting an eye with a slick sound, their body joined their fallen comrades. The motion had aggravated the new injury on your shoulder, and although you anticipated the move, you hadn’t enough time to recover before the other soldier lunged at you. 

The breath was knocked out of you. You fell to the floor, hard, your teeth clacking together as the back of your head hit the ground. Blood in your mouth—you must’ve bitten your cheek— and an uncomfortable feeling jolted your bones, Woods not fairing any better; they’d torn him down, too. 

You snarled, grabbing a knife from the back of your boot to slash at the man’s ankle, your shoulder screaming as you forced the movement. He caught your wrist and twisted it, your fingers splaying reflexively at the pain, yelping. Your eyes followed the blade as it fell to the floor with a brief clatter, irritation spiking when the soldier kicks it from your reach. 

You harshly spit the blood gathered in your mouth to the side, turning your head forward with a huff. The overhead lights were a little harsher as your head spun; the reminder of the last time you were half-dead under blinding lights sat only a few feet away from you. The bitch was doubtless grappling with her returning faculties. Probably already had—she hadn’t required a heavy dose at all. Weak. 

Shame. Should’ve fucking shot her the moment she spilled. 

The barrel of a gun met your face, conviction still running through your veins despite your need to catch your breath, sweat and blood on your skin as you tried to twist out of it. You abandoned the struggle when you realized it’s in vain. Even if you were to break free of the soldier’s grasp, there were half a dozen more in the room. You were injured. 

And fuck, you seethed when you saw they released Harrow—now seemingly fully conscious. She stood from the chair, rubbing her wrists primly. You fought the urge to roll your eyes; she hadn’t even been bound that tight, certainly not to the point of pain. 

“I want both of them alive.” Harrow passed her disappointed glance from Woods to you, the Pantheon soldiers stood you up forcibly, propped you upright with a rough grip around your uninjured upper arm, likely unconcerned that you’d try anything with your other arm, blood staining through the fabric there. You didn’t dare assess the damage, you’d rather not know. Yet. 

Her eyes seemed to change into one of interest as she skimmed over the many soldiers you took down. Her voice was strange, seemingly pleased with herself. “Very interesting. You’re a special one, aren’t you?” 

You spat at the ground, Harrow’s falsely kind tone made your hackles raise, and another soldier grabbed your injured side, reconsidering their hold on you. That you might fight even with just the one soldier holding you back. Their grips grew tight on each side. 

“You’re a pathetic one.” One of the soldiers delivered a smack to your face, your eyes seeing black and stars in your vision, your legs faltering before regaining your balance. You chuckled through blood stained teeth as you rolled your neck to the side, facing Harrow directly. “You talked so easy for us… hah… embarrassing.”

The words didn’t seem to land as you wanted, Harrow—unlike how meek separation had made her—had the courage, the nerve, to attempt to grasp your face. You snapped your teeth at her hand in warning—Harrow’s brows only rising more in clinical interest rather than the annoyance you saw a smidge of. You received another blow to the side of your face, blood spraying onto the floor below you as Woods called your name in concern.

“Bell! You fuckers!” Woods tried to move his arms to no avail, the soldiers foot and hand not moving from his tattooed arms. Woods let out a growl of frustration. “Focus on me, Harrow!”

“Curious,” Harrow continued as if she couldn’t hear the man. “Didn’t know MK-Ultra was this effective. You’re the only live one we have. Adler kept you quite a secret. A dirty one too,” she added in a tone of disgust.

You panted as you tried to get yourself together. “Got a point on all this, сука? Just kill me and get over yourself.” 

Harrow blinked in surprise, mocking with a hand to her chest.

“Kill you? The only live MK-Ultra subject we have? Why would I? It’s clearly effective. You fell in love with the man who tortured you.” Harrow let out a sick and cruel laugh, your stomach starting to drop at the implications when Harrow successfully grabbed your cheeks and squeezed. The pain that prickled from the broken skin on your cheek paled in comparison to your aches elsewhere. Aches everywhere.

