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zepskies · 10 hours ago

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Diving right in! Interesting that we're continuing right from the end of the last chapter... (Though your warnings and AN are scaring me 🫣)

Daylight. TV off. Your spot next to him empty. Cold. And Ben? Fully clothed and painfully hard as a rock. Ah, shit. Rough mornin’. Wet dream turned fuckin’ nightmare.

ehehe never mind. 🤣 I had a feeling it was a dream when she didn't react to all that "mine again" talk. But I was still disappointed right along with Ben when he woke up...but ok, maybe not as disappointed as he was lmfao 😆

Yeah, Ben would put a fucking stop to this once you were his again. What happened to goddamn modesty?

Dude, not him thinking he's gonna get her to stop doing anything once they're actually together 🤣

Back then, your brilliance and genius was cute – not threatening. Now, though? With all you could do? All that power wrapped inside one tiny girl? A little scary. Dangerous.

Yes, and I love this for her, especially now that he's recognizing it 😌

“You know, all this tension could be solved if you just went and made us breakfast, doll. Maybe put on a skirt and apron, smile a little. That’s what you broads were built for, right?”

Oh, God. 😅 The way I, just to myself, said out loud, "Oh shit."

“Good.” Ben matched his smile while imagining ripping the guy’s throat out with his teeth.

He's so infuriating, but I love his protectiveness at the same time (what's wrong with me??) 🤣

“Like Shakespeare, you bardless brute,” you retorted your correction. “If you’re not careful, I’ll turn your head into an ass as well – a real one, not a donkey.” Ben’s lips twitched with a challenging smirk. “Well, if you pardon, we will mend.”

Omg YESSSS. You know I love a Shakespeare reference! lolll And Ben pulling out the Bard out of his ass? Honestly made me melt more than the reader in that moment 🤣

But Ben remembered the way you’d jumped like he’d burned you whenever he’d done it in the past. So, what the hell happened between then and now? Or, well, now and some arbitrary date in the future, he supposed.

Oh, oh no. I have a bad feeling, considering your warning at the top...

“Why they came for you. Your team.” You smiled, soft and slow and pitying. “You don’t want kindness? Too bad, you’re getting mine: you might be an ass, but I still think you deserved better.”

And this is why I love her. She sees right through him 💛

Even if it broke him more than Russia ever did.

God I hateeee him for this! I knew we were headed here, and I understand why he feels he has to do it, but it's still so wrong 😭😭

“No,” Stan said, meeting his gaze coolly. “You are. By dragging her into this. By trying to keep her close without telling her who you really are. You think she won’t leave? That she won’t hate you when she finds out? Not to mention, if you mishandle this, the loop never starts.”

Oooh how I hate him for this lol. You've done such a great job of going through this part of the S3 arc, and now we're getting closer and closer to the "start" of the loop, if we can call it that. The tension is both driving me crazy and has me biting my nails (especially with poor reader in a coma 😭)!

And when you looked at him, on the rare occasion you did, it was like you were finally seeing the monster. It broke his fucking heart.

It's breaking mine too honestly. The fact that he allowed himself to go even that far is fucking crazy, but it's also just how desperate he is for her to love him...still, I'm mad as hell at him right now 😤😤😤

And the sick truth of it was, he wasn’t even sure he deserved the fucking chance.

Oh, he really fucking doesn't. Now I'm back to fully saying "you go girl" when she came back and literally shoved him into his nightmare back with the Russians. 😤

However, I am very excited that we're back in the present for the next chapter! I'm so curious how you're going to bring these two back together, but I have a feeling Ben's going to need to be very tenacious in a whole different way if he's going to win her heart back ❤️‍🩹💛❤️‍🩹

Time After Time – Chapter 14

Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, violence, smut & attempted assault, 2022 & season 3, Herogasm, SB being his charming self and every (bad) thing that comes with it, drug use & drinking, PTSD, mentions of torture, physics, one-sided pining, injuries, jealousy, ANGST

Word Count: 18.7k

Posted on Patreon June 1, 2025

A/N: This chapter is one wild, chaotic ride and full of angst! Also apologies in advance for that beginning, the middle, and, uh, the end, probably 😂😘

✨ Chapter title inspired by a line in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966)

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 14: I’m Going to Have a Lot of Drinks

The motel’s Vacancy sign buzzed outside the window in red neon, casting lazy pulses of light across the cracked walls, the sun-faded window frames, and the worn carpet of the room.

Ben sat on the small bed, barely watching his old movie flicker across the ancient TV. The bed springs creaked beneath you both, your head still resting softly against his arm.

He could hear everything that went on in a motel at 3AM: someone snoring next door, water dripping in a pipe somewhere, the vending machine outside coughing out a can, and a cat yowling by the dumpsters.

But what he focused on most was your breathing. Slow. Steady. Trusting.

You were out like a light. Leaned against him like he wasn’t a monster but just the comfiest pillow in the world.

Your cheek was warm against his bicep, lips softly parted. His arm had gone phantom numb a while ago where your head rested. Your hoodie was bunched up a little around your waist, baring patches of soft and taut skin to his eyes. Your jean shorts hugged your hips like a sin, one bare thigh pressed against his leg, the heat of you bleeding through his sweats.

Ben didn’t know how the fuck this happened. You’d crashed next to him on the creaky motel bed, all attitude and sarcasm one minute – and then you’d gone still.

He hadn’t dared to move since then. Couldn’t if he wanted to. Not even to breathe right.

The movie flared with machine gun fire and patriotic nonsense. A sharp boom shook you awake. You stirred, eyes fluttering as you blinked blearily at the screen.

“There she is. Welcome back to the land of the living.” He looked down at you and met your groggy eyes with a wide smirk. “You were droolin’ on me, sweetheart.”

“Shit. Sorry…” You sat up next to him, shifted just slightly to bring enough space between the two of you again.

Ben almost sighed at the loss.

“Is that… you?” Your gaze drifted back to the TV.

“Yeah, one of the old ones. It’s a classic,” he said, still smiling.

“Aren’t they all?” you retorted, voice still laced with sleep. “Still watching old movies of yourself, huh?”

“It’s called nostalgia.”

“It’s called narcissism,” you quipped with that same sharp tongue. “Is that a railgun?”

“Sure is.” Ben grinned smugly.

“You know, that’s not how electromagnetism works. You’d need a whole substation strapped to your spine,” you noted. “Where the hell would you store that much capacitor power? In your ass?”

Ben gave you an amused look, chuckling. “It’s a movie, Doc. Not a science fair. You get off on ruining dreams? Pretty sure it’s illegal to look that good and talk that nerdy.”

You rolled your eyes. “Flattery? Must be the forty-year dry spell talking.”

Ben laughed lowly. “Yeah? Care to end it? Could volunteer for science, Doc.”

You snorted, but Ben caught how you shifted on the mattress, how your eyes flicked briefly to his mouth. Unconscious, maybe, but still there.

“Careful,” you warned playfully. “I’ve got a thing for self-destructive men with god complexes.”

“Lucky for you, I’ve got both,” Ben drawled, spread his legs a little wider, kept his eyes trained on your lips.

And he saw it – the way your thighs pressed together slightly. Subtle, but sure as hell not invisible. Your body gave you away before your brain had caught up.

He knew the fucking signs. Knew them like the back of his hand. Knew what he had to say to get you all hot and bothered.

He deserved nice things, right?

“Wanna find out what else I could do with these hands besides holding a weapon, sweetheart?”

Your breath caught.

Bingo.

“Think about it.” Ben’s smirk deepened, voice low and coaxing, smooth as bourbon. “Haven’t been touched in decades. Haven’t tasted anyone in just as long. Think about how starved I am. How much I’d fuckin’ devour you.”

You didn’t respond, but your fingers twitched against the bedsheet. And Ben saw it – saw it all. Saw the little twitch in your muscles that held back the squirm. Saw the war playing out behind your eyes.

Fight or surrender.

“What? You’re gonna tell me that didn’t do anything for you?” His head cocked, brow lifting. “Because I’m pickin’ up a few signs, sweetheart.” His voice dropped another notch. “Little tension in your legs. That shift in your hips just now. Not exactly subtle.”

You looked down, as if trying to reset. But he wasn’t about to absolve you. He let the words hang in the air for a moment. Waited. Patience was a fucking virtue predators knew how to enjoy.

And then, his fingers stretched a little. Skimmed the bare skin on your thigh. Slow. Deliberate. Barely brushing.

You didn’t move but bit down on your lip – like a fish on a hook.

But then, to his surprise, your head tilted, your eyes dragged over him – speculative, curious, challenging – and a smirk curled.

“Oh, yeah? Wanna back that up or are you all… talk?”

Ben laughed it off. He’d just been teasing. Talking shit. He knew you wouldn’t go through with it. He enjoyed the foreplay nonetheless.

Still, he humored you. Wanted to see how far you’d go before backing down.

His hand slid over his thigh, patted it, fingers spread wide. He grinned – lazy, bold, certain. “Wanna find out? Right here’s the impact zone, sweetheart. You can calculate my thrust velocity.”

You’d done it once before. It was impressive – you and him. Actually made him wonder if he could break his old record now with super-everything.

Surely, right?

Your eyebrow arched – fucking smug. “Think you can handle me?”

Ben gave a slow, wicked grin. “Oh, I know I can.”

And certainly, he thought you would back out now. He’d done this dance with you before. But in an unexpected turn of events, you rose on your knees, crawled over, and straddled his thighs.

No hesitation. No asking. Just a smooth and taunting swing of your hips, and you settled in his lap like you fucking belonged there, hot against the worn cotton of his sweats.

And Ben? His dick twitched up immediately, thick and straining beneath the fabric, aching from how long it had fucking been. His hands caught your hips on instinct, rough and grounding.

Muscle fuckin’ memory.

“Not sure you’re ready,” you teased, warm breath brushing his ear. Hands pressed against his chest, then slowly slid up to his shoulders, locking around his neck.

“Dangerous game you’re playin’, sweetheart,” he rasped, eyes darkening. His fingers were already itching to pull you all the way. “You’re sittin’ on a loaded gun.”

There was the little smirk on your lips again. “Forty years, huh? Hope you’ve been saving up, soldier.”

His breath punched out of him in a low groan. His resolve broke. Hands gripped you hard and greedy, dragging you closer.

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, grazing your throat. Fucking inhaled you.

“You sure, sweetheart?” he growled, hands roaming your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “‘Cause you got no fuckin’ clue what you’re gettin’ into here, but I’m gonna make sure you feel it goddamn everywhere.”

“Yeah? Show me.” A slow smile formed on your lips, nose brushing his. Teasing. And then you rocked.

Just once.

And he saw fuckin’ stars.

That was all it took. His hand flew to the back of your head, tangled in your hair, mouth crashing against yours. His tongue claimed you – filthy, desperate, fucking hungry.

But your lips met his with a slow drag and lazy tongue strokes – teasing, daring, coaxing. Not rushed. Not frantic. You kissed him like you were memorizing him – like he was something worth savoring.

Your teeth tugged on his bottom lip till he growled. You rocked your hips forward again, a slow grind, dragging the heat of your pussy right over the thick bulge in his sweats.

“Shit, baby,” he hissed. “You sit in my lap like that, and I’m gonna fuck you like I own you.”

You moaned into his mouth when he pulled you down harder, one hand gripping your hip and helping you move, the other sliding beneath your hoodie to find bare skin.

Palmed at your waist, your ribs, the fucking softness of your tits.

He couldn’t believe he had you again. That you were moving on him like this – raw, aching need in every grind, every gasp.

“Feels like you missed this,” you teased breathlessly.

“Oh, sweetheart, you have no fuckin’ idea.”

Your pace got filthier – less teasing, more need. His cock strained hard against the sweats, precum soaking through the fabric, catching where your shorts rubbed down on him again and again and again.