Your vision swam, not just from the punches, but from the silhouette of Harrow in front of you to Adler—a decade too young—standing over you in a gurney—g̶̨̦̒l̶̨̘̈͝i̴̥͚̚t̶͕͕͗c̷̢̈́h̷͉͆͠i̵͕̋n̸̨͒̕g̷̰͐ in and out of your vision. You gasped. “I don’t need to fuck you to keep you in line though. Not my type. And despite what you may think of me, I draw the line at sexual assault. But using MK-Ultra on you and maybe what I gave to Case, you’ll be my best asset.” 

“We either control the asset, or eliminate the asset.”

No…

“Leave her alone, Harrow!” Woods yelled through grit teeth, still on the floor. Harrow turned towards the man with sick pleasure and you could see the knife in her hand. “Your head must be twisted if you really think Adler killed your parents and would even touch Bell like that!” 

“Wa-wait, no. Just kill me!” You pleaded, struggling harder in the hold on you to no avail. Your shoulder was hindering you and the ache in your jaw spiked when you moved it wrong. Harrow mocked Woods, scornful gloating before she swung deftly, delivering a knife to his abdomen, your adrenaline rushing and coming two fold. Fight or flight. N̷̺̉͊̈́ö̵͈͙̻t̴̤̻̟̒ ̵͉͙̍a̴̫̬͉͑̈g̵̺͝a̵̻̐i̸̗͚̗̊n̷̨̪̤̒̓̏.

“No! Woods!” You tried to claw, you even tried to bite. But two men in this state was even hard on you. “You little сука! Aмериканская дворняга!”

“Oh?” Harrow stood up, blood slicked knife in hand. You swallowed, roughly; the blood in your throat abrasive. “That’s funny. Aren’t you the dog? You will be. This is the best vengeance. Adler killed my parents. Now I can use his Russian love as I please. My ultimate soldier. Oh sorry. Cолдат would be more appropriate.” 

No. No. No.

You’ll forget. Everything. You won’t know anybody! Again!

Your mind won’t survive this a second time.

Your chest is tight, you feel like you can’t breathe and the room is spinning. You can’t breathe.

You can’t breathe.

(̴͉̪͐̕“̸̟̩̓͂W̵͔̲̱̼̎̓e̵̦̝͋̀̈́́͝ ̶̨̮̪͛g̷͈̺͙̗̓̊̐o̶̭̪̟̒̎̅t̴̡̗̼̫̽̅̆̈́t̶̬̠͍̝̹͛̈́̇ā̴͎̤ ̸̡̜͎͔̭̄͑͝j̷͈̜̆ͅo̵̡̥̣̿́͛̆̔ḃ̸͖ ̴͙͔̭̂t̶͈͇͈̓̎ǫ̵͇̻̯̼͑͆̓͊ ̷̥̅̿d̸̥̹̝̗͂̕o̶̙̲̱͂̄̊́͑.̴̨̨̻̤͎͆̎̔”̶̦̼͕̋̐͗̒)̷͕̮͉̝̂̈́̈̔

No, you don’t! You haven’t for years! 

…right?

Right? 

The bell that was distant is now closer, over your head as it chimed to match the ringing in your ears.

“Bell!” You hear Woods call despite his grievous injury. “Keep fighting them, Bell!”

Time slips through splayed fingers, an immense pressure building somewhere in your head, pain erupting each time you come back to. You gasp.

They brought you outside, the thought suddenly registering as you feel the wind on your face, ice cold air prickling your open wounds. A Pantheon chopper in front of you. 

Your vision growing dark on the edges. You can’t. You can’t get on the chopper.

You’ll die before you do. Your vision swims, your head falling forward and looking at the ground. Chest heaving out of rhythm, gasping for air as if the soldiers hit you another time. 

The ground was shifting. From craggy rocks to puddles. From simple grass to the thick foliage that was home to mosquitos. You spot an MCI on the ground. A lone appendage on the other side. Fires on the trees like mini suns in their brightness and height.

Vietnam.

Your throat was closing tight. Needles.

“Needles?”

“No.”

“Well, look at that,” Harrow taunted, deceptively disinterested. She spoke of you as an asset, an instrument she merely needed to tune before deploying. “Classic panic attack. Don’t need to break you much, then. Hopefully you’ll still be able to take the Cradle better than Case.”

The grip on your arms loosen as your vision swims, you trying to catch your breath with deep gulps of air. You close your eyes. The sound of the chopper rotors whipping hurt your ears. 

The chopper. The only survivor. You picked up the M16—No. Adler. Adler the only survivor. The scar—

“MK-Ultra.”

“No.”

You’re more thrown to the back of the chopper than carefully laid down. The harsh metal jarring you as you tried getting your bearings, elbows digging painfully on the metal. The tread plate flooring scraping on your skin.

Hot metal atop of you. Danger close. Solovetsky.

Someone kneels on your side, grabs a wrist with gloved hands as you lay there with slow even breaths. 

Solovetsky.

Your mind supplies of a rugged voice to your ear atop of cliffs. 

“Follow what I say closely, kid.”

A plan. To live. To be.

“Bullet?”

“No. Never again.”

Adler just barely half an hour ago, looking vulnerable in his softness as he gazed down at you.

“…after this mess is cleaned up, we should go to Berlin.”

A promise.

Your eyes sharpen, a quick inhale as you use your free hand to seize the knife from the soldier’s thigh, slicing his neck before he could comprehend it. Blood spurting on you like the red blooded demon you are. A spray of red mist staining your skin, some falling down to your eyes.

Harrow and the other soldier spin as the helicopter starts to take off.

“What—“

You pounce, snarling just as the soldier takes a step towards you, moving to grab you only to fail as you use your foot—manipulating his momentum—trip him up, throwing him off of the helicopter. Your body hurts. Every part of you aches, but you don’t care. You can’t care, not with the surge of energy you feel. The euphoric high when you make them bleed.

“You fucker!” 

Your vision spins as you feel your nose break with a crack. You rose a hand to block another hit. Feet steady and secure. You give her a swift kick to the chest as she tried to punch you again, her arm swinging towards your abdomen before you terminated the attempt. She lets out a choked gasp as she falls, winded, vicious eyes staring up at you.

Her on the floor from your kick. You standing above, eyes cool with a white knuckled grip on the knife. 

Your figure of red. The Russian you are. 

You climb atop Harrow before she can even move, knife swift towards her chest. Only to be stopped by her own hands atop of yours, two inches away.

You grunt, eyes feral and hungry for more blood. Both of you have your hair matted and sweaty, stuck to skin, frustrated noises coming from you both as you fight to kill and she fights to live.

Live.

“N-no!” Harrow manages to slip through her mouth, knife growing closer. You shift your grip, hand more firmly atop the handle and you using your body weight to push. Push. Just push it in. “No…!”

You growl, teeth out and animal like noises coming out of you. Uncaring if your bloody spittle falls on the bitch’s chest as you grow closer and closer and closer.

Live!

Your knife meets chest, you see it entering slowly just as Harrow does with a yelp. 

“Never…again…!” You spit, pushing it more. 

Harrow’s head meets yours as a shock, nausea suddenly meeting the aching already settled there. The blood loss, your injuries, even the motion of the helicopter taking to the air—it makes it harder for your balance to resettle. Your head spins as you pull back, your back now on the floor as she seizes the upper hand, straddling your waist as her hands wrap around your throat. Your hold on the knife still to her chest, but you struggle without your weight behind it. Without air. You’re choking.

Harrow laughs in your face, all wild and insane—your former grim ferocity fading.

“Ha! Kill… me?! I’ll make sure… Adler sees your head on a spike… you commie bitch…!”

The helicopter is in the air, yet a new passenger arrives. Giving a swift kick down to Harrow’s back, therefore meeting the knife to her chest in a swift movement. It sinks in with the force, past skin, fat and muscle.

Her eyes are wide just yours is, your eyes shifting to beside you to see the stoic and sweaty Case. Harrow had her death rattle atop you her words a mere whisper only you could hear as she looked up at Case. Disgusting, you sneer. She got her fluids on you. Mucus, blood, sweat.