He gripped your ass, rutting up into you. Chasing it. “Feel that, huh? How hard I am for you? That thick fuckin’ cock’s beggin’ for you. Forty years of waiting to be buried in that tight little pussy. Imma fuckin’ ruin you. Make you fuckin’ mine again, baby.”

You whimpered, pressing your chest to his. He kissed your neck, licked it, bit down hard, left a fucking mark on your skin.

He bucked up into you, losing rhythm. You chased it anyway — moaning, rocking, dragging your cunt over his cock like you needed it to breathe.

“F–Fuck, baby. Just like that,” he grunted, already twitching under you. “Fuck yeah, rub that pussy all over me. Make a fuckin’ mess, sweetheart.”

You rolled your hips in sharp little circles, moaning salaciously into his neck. He was fucking addicted to the obscenity. To the fucking sounds he was drawing from you.

His fingers tugged impatiently at the hem of your hoodie. “Off,” he growled. “Or I’ll fuckin’ rip it. Need to see those tits, baby. Been too fuckin’ long.”

You pulled your hoodie off in one swift motion.

No fuckin’ bra. Just glorious tits how he remembered them.

“Fuck, baby, still so fuckin’ perfect,” he murmured against your ribs like he was worshipping at a fucking altar.

He latched onto your breast, mouth sucking your nipple between his teeth, groaning like he’d gone a lifetime without the taste. You gasped, arched into him, rubbing your clit against the ridged shape of him.

“Fuck–… Need you–” you panted.

“You have me, baby,” he rasped between bite marks on your skin, loving how they fucking stayed. “You always fuckin’ had me.”

He shoved a hand between your bodies, past your waistband, dragged his thick fingers through your slick, groaned when it trickled and drenched his fucking hand.

“Look at you, sweetheart. Already such a fuckin’ mess. Already so fuckin’ soaked for me from just a little grinding, huh?” he muttered, rough thumb working your clit. “Fuckin’ knew it. Fuck–… That’s my girl.”

“Fuck me, please,” you whimpered.

And then, fabric ripped. He didn’t care, just tore your shorts off and left you bare in front of him. He shoved down his sweats, just enough to free himself, cock springing against his stomach.

Hard. Thick. Flushed dark with need and fuckin’ twitching.

You gasped when the blunt head rubbed against your slit. He slid through your folds, coating himself – teasing, smug, and fucking wrecked.

“You want it?” he asked. Low. Raspy. Dangerous. “Fuckin’ say it.”

“Please.”

He grinned like the fucking devil. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

He thrust up hard – one stroke, all the way in. You cried out when his dickhead slammed against your cervix, nails digging into his shoulders. He’d split you open and sealed the wound in one go.

Tight. Wet. Hot.

Just like he fucking remembered. And you? You rode him like you’d done it before. Like you’d missed it. Like it was fucking yours.

“That’s it, baby. Fucking Christ, just like that,” he praised, head dropping back with a rough moan. His hands guided you, eyes watching as you squeezed him just right and got off on the upstroke. “Take it. Take every fuckin’ inch like I know you can. Fuck–… Be my fuckin’ hero, sweetheart. Ride it–… ride your cock.”

The rhythm was brutal, desperate, punishing. Years of deprivation behind every snap of his hips. The whole bed creaked like it might collapse. You were moaning – open, loud, messy. Like you didn’t care this whole dump could hear you getting ruined on his cock.

The sound of your voice fucking shattered him.

“Faster, baby,” you begged breathlessly.

He gave it to you. Gripped your ass – rough and bruising – and started fucking up into you like he meant to breed you.

“Feel that fuckin’ stretch, baby? Feel how fuckin’ deep I am inside this pussy. God, shit, still so fuckin’ tight,” he choked on a moan. “Been dreamin’ of this pussy… Fuck, been dyin’ to be inside you again–”

You gasped, writhing against him, clenching around him, thighs flexing, chasing that high. But then: “Fuck, Soldier Boy.”

Ben stopped. Stiffened. His hands went slack around you.

You were still moving, still kissing him, still breathless in his lap. But for him? The moment cracked open like ice underfoot.

A hand cupped your cheek, tried to force you to look at him, but you didn’t.

“Fuck, baby. Just look at me. It’s me. It’s Ben,” his voice tried to reach you, but you were too far gone. “It’s Ben, baby. Please, just–… just look at me. Just fuckin’ remember me.”

Thud–thud–THUD!

Three heavy pounds rattled not only the door but also him awake. Ben jolted up, chest heaving, weary green eyes blinking around the room

Daylight. TV off. Your spot next to him empty. Cold.

And Ben? Fully clothed and painfully hard as a rock.

Ah, shit. Rough mornin’. Wet dream turned fuckin’ nightmare.

He couldn’t have fucking nice things for once, could he?

And in a sick twist, you groaned “Coming!” from the bathroom and stormed toward the door, pulling a hoodie overhead as you went. Didn’t care that he was right there and seeing you half-naked – a fucking stranger.

Yeah, Ben would put a fucking stop to this once you were his again. What happened to goddamn modesty? But hey, at least it was long enough for him to peek: bra, dark navy blue, and a lot of delicate lace around those beautiful tits.

He’d love to tear that thing off of you.

The asshole then brought presents: a happy hero meal and some fuckin’ drugs – the hard, good shit. He tossed it like Ben was a shelter dog that had bitten too many people and was soon gonna be put down. And you, on the other hand, got some translated folder and a gigantic cup of frap-somethin’ with an obnoxious amount of whipped cream and caramel.

But you’d always had a sweet tooth, so it didn’t come as much as a surprise. What fucking killed him, though?

You pulling out the fuckin’ straw and going to town on it, tongue licking cream like it’d never done anything else.

Ben almost blew his load and a gasket in the fuckin’ Geiger counter, wanting to throw the damn thing out the window.

Rough fuckin’ morning… And it had only been the first goddamn day of many.

At least, he had some Bennies to get over the pain above (and the ache below) – well… until you fucking ruined that, too.

Because you watched him. Sitting on the bed, cross-legged, sipping coffee and still working that damn straw. Eyes on him.

His back was half-turned, but he still caught it in his periphery as he was halfway through crushing pills to dust with his knife.

Judging.

“Problem, sweetheart?” His voice was a little too gruff, a little too deep, a little too defensive. Too confrontational.

“No,” you replied, bored. Almost deadpan. Then you casually opened the folder in your lap, directed your gaze there, took a slurp of coffee through the straw, and added: “My parents always snorted their breakfast, too.”

Then, you gave a shrug of your shoulders and started reading – innocent. Like you hadn’t just launched him into complete chaos.

You liked teaching people lessons, alright. You also liked fucking with them. On purpose.

This was the goddamn problem with smart women – especially if they fucking knew it, too. They knew exactly where to hit and make it stick.

But Ben couldn’t help the little smirk twitching on his lips – almost proud.

Back then, your brilliance and genius was cute – not threatening. Now, though? With all you could do? All that power wrapped inside one tiny girl? A little scary.

Dangerous.

And well, he was a little dangerous, too. You and him had always made a good team in the past. Now, the two of you could be unstoppable.

He just had to ensure you stayed in your fucking lane – and he didn’t mean that in a bad way. Just… rein you in a little – like taming a fucking wild horse.

His gaze flicked briefly back to you. You were watching him again, subtly, your eyes not on the knife but the tremble in his hands. The way he ground his jaw a little too tight.

Fuck. He’d forgotten about your shitty parents.

Did you have a fucking problem with this? Probably, if your parents were fucking junkies, right? And here he sat, supposed hero turned nuclear weapon and addict. He felt a little ounce of shame curling in his gut.

And still, he felt his blood itching for it more. But he couldn’t do this with you here. Couldn’t do it with you watching.

“You know, all this tension could be solved if you just went and made us breakfast, doll. Maybe put on a skirt and apron, smile a little. That’s what you broads were built for, right?”

The room went silent.

Your jaw dropped slightly, eyebrows lifting. But then you ground your teeth and a fire flickered alive in your eyes.

“Jesus,” String Bean breathed, eyes wide.

Ben knew where to hit. Knew how to weaponize what he knew about you to get rid of you – or so he thought.

But you only scoffed in amusement and rolled your eyes before delivering your punch: “God, it’s like you’ve been alive for a hundred years only to make cavemen look evolved.”

Then you got up from the bed and strolled over to Butcher, ignoring Ben like he didn’t exist anymore.

“I’m taking a break,” you announced and puffed your chest out, shoulders straight. “And I want vacation days, Butcher. I know you’re technically blackmailing me, but I still think I have at least basic labor rights. MM and that CIA lady gave me forms to sign, so I know I’m employed somewhere.”

Ben straightened slightly at that. Blackmail? What the hell did that fucking mean? That asshole better not be threatening you, or Ben would punch that dick to goddamn Uranus.

Butcher sighed – loudly. “Jesus fuck, sunshine, how ‘bout we talk when the job’s done, alright?”

But you didn’t back off – not even a little. Ben listened in amusement. Didn’t dare to look fully and give anyone the impression that he actually cared about this little spat, but he still enjoyed it greatly – enjoyed the fucking destructive wildfire you were.

“After this job’s done, I’m not gonna stick around, so you better figure it out now,” you bit, all flames and heat. Then you held open your palm – waiting, demanding. “Give me your car keys. I wanna go see Kimiko and check on Frenchie.”

Butcher scoffed in response and met your challenging gaze. “The hell you are.”

Oof. Wrong move.

“What d’you think you’re doing? You know I can just freeze your ass and take them,” you said and raised your open palm a little higher. “Give.”

Butcher met you head-on. “Try. You don’t even know where I hid ‘em.”

“I don’t care if you shoved them up Hughie’s ass. Still gonna dive in and find them,” you retorted.

“Whoa, uh, just like to clarify – he did not… shove anything up my ass,” the kid muttered nervously, blinking at you with those pleading puppy dog eyes.

Ben almost snorted out loud into his soda.

Butcher groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes back like he’d been dealing with enough sassy employees for a week. He then hauled out a jingling set of his keys from his pocket and placed them in your palm.

You grinned, triumphant and satisfied. Ben wanted to kiss you stupid for it.

“Don’t fuckin’ take too long,” Butcher growled.

“I’ll take as long as I want,” you called back, already out the door as it fell shut behind you.

Ben’s eyes flicked to the messy white lines in front of him, then back to the door. He felt torn. Torn between relief and worry.

Because now you were out there – alone, unprotected, and out of his sight. What if you fucking disappeared again?

He didn’t like that thought at all. He had to keep an eye on you – keep you close.

“Where’s she off to?” he asked, drawing the asshole’s attention to him.

“Hospital,” Butcher replied curtly.

“She’s, uh, visiting a friend of ours,” the kid added helpfully, earning him a raised look from his boss.

“What’s this talk about blackmail?” Ben asked with a casualness only he could feign, snorting his first line.

“Insurance policy.” The asshole smirked. “Don’t worry about ‘er, mate. Guarantee she won’t be a problem.”

“Good.” Ben matched his smile while imagining ripping the guy’s throat out with his teeth.

No one got to fucking threaten you and live to tell the tale. For now, though, Butcher was useful in keeping you close, but he’d surely made it onto Ben’s hit list with that little stunt.

The asshole’s smirk widened then. “Let’s get to business, shall we?”

After striking his little deal, Butcher eventually went to hunt down the first names on his list and left Ben alone with the kid as his babysitter – like that would actually help if he blew.

Luckily, you came back about three agonizing hours later – made fun of his movie that was playing on TV while plopping down on the worn couch next to the kid.

Not next to him. Not like the two of you were closer. Not like you hadn’t already shared every part of you with him.

Drove him and the Geiger counter fuckin’ nuts.