“I… made… you……”

Her last breath fanning your cheeks before you rolled the dead weight off of you. Case makes for the chopper pilot with a swift knock out and quickly gains control.

Your eyes move towards Harrow’s body, staring at her dull eyes with a ruthless look of your own. You put a foot to her shoulder with a sneer.

Never again.

You push her off with your foot. 

Down to the open water and you don’t care for what semantics this could mean.

You instead close your eyes, just like you did in Solovetsky. And feel the sun on your face as Case moves the helicopter. The sound starting to calm you.

“Live. You gotta live for me, Bell.”

“Ha…I did it, Russ. You’re welcome.” You say with a pained smile. And you say it again when you land by the cliffs, Adler rushing towards you with wide eyes—glasses atop his hair as he assessed you on the helicopter. A good thing, too; you’re not sure you have the strength to alight on your own.

His hands seeming to not know where to go, but he doesn’t hesitate. His touch ghosts up your sides, blindly assessing you with a nearly-spooked form of gentleness. He finally took a look at your bloody face, littered with cuts and nasty bruises, still with that distant ghost of a smile. Adler released a breath and brought you gently to his chest, whispering that he has you in your ear as he nuzzled softly into your hair. You could only release a chuckle, one that was more a breath of air than a huff of amusement, as you closed your eyes. You inhaled the familiar comforting scent of nicotine and leather. “I did it, Russ… You’re welcome,” you said again, more quietly than the first time, quickly fading to rest.

Russell shushed you, planting a quick peck to your bloodied temple before continuing to hold you. His hands surely covered in scarlet similar to how you’re drenched in it, spreading it to his own form.

“Yes. Good job,” Russell breathed, moving his forehead to tap against yours, blue eyes on your abused and tired face. “Rest, Bell. Do that for me.”

“O…kay…” You managed before all you saw was black. 

(An image of a bell in your mind’s eye, not moving for a ring.)

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A/N: makeyourpeacenow: There's something here to be said about Harrow, the CIA bitch, determined to end Bell, former Soviet, in early 1991 (before the Soviet Union dissolves in December)

Also Adler's two protégés fighting 🫠

Animefreak1145: Case needed a proper crash out and someone to try to defend the poor man. Even though his only defense is a woman who hates looking at mirrors who can't even defend himself from breaking. Don't let Bell get started on Harrow.(too many uncomfortable mirrors here for Bell to face) Also Soft!Adler here(interested at looking at a new potential tool/asset/operative like Case who reminds him of Bell, typical Adler) mixed with psycho. I like Marshall, just not his treatment of Case. Also ex-socialist/commie besties Felix and Bell forever and ever. Nerds for the win~ 💗 🤓Hope ya'll enjoyed this work we did together. There's other stuff I want to comment but I don't remember. Just poor Bell going through bad drug trip... 😔 And Russell making a massacre out of Gusev and willing to have bloody drenched hands along with Bell 🥰 Psycho couple for the win!

Edit: https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTY5VWtvK/

Accurate. 😐

Tag List: @tr1ppylady @parkeepingparker @weirdoartist21 @gojocat247 @mayaibnlaahad @dallmaistir @salvija @kylezkie4adler @asaltryefl @stupid-stinky @aurora-windu @zachfoxx121 @pyxis-stellae @makeyourpeacenow @obsessedgremlin @butterfly-stitches @djloveyou3000

You have to tell me if you want me to tag you for each update or else I won't know. Or if you wish to be removed.

[rika-mmendmethings]

Mirage l Caleb

Chapter 2

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 coming soon

Summary: In a world where power is survival's currency, you are a former top Colonel in the Farspace Fleet, now demoted to lieutenant colonel. You've lost your rank to Caleb, a newcomer who has taken your place. But when fate takes, it also gives. You discover that the man you despise is linked to the very organization you've been trying to expose for years. Yet, you find yourself being deterred from your mission as the line between loathing and love blurs.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story but main ones are: enemies to lovers, slowburn, major character death(s), extreme violence, yandere themes. For currently this chapter: reader is insane, mentions of brainwashing, malnutrition, and experimentation, fratricide, emotional manipulation, minor character death and guns, graphic violence, eye gore/ trauma, implied torture, revenge narrative, major foreshadowing, psychological trauma, morally grey protagonist.

Word count: 2.2k

Notes: This story is the Caleb girlies especially the ones who love Colonel Caleb. Farspace Fleet and EVER are not related, i.e., both are different organizations with distinct criminal histories. The timelines can be and will be going astray because this is a reader-insert. This feels like a filler chapter with hell lot of foreshadowing for future. If you have any more questions, feel free to ask me, and I'll try my best to give you a proper answer without revealing too much. Let me know if you wish to be added to the tag list for this. ♥

Tag list: @browneyedgirl22 @tatauane @his-ocean-emissary @rxelarailuj @junni-berry @glowinthedarkforests @motherspider @justpassingdontworry @nm4565natty @luwumii @chiikasevennn @lads-ficrecs @aiehtta

"Do you regret it?"

Your voice is flat — colorless, empty, like a slate scrubbed raw. It echoes in the sterile chamber, each syllable hollow and slow. Your face is shriveled from starvation, the skin stretched too tightly over your cheekbones, a frail frame draped in the papery folds of a hospital gown. Test after test had devoured your body, carved youth from your bones — but there’s still something young in your eyes, something that hasn’t quite died.

Across from you, your brother kneels. His colonel’s cap lies abandoned at his feet like a discarded crown. His head is bowed. His whole frame shakes with the weight of what he cannot take back.

“Every single minute of it,” he sobs, voice wet and broken. “I shouldn't have done that. I'm so sorry...”

He folds before you, hands clasped, face crumpled by grief, the proud soldier reduced to nothing but a penitent man. Behind you, a glass box is lit with sterile white light, lined with the silhouettes of higher-ups who watched not as people, but as mechanisms of control. Their pens moved in tandem, indifferent. 

You lower yourself to your knees. A mirror of his posture, hands drawn together in a gesture not of prayer, but of bitter imitation. A few tears roll down your cheeks, but your face remains blank. You mirrored his desperation with a detached precision like a puppeteer imitating his own puppet.

He stills, the horror dawns slowly in his eyes as he truly sees you — the pallor, the sunken cheeks, the trembling hands that no longer tremble from fear, only from what they’ve endured. He sees the aftermath of what he helped build.

“What’s so special about this position?” you murmur, voice distant. “Look, I’m kneeling too. Does that make me sorry enough?”

His breath catches, eyes wide, shame catching up to sorrow. He begs again, trying to reach out to his younger sister, hoping she’s still there, “Please…forgive me.”

You reach out, cupping his face with your hands. Your fingers brush beneath his eyes, catching his tears as he once caught yours when you were younger, when love hadn't yet been replaced by greed. 

“I do forgive you.”

You notice the exact second the hope flickered in his eyes, like a spark catching on kindling. That small, pathetic second. You watch his shoulders release, as if he could finally breathe again, hope blooming like a fool’s flower.

You continue without a rush, "Except my forgiveness is death."

Then, without warning, you plunge your nails into his eye.

His scream shatters the silence. A high, animal cry that rattles your skull, reverberates through the glass, crashes into the cold hearts of your observers like a warning. But no one moves. They simply write faster.

Your brother’s scream rips through the sterile air — hoarse, guttural, drenched in agony. It fills the room, bounces off the reinforced walls, and claws at your ears. But you remain silent.

His hands flail weakly toward his face, blood gushing from the ruined socket in thick, uneven pulses, painting his face in deep, wet reds. His body shakes as he crumples forward, knees buckling.

You don’t look away.

Instead, your hand moves to his hip, swift and deliberate. With a single pull, you draw the revolver from his holster — the one he always wore with pride, with the false weight of command. The cold steel rests in your palm like it was made for you.

You flip the cylinder open. It spins with a metallic whisper — the sound sharp, purposeful, final. Then you snap it shut with a flick of your wrist, the weight of loaded chambers locking into place. You raise the revolver and aim at his chest, right over his heart.

Six bullets. You fire without taking a single breath.