On top of that, you and String Bean were annoying the shit out of him with questions, with your judgment, with your fucking righteousness – like you kids could actually understand what was on the fucking line here.

Ben was trying to protect you. He loved you. And you? You fucking forgot about him.

At least, Butcher then came back with good news – the location of the fucking twins.

Ben suited up in the bathroom, walked out, and found the two idiots shooting something up their veins while you tied your shoes casually on the bed next to them like it was just another fucking Tuesday.

He smelled the Compound V instantly – but different. Green. Didn’t look like Vought was even pretending to hide the poison under false advertising anymore.

Ben then glanced at you – same black sneakers, jean shorts, and a new black hoodie that read: “May the mass times acceleration be with you.”

Christ on a cross….

Star Wars? Fuckin’ seriously? God, you were a bigger nerd than he ever thought.

“That what you wearin’, sweetheart? Where’s your fucking suit?” Ben asked, eyeing you sideways.

You tilted your head, amused, gaze grazing him from head to toe. Then you snorted a laugh. “Yeah, I’m not gonna be caught dead in something like that,” you replied and then grinned, gesturing down your outfit. “‘Sides, this is my armor. I’m not a sparkly unicorn that shits rainbow glitter. Don’t need a lot. Got my onyx slippers.” You clicked your heels. “They used to be red. You know, like ruby slippers? But I switched to black after I lost part of my abilities. Figured it was more appropriate ‘cause, you know… I’m in mourning.”

Jesus fuck. You were not built for fucking battle. Now, Ben was even more reluctant to drag you into this – Herogasm of all things. Not exactly a place he ever imagined you in the middle of.

Ben’s eyes drifted to Butcher, chin nodding toward you. “Can she fuckin’ stay here?”

“No can do, guv. House full of supes? We’re gonna need ‘er,” Butcher replied. “Just try to get along, yeah?”

You smirked winningly and brushed purposely past Ben. He almost pushed you against the nearest wall.

“Don’t worry, gramps. I won’t bite as much,” you said, grinning. “All I need is for someone to be distracted for a second while they read what’s across my tits.”

Ben made the mistake and looked down at the white lettering again, and suddenly, in the next blink of his eyes, you were on the other side of him, smirking wide.

“See?”

God, this was gonna be fuckin’ annoying, wasn’t it?

Ben gave you an impatient and tight smile, unamused. “Cute lil party trick, sweetheart. Don’t fuckin’ do that again,” he warned but kept his voice calm – almost playful. Still, he didn’t want you to get any fucking ideas. “You at least got a fuckin’ supe name?”

You grinned then – cocky, bold, and mischievous. “Puck.”

Ben’s brow furrowed. “Like hockey?”

“Like Shakespeare, you bardless brute,” you retorted your correction. “If you’re not careful, I’ll turn your head into an ass as well – a real one, not a donkey.”

Ben’s lips twitched with a challenging smirk. “Well, if you pardon, we will mend.”

Ooooh... Your fuckin’ face was glorious. Your brows drew together, you stumped so much your shoulders actually flinched an inch backward, and your head tilted the other way.

You were fuckin’ impressed now, weren’t you?

“Huh. Who knew you actually know more than godawful action movies,” you muttered.

“Impressed? Who’s a fuckin’ bardless brute now, huh?” Ben retorted smugly.

He still fucking was. Only reason he knew that line was because his English teacher once made him participate in a play of Midsummer Night’s Dream to save himself from a failing grade. But hey, he loved acting and it had been easier than writing a fucking essay.

He’d gotten a standing fucking ovation, too. Of course he had.

But the look in your eyes? Fuckin’ worth dragging that out from the cobwebbed corners of his mind.

After more curious questions from you about his Shakespearean knowledge, came a four-hour car ride to Vermont (or hell), where he had to share a backseat with you.

And you, you fucking menace?

You leaned your back against the door, stretched your legs across the seat, and rested your bare feet on his thigh.

No asking. No hesitation. Just did. Didn’t even look up once.

And Ben? He was strung taut like a wire the whole ride. Tried not to twitch pathetically. Tried not to outright beg for you to touch his dick with your goddamn pinky toe.

He tried to keep his mind occupied instead. Solve this fucking problem, so you could actually touch him. And that was when he noticed it – you touched him.

Not just now, but back at the motel, too. Since the minute you and him first spoke at the trailer, actually. Sure, you kept your distance – but mostly because you didn’t like him. Not because you were scared of him.

This whole time, you hadn’t cared about close proximity at all. You didn’t seem terrified of him even a little – which was fucking frightening for different reasons entirely.

When they finally arrived at their location, Ben then decided to test that little theory in action as he stalked through the mansion with you.

He’d told you to stay in his fucking eye-line, pretended it was for the sole reason he didn’t want you to pull a stunt on him again and freeze him. But in reality, he was protecting you – and making sure those little perverts better kept their clammy hands by their sides.

His experiment, however, came to full fruition then. First test: gently putting his hand between your shoulder blades as he guided you through the house. Second test: letting it rest briefly on the small of your back. Neither of them yielded a fuckin’ reaction.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t scowl. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t give a single fuck.

But Ben remembered the way you’d jumped like he’d burned you whenever he’d done it in the past.

So, what the hell happened between then and now? Or, well, now and some arbitrary date in the future, he supposed.

“God, I can’t believe you founded this depravity,” you muttered, nose and brows scrunched as your eyes drifted around, barely being able to decide which abomination to judge first.

Fuckin’ adorable.

“Whoa, hey, just to fuckin’ clarify – I didn’t found–” his gaze flicked around, tongue poking out between his teeth as he searched for the right words, “–well, whatever the hell this freak show is. You know, back in the day, this used to be a classy gig. Yeah…” A smirk crawled across his face at the memory. You would’ve loved it – not that he would’ve fucking shared you with anyone. “Cigars, bourbon, even had a flag bikini contest to boost morale. Think, a gentlemen’s club for the Rat Pack.”

You would’ve fucking won that damn bikini contest.

“Lovely.” You gave him a deadpan look, arms folded tightly over those tits underneath that baggy hoodie like you were trying to keep the slime of this place away from you. Your gaze then swerved off to a threesome on the kitchen counter, brow wrinkling even more.

Ben followed it, smirk deepening. “You know, sweetheart, I bet you could bend that way, too.”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes dark at first, then twinkling with amusement.

“What, don’t believe me?” he teased. “I’ll kick these amateurs outta one of those bedrooms and happily show you.”

You raised a brow. “There’s about twenty naked women around you. Why are you hitting on the one girl in clothes?”

“I like a fuckin’ challenge.” He grinned, lazy and smug. “‘Sides, I have an acquired taste.”

You snorted a laugh. “Well, take me off the menu, please.”

Not a fuckin’ chance…

“C’mon,” you motioned toward the living room area, “Butcher said the twins are back there.”

Ben nodded, smirk fading, and stuck close by your side.

“You want me to freeze them?” you asked, shooting him a glance. You bumped into him slightly when you dodged a couple fucking against the wall of the hallway. “I could only freeze their bodies, you know? Keep the heads. That way they can’t run, but they can still talk. They also feel it when you kill them… ‘Sides, it’s kinda funny. People get really panicky and freak out when I do that.”

Ben stopped in his tracks, blinking at you for a moment. He watched a small smirk flash across your lips – puckish.

Made his goddamn heart swell and his dick hard.

He hummed and considered it, then gave barely a shrug of one shoulder. “That does sound kinda funny. Knock yourself out, sweetheart.”

Good team work. Unstoppable force.

As he moved half a step toward the living room, you stopped him, though – hand wrapping around his wrist, pulling him gently back, touching him.

“Wait–”

You dropped it and flinched back when he met your eyes, probably confusing his prayer for a warning. You just couldn’t see it.

“You’re not gonna–… you know, power up the nuclear reactor in here, right?”

Ben met your request with a tired stare and a deep exhale through his nose. You might have judged these perverts, but you were still worried about their safety, apparently.

Fucking Christ, your generation was nutty. Not exactly how men won wars.

“No,” he assured you nevertheless. “Don’t worry about it. I can dent their teeth in with my fuckin’ pinky.”

Your lips pursed for a second before forcing a tight smile. You gave him a nod and a thumbs up. “Great.”

Yeah, you didn’t belong onto a battlefield but into Lecture Hall B of some ivy-wrapped university. This was the fucking last mission he’d ever take you on (and if only it had been as easy and simple as wishful thinking).

And the rest of the day? Fuckin’ disaster.

The twins went according to plan till they didn’t. You froze them, they panicked (which really was satisfyingly hilarious), and the two idiots leaked more than the poop chute on the screen behind them. But then, he fucking heard it – that sound.

That song.

He didn’t remember much after. Just that melody, you backing away next to him, eyes wide, asking him what was wrong, and him telling you to run.

He woke up to wreckage and smoke. There was barely a house or people left – at least not ones that could still be recognized as such. When you weren’t anywhere in his close vicinity, he felt relief surge through him – before the panic kicked in.

Where the fuck were you?

But Ben didn’t get enough time to look for you before the next problem arrived – the caped cunt Butcher wanted dead.

Fuckin’ ridiculous, honestly. A clown, really. But that strength?

Yeah. Shit…

Took him, Butcher, and a butt-naked String Bean to hold the pussy down. Still didn’t get to kill him. The coward fled.

Ben then followed Butcher and Hughie – slowly, unhurried, calm. Not like he wanted to run around and scream your fucking name till you answered.

Outside, Ben then finally spotted you – sitting by the curb, blood running down your cheek from a small head wound. The glare and sharp mouth were apparently alive, too.

“You good?” Ben came to stand next to you, looking down, fingers twitching by his sides to reach out and wipe the blood from your cheek, legs itching to crouch down and check on you properly.

“Yeah.” You gave a nod and met his gaze, bringing a flat palm up to shield your eyes from the setting sun behind him. Your brow then wrinkled again. “Are you okay? You look like you’re in pain… or constipated.”

“‘M fine,” Ben replied with a huff. “Your powers? Still working?”

Your finger pointed behind his right, and he followed it, finding a half-burning supe frozen still – including the little flame on his arm.

Thank fucking God.

“Does that answer your question?” you asked as the man resumed screaming and running down the road in a panic.

Ben nodded, hesitated for a moment, but then held his hand out to you. You looked reluctantly at it for a second before you placed your palm in his, and he helped you back onto your feet.

He hated letting it go again.

“How d’you get out?”

“Well, I–… I couldn’t freeze shit,” you explained, slightly irritated, your eyes watching him closely again. “But I could at least put it in slo-mo long enough to get the fuck out.”

Good girl.

“Was that Homelander in there?” you asked, looking warily up at him.

Ben glanced at the burning mansion, then back at you. “Yeah,” he replied, deep voice raspy. “He know who you are?”

You blinked at him but shook your head slowly, shrugging. “No, I–… I don’t think so.”

“Good.” Ben gave a nod. “Keep it that way.”

You didn’t ask him what exactly happened or what he meant by that, although he could tell it was on the tip of your tongue the whole car ride back.

Legend’s mansion reeked of old whiskey, ghosts of cocaine, and broken promises – but still fucking better than that shitty motel off the highway.

Ben hadn’t left a lot of room for discussion with Butcher when he told the asshole about his idea to knock on his old friend’s door and hide out here from the public. After forty years, he deserved a little luxury and a king-sized bed without creaking springs.

The sun had dipped below the horizon hours ago, but the house still held its burn when Ben strolled through it. Everyone had retreated to their corners, licking their wounds, but he could hear your heartbeat from the hallway.

That little rhythm, steady but tight. Anxious. He’d memorized it. Could pick it out of a crowd by now.

The lights were dimmed, only a small lamp on a side table held an orange glow while the rest of the room was lit by the flickering blue hues of the TV. You sat alone on the couch, tucked into cushions, barefoot, remote in hand, and eyes tiredly fixed on the screen, watching the late-night news. You were curled into the corner with a blanket haphazardly tossed over your lap as Ben poured himself a glass of forty-year-old Glenfiddich at the bar before flopping down next to you with a grunt, ice clinking in the tumbler – most certainly uninvited.

You didn’t glance at him, just kept your eyes trained on the TV like it might give you answers the rest of the world couldn’t.

Ben didn’t say anything as he lit a joint and leaned back against the couch with a long, exhaustive breath. He stayed like this for a while – no words, no touches, just your presence. He needed that, especially after today.

He hated that he couldn’t claim all of it. That this – the two-feet distance at all times, your scent and warmth but nothing else – had to be enough.

“Clothes good?” you asked suddenly, voice low and soft as not to disturb the silence of the house too much.

When you’d returned from the hospital this morning, you’d also brought a bag of clothes for him that you’d gotten during a pit-stop on your way back to the motel. No one had asked you to – you’d gone out of your way to do it, anyway.

Nothing fancy. Nothing too modern. Just a few simple and plain tees, a comfier pair of sweats, and jeans. Didn’t ask, just did – with a smirk and the explanation that Butcher had left his credit card in the car.

Ben looked at you briefly from the corner of his eye before staring down at the black shirt and gray sweats he was wearing.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough, and added a mumbled “thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied with an almost inaudible sigh and turned your focus back to the TV.

News anchors, wide-eyed, grim, and breathless, recited the carnage like it was a weather report. Fires. Body bags. Death toll still rising. No comment from Vought yet.

“Hell of a show, huh?” he broke the silence with a low chuckle like it was just another night – like he hadn’t incinerated a house full of people. He took a sip of his drink and a drag from his reefer, lazily blowing out the thin stream of smoke. “Should charge admission next time.”

“Not funny,” you muttered.

Ben gave a grunt, rolled his eyes slightly. He knew you weren’t happy with him – neither was he, but it hit different when it came from you.

Green eyes flicked back to the screen with another sip of his drink. “Too bad Earving wasn’t there.”

Your head snapped toward him, brow raised in question. “Earving?”

“Black Noir.”

“Oh.” You sunk back down into the cushions. “Weird hearing real names. Makes you sound like people.”

That was a jab, right? Some fucking guilt trip? He wasn’t imagining that, but he let it slide. Couldn’t really blame you for it after today.

“We are people – you included, sweetheart,” Ben retorted nonetheless and took another hit of his joint – a fucking long one. He looked at you for a second, trying to figure out a way to bridge the gap between you two. “My name’s Ben, by the way.”

Your gaze met his, and for a moment, Ben thought you’d finally remember him. Braced himself for it. But whatever you were searching for in his eyes, couldn’t be found.

You turned back to the screen somberly. “Think I’ll stick to Soldier Boy. Suits you better.”

Ouch.

“C’mon, loosen up,” he scoffed. “Not like you actually liked any of these assholes.”

“That’s not the point,” you argued, sitting up straighter like you were getting ready for a fight. “Just because I might think they’re awful people, doesn’t mean I wanna see them burn alive. I mean, Jesus Christ… They didn’t deserve that.”

Ben leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Sure they did.”

And then you went quiet. Thoughtful. The creases in your brow ironed out. Your head tilted ever-so slightly. And Ben knew what that look meant – that fucking softness.

He hated it. Hated that you were soft. Even now.

“What happened today?” you asked with that gleam of quiet concern in your eyes like he was a wounded Grizzly with rabies that wandered into your yard and could be fixed with a bowl of water.

“Nothin’,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the TV, though he wasn’t watching. “Twins pissed me off and I put ‘em in the dirt. They were goddamn traitors. Handed me over to the Reds. All I did was return the fuckin’ favor.”

You leaned forward on your knees, your stare intensifying as you shook your head. “No, I don’t buy it. This wasn’t planned. I don’t believe you wanted to hurt all these people.”

“Believe it.”

“When I asked you today, you said you wouldn’t–”

“Yeah, well, I say a lotta things. Doesn’t make ‘em true,” he said with casual cruelty, but he had to stop you from fucking prodding – from finding the truth. “Just said what you wanted to hear, so you get off my fucking back, sweetheart.”

“You’re lying.”

That hit deep. Not because it was true – but because you saw right fucking through him. Saw right through the lies, the walls, the mask.

“I was right next to you when it happened,” you added. Same persistence, same fire in your eyes he knew so well. “You told Hughie and me you blacked out during Midtown. You said you didn’t wanna hurt those people.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then how did nineteen people end up dead? Not supes, people,” you prompted and waited long enough to let the silence stretch. “You can’t control it, can you?”

“I can,” he growled with a stern look. "Back off. Not gonna warn you twice."

“But you can’t every time, right?”

You were always like this – soft voice, soft hands, soft eyes – but never weak. Never stupid. It made you harder to lie to. Harder to brush off.

He didn’t respond. He knew where this conversation was headed, and he wasn’t fucking doing it.

He wasn’t gonna talk about Russia. Ever. Not with you.

That part of him – the dark, twitching, screaming core of what they did to him – it wasn’t something he knew how to name, let alone share. And you… you were the last person he wanted to share it with.

Because if you saw the truth – the shaking hands, the blackouts, the Russian lullabies that burrow into his skull and flip the fucking switch – you’d flinch. Or worse, you’d pity him.

And he couldn’t fucking take that.

If you knew about the restraints, the isolation, the endlessly cruel tests, you wouldn’t look at him the same. Not like someone who was strong, but someone who was broken.

One wrong melody away from burning down a neighborhood.

And you? You’d try to fix him. You always had. Even before the shield, before the name, back when he was still just a young, dumb kid, you looked at him like he could be more. But now he was something else – warped and weaponized by Vought, cracked open and rebuilt in a Russian lab, and every inch of him screamed 'Don’t touch this.'

But if you saw it – if you saw him – you’d reach for him. You’d say something soft. You’d try to make it better.

And he couldn’t fucking afford that right now. Not when he didn’t know what was even going on yet.

“Look, if you wanna talk about it–” you started, but he cut you off quickly.

“I don’t.”

“I–… I saw what happened to you, okay? Parts of it,” you said carefully. His eyes snapped to you. He heard your heartbeat accelerate. You then averted your gaze to your fumbling fingers in your lap. “Not in my head, by the way. I just wanted you to know I wouldn’t do that,” you clarified, swallowing. “But we-, uh, we found tapes when we got you outta there.”

Ben closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Don’t.”

“I’m not here to poke at your scars. I just wanna understand. That’s all,” you said.

“You want to understand,” he repeated and scoffed a mocking chuckle, rubbing his eyes. “Right. You want me to lay my head into your lap and cry about it? Light a candle, do a feelings circle, and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”

You shot him a look. Not amused. “You don’t have to joke your way out of everything.”

“Alright, you want the play-by-play, sweetheart?” he baited you, eyes narrowing. “You want me to walk you through how I turned a house full of assholes into bone confetti? Or do you just want a hug and a sob story about how I’m soooo broken inside?” Then he leaned in, arm resting on the back of the couch behind you, smirk dancing on his lips. Cold. Venomous. Cruel. “You ever stop to think maybe I wanted to kill ‘em? Maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe I fucking liked it. Hm?”

That made you stop short for a second, but the fire in your eyes never went anywhere. The flames only rose higher.

“Then why did you save me?”

Shit.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, sipping his whiskey.

“No, you did,” you insisted and were getting a little more heated. “Don’t you dare fucking gaslight me. You told me to run. You looked fucking terrified, and it wasn’t because of the twins.”

“Shut up,” he huffed dismissively.

“It was the song, wasn’t it? There was a Russian song that came on the radio. It triggered you, didn’t it?”

“Stop,” he warned, but you were a full wildfire now – all heat and no escape.

“Look, I know what it’s like when you’re not in control. I get why you’re so fucking angry. Trust me. But you’re gonna hurt more people if you don’t face your shit,” you argued fiercely. Brave. Foolish.

“You wanna help me? That it, sweetheart?” He scoffed coldly into his tumbler. “I don’t need your fucking pity, and I sure as hell don’t need you to fuckin’ fix me.”

“I never–”

“No, but you’re thinking it. I can see it,” he cut it, taunting. “Poor Soldier Boy, all alone. Must’ve been so hard, right? Frozen in a box, tortured, abandoned, boo-fucking-hoo.”

“That is hard,” you countered – still fearless, still soft, still all you. “And I know you’re clearly not asking for my opinion, but you should know I don’t think you’re broken or weak because of it. I think it made you stronger.”

And that was the worst of it – you meant it. You fucking cared. You looked at him like he was still something worth saving. Like he hadn’t just taken out half a goddamn mansion. Like his hands weren’t still stained with blood. Like you hadn’t seen the monster and decided not to run.

“Damn right it did,” he snapped and fixed you with a glare. “You think I want to be soft and bleeding and weak like you? You think because you’ve got some tragic backstory of your own, we’re the fucking same? You and me? Not the same species, sweetheart. You’re not special. You’re not different. You’re just a little girl playing hero in a world full of wolves. You’re soft. You still believe people can come back from the edge. But I jumped off that cliff a long fucking time ago. So don’t look at me like I’m something you can save.”

You inhaled sharply, but still didn’t back down. “I know you’re not the cold asshole you’re pretending to be.”

“You wanna know what Russia did to me? What they did? Little scientists like you, hm?” Ben goaded. “They tore me apart. Nerve by nerve. Memory by memory. I begged them to stop. I screamed. I cried. I pissed myself. That what you wanna hear?”

“No,” you said, getting up from the couch. “I’m just trying to help you.”

He hated the look on your face. Hated himself for putting it there.

Ben rose as well, towering over you. Cold. “I didn’t fuckin’ ask for it. Wanna know why? ‘Cause, most of all, those forty years in that shithole gave me fuckin’ clarity. Made me realize I don’t need people. I don’t need kindness. I don’t need you. I wanna burn every last thing that tried to take me down to the fucking ground. You think I regret what happened today? I relished it.”

“Liar,” you bit. “I know you didn’t.”

And God, he hated you for it. Hated you for giving him fucking hope.

“That’s because you’re still stupid enough to think there’s fuckin’ good in people,” Ben retorted. “You think you know me? You don’t know shit. Let me make it real fuckin’ clear – whatever you’re looking for? It’s not there.”

He wouldn’t let you get into his fucking head again.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said and took a fucking step closer.

Jesus fuck, why did you always have to do this?

“You think because I let you sit next to me, you’re safe? Maybe you’re even dumb enough to think I like you,” Ben growled, stepping into your space – and you still didn’t even bat a fucking eyelash. “But trust me, if I go off again, you’ll be the first to fry. And I won’t lose any fuckin’ sleep over it, sweetheart.”

There it was – silence. Finally. But in the end, you still didn’t move.

Instead, you scoffed a chuckle and looked him deeply into his eyes – cruel in your mercy. Puckish in your execution. “I think I know now.”

“Know what?” he huffed, impatient.

Fuck you for saying that.

Then you were done. Shoved past him and left for your room. The door slammed so hard it shook the glass in the windows.

And then it rattled him.

That look you gave him – like you weren’t sure he was a monster or not, like you didn’t know if you could trust him – he’d seen it before.

It all fell into fucking place then and there.

An hour later, Ben knocked on your door.

His heart pounded, he ran a hand over his face, and he thought twice about turning around and storming back down the hall to his room. But he needed fucking answers now.

After a moment, he heard your voice from the other side, guarded. “Yeah?”

“Can I come in?” Ben asked, trying to keep his tone light. He didn’t really have a plan beyond that – just needed to get in there and talk.

There was a long pause. Longer than he liked. But finally, you sighed, and he heard the soft sound of you getting up from the bed. The door clicked open a moment later.