Each one hits just above the heart — a tight cluster. His body jerks, folds inward, then drops entirely. The life leaves him before the sixth casing clinks to the floor. He lies motionless in a spreading pool of blood. It pours from his chest in waves, soaking into the floor beneath him and radiating outward, thick and dark. The splash extends almost a full meter — reaching even his fallen colonel’s cap.

His face is frozen in the last moments of pain and disbelief. You look at him for a second longer. Then nothing. Wordlessly, you place the revolver beside you with detached care.

Your gaze shifts to the cap — the once-pristine symbol of rank now soaked in his blood, resting like a crown at the feet of a corpse. You pick it up slowly. Blood smears across your fingers. It drips down the sides as you lift it and press it onto your head with both hands.

It sits crooked. It doesn't matter.

Your brother’s blood trickles down your temple, streaks your cheek, drips along your jawline but you make no effort to wipe it away. You simply turn.

And from beyond the glass wall, the higher-ups stare back, impressed. One of them speaks in a measured voice, “The Farspace Fleet welcomes the new colonel.”

You cough as you frantically sit up on your bed, lungs convulsing like they’re rejecting the air. For a moment, you don’t know where you are — only the phantom of everything lingers, still echoing behind your eyes. You reach blindly for the glass on your bedside table, knocking it over in your desperation before finally finding the rim. The water goes down in gasps, not gulps, like you're trying to drown the memory still lodged in your throat.

Nightmares like these plagued you every night ever since that day six years ago.

The faint white glow of the clock flickers. Still ten minutes before the alarm. You could lie back down. Pretend you still have rest left to salvage. But you don’t. With a slow exhale, you push off the sheets and swing your legs over the edge of the bed to freshen up for the day.

You stand before the mirror, the sterile light of your quarters casting a cold sheen over the navy blue uniform hanging on the rack. It’s an alien thing, this fabric dyed with the insignia of Lieutenant Colonel — junior adjutants must have slipped it in, replacing the deep, commanding black of your Colonel’s attire like a thief in the night. Your breath catches, a bitter laugh barely contained in your throat. To wear it feels like donning shackles forged from threads of humiliation, each stitch whispering the quiet betrayal of your demotion. The cloth presses against your skin with a strange chill, as if your own flesh rejects the designation sewn into its seams.

Fingers steady, you brush your hair back, eyes locked on the new badges, aiguillette, insignia for the Lieutenant Colonel — these small, ornate emblems, representing your fall from the ranks. You slip into the uniform reluctantly, the stiff collar biting into your neck, the fabric stretching uncomfortably over shoulders that had once borne the weight of command with pride. 

Once dressed, your gaze returns to the mirror. Your eyes trace the faint, nearly imperceptible scar just a centimeter below your hairline — a fine, cruel incision, starting from your right side of the forehead and evenly straight till ending at the left side. The scar stirs a sour taste in your mouth, bile rising unbidden as the flood of recollections crashes through your mind. You turn away abruptly, unwilling to confront the ghost reflected back at you.

Your hand moves with practiced ease to the leather holster at your hip, the familiar cold weight of your revolver reassuring against your thigh. It is the only constant in this sea of upheaval, the single thread of power and control left within your grasp.

The corridors outside are slick with metal and light, the hum of cybernetic systems vibrating through the walls like the pulse of some great beast. Your destination: the cyber operations unit, a labyrinthine nexus of screens and servers where information is both weapon and shield.

You made your way to the far left end of the unit, boots dragging a little more than usual, and flopped into a vacant chair without ceremony. The hard metal frame groaned under your weight, but you didn’t care. You leaned back, eyes tracing the ceiling for a second before settling on the figure in front of you.

Inez sat behind her monitor, fingers already tapping at the keys, though they slowed when she noticed you. Her station was a clutter of wires, screen glare, and half-drunk energy cans, but she moved through it all like it was second nature. Over the years, she’d become something between a contact and a comrade — always at the backend of your hunts, digging through firewalls when your suspicions flared. She wasn’t flashy, but she was efficient and reliable.

Without looking up, she asked, “Whose data do you want me to pull out?”