No welcoming smile. No warmth. No trust.

“What d’you want?” you prompted with a blank expression and crossed your arms, head tilted. Watching. Waiting. Judging.

Ben hauled something from the pocket of his sweats and held it up for you – cross joint. “Truce?”

Your lips pursed, which meant that you at least weren’t unimpressed. “First one?”

“Yup.”

First successful one. Fourteenth try overall – harder than it fucking looked when you’d done it.

Your head bobbed thoughtfully for a moment before you stepped aside to let him in. He shut the door behind him with more care than he’d normally bother with.

Ben rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

“Didn’t think you’d actually ask,” you shot back wryly.

He clicked his tongue. “Fair enough.”

“So, what? You’re here to apologize?”

Ben bit the inside of his cheek. “Look, I don’t do fuckin’ apologies, okay? I know I can be a little… direct sometimes, but that’s your problem. Not mine.”

You snorted a chuckle. “Wow. Okay…” You cleared your throat like you were coughing the amusement out of your system.

He knew you hated that, but he had to walk a fine line between getting the information he needed and not ruining it with you by being too… friendly.

With a deep groan, Ben dropped down on an armchair in the corner by the large, floor-to-ceiling window front. Legend had given you the guest bedroom on the ground floor with the terrace that led to the garden – aka one giant entry point for all his enemies.

He’d have to talk to the old guy tomorrow about changing that. Get you bumped up to the first floor, maybe a windowless room.

He was kidding. A little.

“Listen, I’m not great at the whole... people thing,” Ben started with a dry laugh.

“No shit.”

“I just wanna talk, alright? I try not to be a dick again. How’s that?”

You considered it, then gave a nod. “Fine. What do you wanna talk about?”

Ben licked his lips, searching for the right words that didn’t give away too much. “Out there, you said you get it – what it’s like not to be in control. What did you mean by that? Is that why half your abilities ain’t working?”

The question seemed to surprise you.

“Uhm, yeah,” you replied after some hesitation. “Three years ago, I started getting panic attacks – not that I’m saying that’s what happens to you.”

“You better not,” he muttered from his chair.

“Anyways,” you continued, trying to tame your fire a little – he could tell and tried not to smirk. “It happened after I got stuck.”

“That Middle Ages thing?” Ben questioned, cocking his head slightly. A laugh then rumbled through his chest. “What the hell happened, sweetheart? You almost got burned on the stake for bein’ a witch?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what happened,” you replied, almost too casual.

“Oh.” He stumped for a moment, then finally lit the joint. “Well, shit. Why d’you go there in the first place? I mean, no offense, doll, kinda common knowledge they’re known as the Dark Ages.”

“I didn’t go there on purpose,” you said, laughing a little as he passed you the reefer. “I just-… Took the wrong exit and… couldn’t go back in there.”

Ben exhaled a sigh through his nose. This was gonna take longer than he expected, wasn’t it?

“In where?”

He mostly couldn’t believe he was having this conversation and it wasn’t about where to put his cock.

“Wormholes.”

Not better.

Ben’s brow creased a little more. Another sigh left his lips. “What’s that?”

You arched an eyebrow. “You want me to explain wormholes to you?”

Ben stared at you for a moment, took a drag from his joint, and then shrugged. “Sure.”

Your lips pursed, but your head nodded. “Uh, okay. Yeah.”

Ben then watched you pace the room, kick your shoes off in various corners before disappearing into the en-suite bathroom, only to emerge a minute later with your makeup bag, where you fished out a red lipstick. Tossed the bag onto the bed. Uncapped the lipstick, cap flying somewhere behind you and landing next to a shoe.

Ah, shit. He’d have dreams about this tonight, wouldn’t he?

“Wormholes are also called Einstein-Rosen bridges,” you explained and drew a long, smudged line across a window pane in deep red. “They are theoretical solutions to Einstein’s equations of general relativity. They describe a tunnel-like structure connecting two separate points in spacetime.”

“Like a tunnel?”

“Yes, exactly!” you said, and Ben tried not to smile at your enthusiasm. He enjoyed it in silence and sangfroid. “I’m sparing you the folded paper analogy, but basically, it means time’s not a straight, rigid line. It’s flexible. Relative. You can bend it.”

Ben didn’t know what it was about the scene that got him – maybe it was how natural you looked doing it, talking through half-formed thoughts while your hand moved fast and confident. Or maybe it was because he’d seen this before, a lifetime ago. Chalkboard. Shed. That same furrow between your brows, the way you gestured mid-sentence like your mind was three steps ahead of your mouth.

“That’s what you do, right? Bend time?” Ben asked, barely keeping up, but he understood enough.

“Did, yes.”

“You tried jump-startin’ it again? Your abilities?” Ben watched your mouth open and then close, head shaking.

“I’m not a car, you know?” You snorted a small laugh and crossed your arms over your chest with a curious smile. “What would you suggest I do?”

“I don’t know.” Ben shrugged his broad shoulders. “You tried jumping off a building yet?”

Your smile twitched a little on your lips. “Uh, no, can’t say that I have. Why exactly would that help?”

Ben gave another shrug. “I don’t know. Facing your fears?”

“I’m not afraid of heights,” you replied, chuckling. “I’m afraid I get stuck somewhere I don’t wanna be.”

Like 1942, Ben thought dryly.

“So, it doesn’t work at all right now?”

“No, it works. I just can’t control it. It’s like a mental block, you know?” you explained. “But back at the lab when you detonated, you triggered it, and I accidentally jumped. Landed back in New York with a five-minute time difference.”

“Huh. That’s how you disappeared,” he muttered under his breath. “What triggers it?”

“I don’t know. Could be anything. Mostly stress, fear, panic,” you replied.

Ben then realized that was how you’d vanished that night as well, wasn’t it? You were scared and emotional, and a minute later, you were gone.

You hadn’t left him. Hadn’t wanted to. Not on purpose.

His chest tightened, but he didn’t let it show. He’d waited eight decades for that answer.

“So, how this whole thing work?” Ben asked with a clear of his throat. “What happens when you go back and change somethin’?”

You chewed on your lower lip for a moment. “Well, there are several major theoretical models. Fixed loops – like Novikov’s principle – say you can’t change the past because you already did. So time, in a sense, is self-correcting.”

“What does that mean?”

Ben watched, half amused, half fascinated, as you scrawled a massive loop across the glass. It wobbled a little, more oval than circle, but your point came across.

“This is a fixed loop,” you said and jabbed the top of the circle with your lipstick. “Everything repeats. You can’t change the outcome because your future self already did whatever you’re going to do. Paradoxes get swallowed up by consistency. There’s no free will.” You drew a squiggly line through the loop. “Now, if you diverge from the loop here, you create a branch. Alternate reality. That’s the multiverse model. Every choice spawns a new timeline.”

“So how many timelines are there?”

“Infinite,” you said slowly. “Every little choice you make on a daily basis creates an alternate timeline where you made a different choice.”

Ben tilted his head, watching your reflection in the glass. “So, what... you break off one path, and now there’s two versions of me out there?”

You giggled lightly. “I mean, yes, basically. It’s Everett’s theory. If you switched your toothpaste, there’s another version of you out there that didn’t,” you said.

“So, which one’s the correct theory?” Ben asked, leaning back in his chair, joint halfway burnt.

“I think both theories are true,” you replied. “You could be in a loop and create branches at the same time. It’s all quantum probability.”

Ben stared, lips pursing.

You stared back. “What part didn’t you follow?”

He scratched his jaw. “The part where I need a damn PhD just to keep up.”

You smiled a little, nodding. “Alright, let’s simplify. Movies.”

Two hours later, you’d explained every working model on time there existed, went through both plots of Terminator and Back to the Future in great detail, and told him about the butterfly effect.

“In a fixed loop, the butterfly effect still exists, but it’s already been accounted for,” you said and stretched your arms over your head with a yawn. It was already long past midnight. “So even if you think you’re making a new choice or messing something up, that choice has already been ‘written’ into the loop’s history. You’re just fulfilling it.”

“So it’s like a script?”

You nodded and shrugged. “Kinda yeah.”

“What if something changes? What happens then?” Ben asked, the feeling in his gut coiling tighter.

If he understood it correctly, you and him were apparently caught in one of those loops. You’d explained it like a chain reaction – dominos propped up in a circle. If one was removed, the circle wouldn’t work anymore.

All he had to do now, was find the missing domino and nudge the first one with his fingertip.

“I mean, theoretically, you can break the loop and create a new quantum branch. But it’s risky,” you said, teeth tugging at your bottom lip. “You don’t know what changes or how much. That’s why it’s better not to interfere.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Ben had to ensure everything stayed the same in order for you to go back to 1942 and fall in love with him. But his heart was already stinging – warning him.

He tried to think back, remember every little interaction he ever shared with you in the past. But what stuck was the beginning – how scared you were. Not just of the strange world around you but of him.

You weren’t spooked because someone had been after you. Not Vought, not the government, or some other asshole like Butcher.

He recalled how you’d crashed into him in the street, nearly knocking him over. How fast you recoiled when he’d reached out instinctively to steady you – like his touch burned. You looked like someone who’d been through hell and wasn’t going to let anyone drag you back – especially him.

The looks of fear, the no touching, the not trusting – it all had been for him, hadn’t it? You’d hated him when you landed in 1942. You’d probably seen what he’d done, knew what he’d still do. Some future version of him had done something. Had broken your trust. Hurt you. Betrayed you. Enough that you came back in time and looked at him like he was the worst kind of monster.

And he hated that he’d have to do it to you again. But he didn’t have a choice, did he?

Because if he let this go on – the bonding, your smiles, your looks like he could be more – he’d risk losing it all. What if you got stuck in 1942 already liking him? What would happen then?

“You okay?” you checked with a soft smile.

Ben nodded slowly. “Uh, yeah. Just thinking.”

But even when you despised him at first back then, even when you knew everything there was to know about him – every cruelty, every mistake, every life he took – you still fell in love with him.

And he could see it now, too – how you looked past everything that had happened in the last few days, every chaos and death he caused. And still, you were here, smiling and talking to him like he was just another human being and not a cold-hearted killer with tons of baggage.

The beginning of it was already there. He remembered it like it was carved into bone: the way your eyes softened. The way you let your guard down slowly, week by week. The way you started to look at him like he was worth something. Like he wasn’t just a weapon someone had pointed at the world and forgotten to leash.

You’d fallen in love with him despite everything. You were doing it again now, too.

And he hated that he couldn’t let it happen. He had to stop it, or it could ruin everything. It was too fucking soon.

Ben squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, jaw grinding tight as the plan formed – quiet and bitter.

He had to make you hate him. He had to be the version of himself you were willing to run from. Even if it killed him.

But he couldn’t let you like this version of him. Couldn’t let you trust him too easily. If he was too soft, too honest, too goddamn human, you might not look at him the same way when you’d eventually land in 1942. You might not flinch. You might not run. And then–

The loop would fracture. It would all fall apart.

“You wanna stay up and watch Back to the Future with me?” you asked with a little grin.

Ben hesitated for a moment, watched the smile dance on your lips like it was the rising sun. His heart ached.

“Yeah,” he agreed with a faint smile. “Why not?”

And sure, after everything he’d learned tonight, he should’ve said no. Should’ve said something mean and cruel and lay the brickwork for the downfall. But he couldn’t do it. Not yet.

He decided to let himself have one last night – one night of closeness, of enjoying your smiles, of hearing your laughs. He was allowed to have one nice thing, even if it didn’t last.

And tomorrow?

He’d go back to the cocky, smug bastard he used to be. He’d tease you. Grate on your nerves. Maybe even push too far, just enough for you to roll your eyes and walk away. He’d play the part, he’d set the trap, and he’d make sure the loop held.

Even if it broke him more than Russia ever did.

For the next three days, Ben had avoided you as best as possible while he formed his plan. But it was harder than expected because every time he turned around, you were there. Coffee mug in hand, nose in a book, leaning over Legend’s pool table with a stretch that gave him thoughts he shouldn’t be having.

And it was starting to piss him off. Because the more he tried to create distance, the more he wanted to be near you.

He doubled down over the following week.

At first, he started small – sexist comments here and there, belittling you, or telling you to fetch shit for him. He made you his personal assistant, which Butcher highly supported. It annoyed you, sure, but it didn’t exactly make you hate him. Of course you couldn’t make it easy on him.

So, he went a little further next. He started screwing Legend’s maids like clockwork, hoping that would do it and maybe even make you a little jealous. Needless to say, all that did was make you disgusted – your words, not his. You’d told him as much when he called for you to bring him a new bottle of lube.

But none of it made you hate him. And that terrified him more than anything.

On the morning of day eight, Butcher and Hughie were still neck-deep in trying to trace Mindstorm, and Ben was growing more impatient by the hour. As he padded toward the kitchen, he paused in the hallway when he heard your voice – sharp and pissed.

“You don’t get to act like you’re in charge. You have no plan. You’re just drugging him up and sending him like a rabid dragon toward your revenge fantasy,” you snapped. “He’s not a person to you. He’s a tool.”

Ben leaned his shoulder against the wall just out of sight, listening.

“But he’s not a person to you either, sunshine,” Butcher bit back. “He’s dangerous. You said so yourself. Called him a liability if I remember correctly. So help us find Mindstorm, and the sooner you can go back to your life and leave all this bloody shite behind you, Doc.”

“You want me to help you find Mindstorm?” The laugh you let out was dry and short, laced with disbelief. “After everything with Soldier Boy at Herogasm? Did your frontal lobe fall out in the car? I told you – I’m not gonna help with this little murder spree. You guys are on your own for this.”

“I think you forgot you’re not in a position to play hard to get, sunshine,” Butcher said lowly. “You wanna stay under the radar, I suggest you help the people that are currently keeping Vought off your back.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you shot back. “Don’t pretend you’ve been doing me a favor. If you wanna turn me in to Vought, be my guest. It’ll take them two weeks just to figure out what name I’m using this time. Not to mention, I’ll tell them you’ve been running around with a war criminal.”

Ben felt his lips twitch. God, you had guts. Butcher went quiet at that – he had no cards left to play and knew it.

“Jesus,” Butcher muttered. “Bloody useless, the both of you.”

Ben waited until footsteps retreated. Then he strolled into the kitchen like he’d just gotten out of bed and hadn’t heard every word.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he said, grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped the cap, letting it fall to the tile.

You didn’t react. Hughie grimaced.

“What, no geriatric gangbang scheduled for this morning?” you deadpanned.

Ben grinned, lazy and smug. “You jealous? ‘Cause I’m sure I can pencil you in for noon.”

“Great,” you replied with a wry smile. “I can draw you a diagram of what an STD looks like.”

Ben clicked his tongue, lips curling. “Feisty, but you know you love me.”

“I really don’t.”

Stupidly, that stung. But he let it roll off his shoulders.

Over the next few days, he tried and tried again, but nothing was working. Every time he expected you to snap – to scream, to cry, to tell him you fucking hated him – you didn’t. You just looked at him like he was something under your shoe. Sometimes you were too annoyed to care. Sometimes too tired to react. Sometimes you hit him with the most surgical, disinterested commentary that bruised his ego in ways nothing else could.

But you never hated him. You endured him – which was arguably worse.

Ben couldn’t tell you what he knew. Couldn’t give away that he was watching his every step like a man walking a minefield. But you’d said it yourself – no disruptions, no butterfly effect.

But every night, when he lay awake in that stiff bed, his mind kept drifting back to the soft shape of your smile when you were excited about something, to the way your lips brushed his jaw in the dark, murmuring things you hadn’t meant to say. And he wondered – if this version of you never went back, never finished the loop… Would you ever love him at all?

So he stayed cold. Distant. Loud. He banged maids and played dumb. He tried everything short of outright cruelty.

Till he realized there was no way around it. He needed to push harder.

Mindstorm had been a fucking disaster – fully yours and Hughie’s fault.

As soon as Butcher had been taken out by that psycho freak with a migraine, the kids had formed an alliance against him – undermined him every step of the way.

When he got meaner and crueler to you, Hughie would step in like your knight in shining polyester. It was fucking annoying. And no matter what he said or did, you still never backed down.

All in all, fucking frustrating – not as frustrating as the news he received, however.

That same night, Ben found you in a place he’d never wanted to find you – Legend’s music room, seated right at the piano as your fingers tickled the ivory keys.

It did unspeakably barbaric things to his heart.

He paused in the doorway for a second, just watching. Enjoying. Reeling.

Luckily, he was already nursing his third whiskey when he stepped inside. You didn’t glance up at him, not really, just arched a brow.

“Jesus fuck, what now?” you huffed, halfway onto another eye roll. Your patience with him had become thiner than ice over the last week.

“You got a minute?”

“Depends,” you said grimly. “Am I about to get roped into another errand that involves you traumatizing the staff?”

Ben’s mouth twitched. He should’ve expected that. The maid incidents hadn’t exactly landed the way he’d wanted it to. You’d just gotten more judgy – like you were slowly starting to catalog him the way a scientist would a failing experiment.

“No lube runs this time. I promise,” he said, strolling in. “This is serious. I need your help with something.”

And boy, was it fuckin’ somethin’. Not exactly the conversation he ever planned on having with you. Where would he even start?

Hey, sweetheart, you know how you already think I’m a mess of bad decisions and unchecked aggression? Well, guess what – Vought used my sperm to make the guy I’m supposed to kill. Neat, huh?

The worst part, though?

You were the only person he’d ever imagined that with. The only one who’d made the idea feel like more than some stupid pipe dream – a house, a dog, maybe a kid with your eyes.

Not this – not some fucking lab-bred monster raised in a cage to replace him.

Your face softened then, anger dissipating. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Uh, no, not really. That freak told me something today, and I need you to check if it’s true.” Ben swallowed, stepping closer.

He crouched down beside you, arms resting on the bench’s edge – close enough to feel your body heat, but not close enough to ask for anything more.

“Okay, what is it about?”

“In the fall of 1980, Vogelbaum called me into the lab.” He hesitated for a second, licking his lips. “Wanted a… sample.”

Your brow quirked. “Like–”

He held up a hand. “Yup, sperm.”

“Ew.” You grimaced. “Did they at least buy you dinner first?”

God, he fucking loved you and hated how he couldn’t tell you.

Ben gave a short, humorless laugh. “Nah, just handed me a cup and a dirty magazine. I made do.”

“You’re so brave.”

“Thanks.” He rubbed his face. “They told me it was just for genetics. Research, you know? I felt flattered. Didn’t think twice about it. Hell, they wired me twenty grand. I left fuckin’ whistling.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, trying not to laugh. “Sure, yeah. If Nazi geneticists ask for more of your DNA, you always say yes for money and pride.”

Ben took a deep breath for the next part. “Mindstorm said they used it. That they made something with it. Someone.”

Your face shifted then, sobering up fast. Quiet alarm. “You think he meant–”

“Homelander.”

You bit your lips hard.

“I wanna know if it’s true,” he added. “I wanna know what the hell they did.”

You stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. “Okay, uhm… I can look for you.”

You closed your eyes then and only a second later, you gasped – sharp and low. Ben heard your heart beating faster.

Your eyes flew open with a “Jesus fuck.”

“That bad?” Ben checked against his better judgment. He’d pay a trillion bucks not to know the answer.

You blinked hard, catching your breath. “It was like watching the Antichrist claw his way out of hell.”

Ben’s stomach twisted, head bobbing in defeat. “That bad. Got it.”

“But it’s true. I’m sorry,” you said finally. “They used your DNA. The embryo was carried by a homeless girl – barely twenty. Vought gave her two grand and a contract she didn’t understand. She died during birth. He-, uh, he killed her. Killed a few others too. Floated out of her with the cord still attached.”

Ben frowned. “Did you really have to share that part?”

You twitched your shoulders innocently. “Hey, if I had to suffer through that, so do you.”

Ben didn’t laugh, only let out a shaky breath and found your eyes. “What do–, uh… What do I do now?”

“Uhm…” Your lips parted for a moment, thinking. “Well, you know they didn’t just make him to replace you, right? They made him to never need anyone. Most of all, you.”

Ben didn’t respond to that. He just sat there for a moment longer in your presence. How stupid was it that a part of him still ached for something he’d never had? A different life. A different version of you. One that remembered what he remembered.

Now, in his real life, he was just a man with blood on his hands and a legacy made of ash. A father without knowing it. A failure even in that.

Ben looked up at you then. “You ever think about kids?”

You gave him a look like he’d asked if you wanted syphilis. “Fuck no,” you snorted.

He raised an eyebrow, licking his lips. “That firm a stance, huh?”

“Look, I like kids. They’re undeniably cute,” you said, and he’d almost smiled. But it didn’t last – his chest felt hollow. “But I’ve seen what Vought babies look like. And you practically created the lovechild of King Claudius and Palpatine with a Big Brother kink. This whole thing was like watching a PSA for not having babies. So, pretty sure that’s a solid no by now.”

“Right,” he said quietly and slowly rose back to his feet.

And then, he felt it – grief.

He’d lost a lot in his life. Fans. Friends. Family. A future. But this – losing you like that – this was a different kind. Slow poison that killed him from the inside out.

“You gonna tell Butcher?” Ben asked then. He knew you technically had to – unless he killed the asshole for blackmailing you.

You stayed quiet for a beat and studied him before answering. “No,” you said, surprising him. “I mean, eventually, yeah. But knowing Butcher, he won’t care. He’s still gonna want him dead, and he’s still gonna want you to do it. And I think you deserve a night to make your own decision, so…”

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“Well, uhm, I’m gonna go to bed. Kinda beat after today. You know, after the schizophrenic mind freak and, uhm, all the verbal abuse – courtesy of you, of course,” you joked dryly and stood, sauntering to the door, all too happy to get away from him again. But when you still turned around, there was sympathy in your eyes. “Don’t worry, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

Ben couldn’t bring himself to respond, only slumped down on the bench with a sigh and a whiskey in hand.

The part that hurt most was how badly he wanted to believe you. That maybe we was still something he could count on. That maybe, even after everything, you’d still help him find a way out of the wreckage of his life.

Ben had one job that week.

Not to kill Homelander. Not to show Butcher what a real soldier looked like. Not even to stay alive.

No, the job was simpler, crueler, harder: Make you hate him – or it would all go to shit.

You weren’t allowed to love him yet. Not until the loop could hold. Not until history clicked into place and the ugly cycle wore itself out the way it was meant to. So for a week, Ben did what he’d never done before.

He broke his own heart, over and over. With volition. With purpose.

He kept fucking Legend’s maids. Loud, messily, with the doors open and no apology in his eyes. Gave you the worst of himself till he even got bored of it. He threw your past back in your face, mocked the way you still believed in him – if you did at all. He called you a tagalong, a liability, a glorified errand girl.

Ben did what he was good at – what Soldier Boy was good at.

He shut down. Barked orders. Called you useless so many times, hell, even you were starting to believe you were broken. He used that. Leaned into it. Said you’d get someone killed. Maybe yourself. He didn’t flinch when you stared at him like you didn’t recognize the man in front of you. That was the point.

He went colder. Meaner. He let the old monster fully out, the one who constantly picked fights and kicked in doors and laughed while people begged.

But you weren’t useless. You were the only thing in this twisted fucking world that made him want to be more than a weapon again.

And you? And you fucking endured it all – like you were playing a longer game than him.