You heard the subtle acceleration in her typing as she preemptively started combing the secure archives. Probably backdoor access — she didn’t bother hiding that from you anymore.

“Caleb Xia.”

Her fingers paused and so did her breath.

When she looked at you, it wasn’t confusion — it was quiet scrutiny. You met her stare, no expression, no hesitation. After a beat, she exhaled hard through her nose and muttered, “The new colonel? You think he’s with that organization?”

You rested your chin in one hand, fingers tapping a lazy rhythm on the edge of her desk. “Involved is too soft a word. He’s probably splitting Friday takeout with the CEO.”

She didn’t laugh. Just gave you the kind of unimpressed look that said she was already regretting asking. But she turned back to her terminal and began pulling records anyway.

“How are you still so sure it’s EVER?” she asked, voice even.

You rolled your eyes and sat up straighter. “Come on, Inez. EVER’s been crawling up the Fleet’s spine for five years. We’ve all felt the shift — ghost promotions, redacted ops, officers disappearing into black-site contracts and never coming back. And now, out of nowhere, an adjutant becomes colonel? Please.”

You leaned back again, letting your shoulders drop. “With the kind of access he has now... If we don’t stop him, we’ll be two steps behind forever. And I don’t intend on being behind. Not this time. Not with him.”

She didn’t argue, just gave a slow, acknowledging nod and kept typing. You watched the flicker of windows open on her screen, one after another.

“Alright,” she murmured, scanning. “No parents and was adopted by a woman named Josephine. She also adopted another girl. Xia’s three years younger than you. Graduated top three from the Aerospace Academy. Did some classified work under DAA for three years before transferring into the Fleet.”

You nodded, distracted, eyes drifting toward the rubik’s cube on her desk. Your hands moved on instinct, twisting colors into place as the room filled with the soft clack of plastic.

Inez's face has gone still — too still. Her fingers hover above the keyboard, frozen in place like they’d hit something sharp in the code, something she hadn’t expected. The steady click of keys has died, replaced by a silence that buzzes louder than any alarm. Her lips press into a thin line, her brows inch together just slightly — enough to make your instincts prickle.

You straighten in the rolling chair, the worn leather creaking under your shifting weight. The rubik’s cube stills in your hand. “What?” you ask, voice low, measured. “What is it?”

Inez’s eyes narrowed, her fingers hovering above the mouse. The glow of her monitor cast thin shadows over her face as she read, lips pressing into a firmer line.

“He has a death certificate attached,” she said, voice clipped, almost skeptical. “Filed by Linkon City Hall. It’s been crossed out now, but the reason listed is an accidental fire at Josephine’s house in the Bloomshore District. His body wasn’t recovered, but he was still declared dead.”

You didn’t stop solving the cube, but your focus had sharpened. Each turn now deliberate.

She continued without prompting. “The certificate was erased from the system last year, after he joined the Fleet as an adjutant. They filed it under document irrelevance. And here’s what’s interesting — before that fire, he worked with DAA. Then he vanishes. After he’s declared alive again, suddenly he’s with Fleet. No in-between. No transit records, no job switches, not even a relocation stamp.”

You finished the cube with a firm twist, all the colors falling neatly into place. A breath left your chest, shallow and unreadable. You placed it back on her desk, standing up with a smooth motion and adjusting your hat like it were a mantle being shifted back into place.

“Thanks for the pull,” you said, tone light but eyes fixed, unreadable.

Inez raised a brow, mildly taken aback by your lack of commentary. “That’s it?” she asked. “What are you gonna do now?”

Your silence lingered for a beat too long, then a slow, cunning smile took your lips. One that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Oh, you know,” you said, brushing imaginary dust off your sleeves. “Prod. Put our dear colonel in a spot where the mask slips. See if he holds up when things get... personal.”

You tipped your hat once — a subtle motion to bid her farewell, more habit than flair — and she gave a lazy wave in return, already turning back to her screen as if she hadn’t just handed over the keys to someone’s buried past.

And with that, you turned, your boots thudding against the steel floor as you figured where to locate him.

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