Maybe you were. Ben had overheard your plans when you chatted with your girlfriends recently – after Homelander, you were done. You were planning to apply for teaching jobs at colleges, striking a deal with Edgar, moving on.

But Ben couldn’t let you move on. Couldn’t let you out of his sight again. Couldn’t just let you walk away into freedom.

But you still never flinched. Never screamed. Even after Mindstorm, when he tried to drown the memory of who he used to be in booze and rage. Even when he insulted you just to escape the gravity of how much he still wanted to be the man you loved in 1942.

You always just watched him like you were memorizing every awful thing he said, every dismissive look, every command barked like you were furniture – filing it away.

You never broke.

But he did – and he hated you for it.

The worst part, though? You still didn’t fucking betray him, even when the chance was presented to you on a silver platter – a golden ticket to get rid of him for good – and you didn’t take it.

No, fucking worse – you warned him. Helped him. Saved his ass.

When Butcher and Maeve joined him at Vought Tower, Ben made sure you weren’t invited. Told Butcher you were useless. Told you that you owed him for it. Probably added some sexist remark that he hadn’t used sincerely since the Nixon era.

But of course, you fucking showed up anyways – with Hughie, Annie, MM, Frenchie, and Kimiko.

Chaos ensued in every direction. But before they got to him, you stopped it all.

“What the fuck are you doing here? I gave you a fuckin’ out,” he barked at you, concealing his concern as best as possible while the world was frozen around the two of you.

The silence was almost serene – the most peaceful he ever felt on a battlefield.

“I know you did,” you said, not even pretending you hadn’t seen right through him. “That’s why I’m here.”

You told him then about the other assholes' plan – that as soon as Homelander was in the ground, they’d come for him next. Ben almost exploded and killed them all right then and there – but you convinced him not to.

“Don’t kill them, please,” you begged him with that doe-eyed, reaching-into-a-man’s-soul look. “Just let them go.”

“You just told me they wanted to lock me back up in that fucking box!”

“And they can’t, okay? I sabotaged Frenchie’s little Novichok cocktail. It’s not gonna do anything. I promise,” you assured him. “Just act surprised or tell them you’ve built up an immunity against the stuff or some shit. And then walk away.”

Ben only scoffed at the mere suggestion. “You fuckin’ want me to just let it go?”

“You killed MM’s family, okay? Can’t blame the guy for taking his fucking shot,” you countered, looking intently into his eyes.

“What if they fuckin’ try it again, hm?” he asked, quieter now, but his chest was still heaving and firing up beneath his skin.

You exhaled a long breath before answering. “They won’t. I’ll make sure of it. But you gotta work a little with me here, okay? Just be less… belligerent. And controversial.”

Ben considered it for a moment. Considered you. “How can I fucking trust you, huh? You could just be sayin’ all that shit, so I fight less when it happens. I mean, outta all of them, you have probably the most reason to get rid of me, right?”

And that fucking hurt the most.

“Probably, yeah,” you admitted like it didn’t deepen the crater in his chest, but a smile tugged at your lips. “But I told you a few weeks ago, I thought you deserved better. Still holds true.”

Ben’s brow furrowed, his heart stinging. “Why?”

“Entropy,” you said simply and gave a shrug of your shoulders. “Did you really think it’d all end with Homelander? I’ve heard Butcher refer to himself as a ‘supe exterminator’ on multiple occasions now. Homelander’s just the biggest threat at the moment, but after he’s gone…”

“They’ll come for me,” Ben finished.

Fuck, you were smart. No wonder Stan Edgar had been scared enough of you to want you dead.

“And me, probably,” you added.

“I thought those guys are your friends,” Ben noted.

“They are until they aren’t,” you replied. “Payback was your team until it wasn’t.”

“Got it.” Ben clicked his tongue. “So, what? You wanna strike a deal now? You watch my back, I watch yours?”

Another shrug. “Maybe.”

And God, fuck, he wanted that. More than anything.

“No,” he managed to say. And you still didn’t react – like you’d expected that answer. “Sorry, but you’re on your own, sweetheart.”

You gave him a nod. “Figured. Men make stupid decisions all the time.”

A smile of amusement briefly flashed across his lips. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He meant it.

And then, in the next blink of an eye, you were gone. Vanished right in front of him. Took Ryan with you, even though Ben wanted to scorch every last bit of rotten Brooks DNA that had weaseled itself through time and sprouted like weeds.

The fight with Homelander was brutal. Biblical in that kill-your-own-children way. But no one was left untouched. Ben was losing, then winning, then losing again. Homelander’s strength was impossible. But you changed the game.

You fucking cheated. Came back just to rig it.

Homelander screamed, fought, bled. Maeve leapt into the fray. Butcher took a blast and kept going. Ben punched steel wrapped in daddy issues. You froze Homelander long enough for him to charge.

Together, you all changed the tide.

But the price was high. The detonation burned through every supe in range – Butcher, Maeve, Annie, Kimiko, and you. It took a drop of blood falling from your nose onto marbled tile that made Ben surge forward and tackle the caped supe. And with Homelander in his grip and Maeve beside him, he dove out the fucking window, drawing the blast away.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because when he came to, scorched and dazed on the street below and Homelander twitching in a crater, MM was carrying you out of the rubble – body limp, nose gushing red, head lolling, eyes shut.

You didn’t wake up.

Not on the way to the CIA facility. Not during Butcher’s rant about being robbed of revenge. Not when Frenchie and Kimiko paced the waiting room floor. Not when Annie cried, or Hughie sat in numb silence, or MM tried to keep everyone calm.

Ben followed them, and no one stopped him. Not even when he stood in the hallway outside your hospital room, hands shaking and heart thundering like it hadn’t in eighty years.

He tried to look apathetic. Bored and not like someone with a crushing pain in his ribcage. He sat on the bench outside your room, staring at the wall like it owed him a fucking explanation. Clenched his fists and dug his heels into the linoleum to keep him from going in and reaching out.

He’d spent a week trying to get you to fucking hate him. He’d said the worst shit he could come up with. Treated you like garbage. Fucked every distraction within arm’s reach.

And you still came back for him. Still saved him. Now you might never wake up to see how it would end.

Inside the room, you weren’t moving. Machines beeped steadily. A coma, they’d said. Not permanent – maybe. Not fatal – yet. But your body had taken the hit of freezing time across an entire floor full of supes while his own powers weakened you. And apparently, something in your brilliant brain had finally gone too far. Lit up and blown out.

He knew it was his fault – somewhere under the anger and the static and the sharp edge of grief curling behind his ribs. If you hadn’t stopped him – if you hadn’t warned him – he’d have killed them all. Annie, Butcher, hell, maybe even Ryan. He wouldn’t have stopped. He wouldn’t have thought.

You’d made sure he didn’t become exactly what they thought he already was.

Ben leaned forward and rested his clasped hands between his knees. He didn’t pray. He didn’t beg. But he came close.

And then, he could smell the fucking bastard before he heard his footsteps stroll down the hallway toward him.

Stan Edgar. Older. Just as smug. Still smelled like overpriced cologne and executive privilege. The last time Ben had seen that face, was in 1984, and Payback had just handed him over like a dog someone got tired of feeding.

Ben didn’t even look up when the expensive loafers halted in front of him.

“I was wonderin’ how long it’d take you to slither in,” he said coldly and met Edgar’s eyes. “You have some fuckin’ nerve showing up here. Can’t decide yet if it’s ballsy or stupid.”

Stan Edgar’s voice was the same as it had been in the ‘80s – cool, measured, and full of contempt he didn’t bother hiding. “I almost didn’t. But then, you’re not the one I came to see.”

Ben rose to his feet. Slow. Deliberate. Towering.

“You’re not fucking touching her,” Ben growled. “Give me one good fuckin’ reason I shouldn’t put your teeth through the back of your goddamn skull.”

Stan didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Was that a fucking thing smart people had in common?

“Because you need me,” he replied with a calm smile.

Ben scoffed a laugh – humorless and sharp. “That’s a new one.”

Stan’s gaze flickered to the closed door beside them. Your room. A hint of interest passed over his face – not warm, not cruel, just precise.

“You’ve done an admirable job pretending you don’t care about her,” Stan said. “Almost convincing.”

Ben’s fists clenched, his teeth gritting. “Walk away.”

“But you do care,” Stan continued, eyes narrowing. “You always did. Even back then when you first told me about her. We never did find out what exactly she changed. Only she will probably ever know the truth. But I do know she’s your axis, Soldier Boy. Your tether. She’s what you’re fighting to stay alive for, even if you’re too angry and broken to admit it.”

Ben’s jaw twitched.

Stan let the silence draw out. Let the words sink in. And then, in a tone that was too casual to be anything but deliberate, he mused, “She hasn’t gone back yet, has she?”

Ben looked up sharply.

Stan gave a small, knowing smile. “I thought so. This version of her – the one lying comatose on the other side of that door — she’s still in the present. Which means the loop hasn’t closed. Which means you still need her. Alive. Close. And willing to go.”

“Go to hell,” Ben hissed and stepped closer. “You set me up. You handed my team the knife and told ‘em where to cut. You’re the reason they sold me out, the reason I was buried under forty years of ice and piss and Commie tests. I don’t make deals with fucking snakes.”

Stan stepped back, adjusting his cuffs. “She doesn’t know, I assume. Not about you. Not about what you were to her. That’s important. You break that too early, it falls apart.”

Ben scowled – hard and quiet. His blood boiled underneath his skin. “That a threat?”

“It’s a truth,” Stan said, smiling. “One you’ve gone to great lengths to protect.”

“Careful, Edgar,” he muttered, jaw grinding. “Because if I start swinging, you won’t come back from that one.”

“You won’t kill me,” Stand replied calmly. “Because I know what she’s planning. I know she’s applied to universities in Boston, New York, Los Angeles, even Paris. She’s waiting until this ends to disappear. Teaching gigs, research grants. A clean, respectable life. Smart girl. Admirable, really.” He tilted his head slightly. “You can’t follow her there. And you know it.”

Ben’s fists clenched at his sides. “You’re here to blackmail me.”

“I’m here to make sure you don’t burn your only lifeline,” Stan replied. “The war with Homelander is almost over. The dust is going to settle, and some of us are smart enough to plan ahead. Someone needs to replace him. Smooth things over with the public.”

Ben scoffed a dark chuckle. “I’m not gonna be your fuckin’ Vought puppet again. You’re playing with fire, Stan.”

Ben didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. They both knew what was at stake.

“You want her alive and in your vicinity. I want insurance. I think we can come up with something mutually beneficial,” Stan said. “I keep your secret and help keep her here. In exchange, you don’t kill me and save the company. And when the dust settles, we both walk away.”

The old rage in Ben’s chest itched like a half-healed scar. Everything in him wanted to flatten this bastard with his goddamn boot. Snap his jaw, twist his wrist, spill the truth of 1984 in blood and bone. But if Stan opened his smug little mouth at the wrong time, you’d run.

“Got any bright ideas?”

That same old smug smile curled on Stan’s lips. He knew he won. “I do,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

And just like that, he was gone – leaving Ben alone again with the silence and the guilt and the weight of the impossible.

Ben thought it would get easier after you woke up. It didn’t.

Three days of silence in that hospital room, and the moment your eyes finally opened, he felt something in him uncoil so violently it almost hurt. He didn’t show it, of course. Kept the mask on. But deep down? He had nearly fucking broken. It was the damn relief that did it – the blinding, gut-punching realization that you were still here. Still breathing. Still his to destroy.

Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it?

Destruction.

After the showdown with Homelander, you’d lost your other ability, too. That stupid, terrifying power of yours – pausing time like it was nothing – was gone. Burned out, maybe. Broken. Either way, it was one less variable to worry about.

Because without it, you changed.

Ten months later, you were still here, still pretending you weren’t afraid of him, but your edges had dulled. No more cocky interruptions, no more smug little barbs when he barked orders. You still seethed – he could see it in the set of your jaw, in the stiff way you handed him his schedule or fetched his dry cleaning – but now, finally, you hated him. Not just with defiance. With disappointment. With bitterness.

Quiet, sharp, cold – just like he needed.

The deal you made with Edgar had made all of this possible. Vought had wanted you dead for years. Ever since you appeared on their doorstep with chronokinesis (and one clumsy meeting in ’83), they’d flagged you as a catastrophic liability. You’d been in hiding, hunted by the company until Edgar put a lid on it.

A truce, really.

You got your life back, and in return, Soldier Boy became the fucking leash – again.

Public relations rehab. America’s first supe rebranded as the woke patriot. Pride parades, women’s marches, climate rallies – Ben did it all. Sure, he had wanted to throw up half the time and punch someone the other half, but he showed up. Grinned like an idiot. Waved at the cameras. Did what he had to do to stay on the team – because that meant keeping you close.

That was the condition he gave Butcher. And you.

If you left, so did he. And if he left? Edgar would gut the deal. You’d be back on the hit list in seconds. He didn’t have to say it twice. You stayed. You endured.

You even tried to look forward to something, curb your disappointment. You got an offer to teach at NYU that made you smile brighter than the sun, not knowing he’d already crushed it behind the scenes.

But that wasn’t enough. He needed proximity. Pressure. Something deeper and more convenient.

So he made you his PA.

His old ones never lasted. Never could handle him and for sure as hell hated him. And you? You had no choice. No power. No way out. So you agreed.

For the past ten months, he turned your life into something small. Something gray. Verbal jabs turned into long, punishing days. Coffee, coke, and condom runs at 3AM. Paperwork dumped in your lap without warning. Public ridicule disguised as jokes. Every time you smiled at someone else, he punished it with ten more errands. Every time you looked like you might find a second of peace, he shattered it.

He never laid a hand on you, but he didn’t have to. He broke your spirit in slow, deliberate pieces.

And it fucking worked.

You hated him. Truly. Deeply. Visibly. That sparkle in your eyes he loved so much was gone, replaced by exhaustion and contempt.

But still not enough.

You hadn’t gone back yet. Hadn’t slipped. Hadn’t triggered the loop. And he was running out of time. Your birthday was in a week – the day he was banking on. The day you’d finally break. He’d rehearsed every possibility. Every variable. Every sharp word and final blow.

And then, right when things were at their most frayed and he didn’t know what else to do to push you over that cliff, Vought PR sent him to a fucking middle school – which turned out to be his saving grace.

Edgar thought it would be good for Soldier Boy’s image – the kids would love it, marketing said. He had to suit up. Shake hands. Sign notebooks. Let a bunch of snot-nosed brats ask him questions about courage and justice like he hadn’t spent the last year slowly mutilating the best person he ever knew.

Annie stood beside him as Starlight, all practiced smiles and warm answers. The kids screamed when she flipped the light switch in the gym and lit the damn rafters up with gold. Soldier Boy, meanwhile, flexed once and signed a forehead.

But then, he saw you.

You were off to the side, chatting with someone he hadn’t noticed before. Young guy, decent build, probably early thirties, wearing a NASA sweatshirt like he earned it. Tall. Clean-cut. Big smile. Middle school science teacher, from the look of him.

The two of you were huddled near the supply room door, leaning against lockers like the rest of the world didn’t exist. You were holding a paper cup of coffee as if it was the Holy Grail and gesturing mid-rant with your free hand. The guy was nodding along, wide-eyed and grinning like a fucking rescue mutt who just found a forever home.

The way you laughed, the way you leaned in without even noticing – something in Ben fucking snapped. And before he could stop himself, he perked his ears to catch the conversation.

“–taught at a tiny liberal arts college outside Montréal. Great students. Terrible funding. I built a cloud chamber out of a fish tank once just to prove we could,” you told the guy enthusiastically.

“No way.” The guy grinned brightly.

“Yup. Had to smuggle dry ice across the border in a cooler from Vermont. Worth it.”

“Wow, that’s dedication,” he chuckled.

“Please,” you grinned. “You haven’t seen dedication until you’ve tried to explain wave-particle duality using glow sticks and a laser pointer from Canadian Tire.”

Ben felt something unpleasant twist behind his ribs. You were glowing. Beaming.

“And you said you’re running something today?” you asked, curious now.

Ben stepped in closer, pretending to inspect the trophy case. His teeth ground together so hard he swore his molars would crack. If you dared so much as to touch the guy’s arm now, he’d blow up the whole goddamn school.

“Oh, yeah,” the guy said and lit up. “It’s the old NASA demo with vacuum and marshmallows. I’ve got a bell jar, vacuum pump, camera rig… We film the expansion in slo-mo and talk about gas laws. I also bring in Peeps for maximum horror.”

You laughed, full-bodied and joyful. “Stop! I love that experiment!”

“Come sit in,” he said, clearly encouraged. “You’d be great with them. Honestly, if you’re ever interested in guest lecturing, I know my eighth graders would lose their minds.”

Ben had heard enough.

“She’s got work,” he cut in behind you, voice casual and deadly. “She’s got a schedule. Doesn’t have time to blow up candy with middle schoolers.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even turn. “And you’ve got an audience to pander to, remember?”

Ben moved into the space beside you, shoulders squared, gaze sharp. “There’s a meeting in twenty minutes. You’re coming.”

“You and Annie have a meeting. I’ll catch up.”

“You sure about that?”

You raised your brows and stepped closer, your eyes flickering around the gym full of kids. You lowered your voice as you spoke, “What’re you gonna do? Throw me over your shoulder in front of a class of children and ten reporters? You can’t pull your usual bullshit with the world watching.”

He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t threaten you here, not with dozens of kids around and Annie two feet away. Couldn’t risk the cameras catching even the edge of a snarl.

He clenched his jaw.

“Guess I’ll go help inspire the next generation. You and Annie have fun with the mayor.” You smiled sweetly – fake as hell. Then you turned back to the teacher, tone instantly brighter. “Lead the way, professor. I want front-row seats for the Peep implosion.”

The guy smiled and opened the door for you. You went willingly – laughing again, relaxed, glowing, as if you hadn’t spent ten months taking his orders and swallowing his poison.

And Ben stood there, fuming, watching the door swing closed behind you like a goddamn slap in the face. His stomach twisted into knots he hadn’t felt since ’42 – the kind of jealousy that bordered on nausea. That pussy got a smile out of you. Got real laughter. Got your attention.

He hadn’t seen you that fucking happy in months. And you hadn’t looked at Ben like that in eighty-one goddamn years.

Now, none of it was for him.

That night, Ben waited.

He stood across the street for hours. A half-lit cigarette dangled between his fingers, long since dead. He didn’t light another.

Your little dungeon-level walk-up apartment was tucked under one of those overpriced brownstones with wrought iron railings and chipped stairs leading down from the sidewalk. Half a planter wilted on the stoop. A bike was chained to the gate like it had given up.

It was close to midnight. You still weren’t fucking home.

His jaw worked till he got a migraine. You’d left the school with that fuck. That smug, soft-spoken, teacher-voice fuck who probably graded tests with smiley faces and called his mother every Sunday. Probably had a cat. Or worse – a golden retriever.

Then, there you were – laughing.

You were walking up with that pussy now, your bag slung over your shoulder, hair pulled into a loose knot, your shoulders bare in the warm June air. You had your keys in hand before you even reached the steps. Ben followed your movements, watched as you gestured animatedly, then laughed again at something the science teacher said.

He hated the way you looked at the guy. Open. Interested. The bastard’s hand was way too fucking close to your back as you unlocked the door, and you smiled — all bright and easy. That sharp little smile that meant your brain was working overtime.

You let the teacher inside, and that was it.

Ben was across the street before you’d barely closed the door. By the time you answered his knock, loud enough to wake the damn neighborhood, you were already pissed.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Coffee,” Ben said, his lips curling into a slow, lazy smirk. “I want fucking coffee. From that place on 12th.”

“Seriously?” you scoffed, stepping half into the doorway.

“Now.”

“I’m off the clock.”

“You’re never off the fuckin’ clock.” Ben tilted his head a fraction. “You gonna make me ask twice?”

That’s when the guy inside appeared behind you, standing awkwardly with one of your mugs in hand, already halfway into his little “I should give you two a minute” face.

Ben’s eyes were locked on you. Not moving. There was no yelling. No words. Just a look. A cold, sharp threat that made your stomach flip – not for yourself, but for the man behind you.

You knew it instantly.

If you don’t go right now, I’ll snap his fucking neck.

Your throat worked before you turned back to the teacher, forcing a laugh that was half a breath too tight. “Give me ten minutes?”

The guy smiled, easy and trusting. “Sure, I’ll wait here.”

“Don’t break anything while I’m gone,” you muttered to Ben as you brushed past him.

Ben didn’t bother answering.

When the door slammed shut, the teacher guy was still standing by your couch, probably confused. Probably nervous.

Good.

Ben didn’t waste time. He walked a slow, heavy loop around the room. Took in the bookshelves, the cluttered little desk, the framed photo on the wall of you with Annie and Kimiko. His lip curled at the sight.

The teacher offered him a tight, awkward smile. “Did you need something, or…?”

Ben turned to face him. He didn’t speak at first, just stared. But when he finally did, it was low – gravel scraped off pavement.

“If you don’t walk out that fucking door in the next three seconds, I’ll break your neck so fast your brain won’t have time to know you’re dead.”

The teacher’s face went white.

“Don’t ever think you can fucking come back, either,” Ben added. “Lose her number.”

That was it. The door clicked shut a few seconds later.

And ten minutes later, when you finally came back, it all unraveled then.

You looked around, confused, before realizing the teacher was gone.

“What the hell did you do?” you snapped, storming toward Ben without waiting for an answer. “He was a decent guy, for once. And you scared him off like some rabid fucking–”

“I gave him three seconds,” Ben cut in, voice low and bored like he’s just filed his taxes. “He got out in two. Smart guy. You think I’m gonna let you go fuck some science fair reject?”

You crossed your arms, the dim light throwing shadows up your bare collarbones. “I think you’re bored. Again. And I think you should leave.”

Ben stepped forward. Just one little step. Measured.

You didn’t move – not yet.

“That’s cute,” he said, sneering. “Real fuckin’ cute. You think you get a say?”

His eyes dragged over you like a lazy threat.

“God, you can’t stand that I might have a goddamn moment to myself, can you? You don’t get to decide who I talk to. You don’t get to decide anything about my life.”

“I do when your life is fuckin’ mine. I own you. Get this through your stubborn fucking head.”

He said it like it was truth. Like the sky was blue, gravity was real, and you belonged to him.

You stepped closer, trembling with fury. “You treat me like a slave, you stalk me, you ruin any fucking chances I have at being happy–”

Ben chuckled – the kind of sound that set nerves on edge. “Happy?” He took a slow, deliberate step toward you. “You think flirtin’ with some soft-handed twink who’s never been in a fight is happiness?”

You stepped back instinctively.

Ben’s smile twisted. He saw it. Smelled it – fear.

“Here’s the thing, sweetheart,” he murmured, closing the gap like a lion circling the kill. “You wanna get laid so bad, maybe you should’ve just asked. I’m right fucking here.”

You scoffed, but he still came closer.

“C’mon, doll, you’re already playing the part. Dressing like that. Batting your lashes. Might as well bend over and get what you’ve been fuckin’ begging for.”

You backed up another half step, but the wall was coming up fast behind you – that little strip of space between the bookshelf and the door.

And Ben fucking followed.

His hand grazed your hip. Not a grab. Just fingers brushing the fabric. Deliberate. Familiar – the same fucking move his father had used. Fourth of July, 1942.

You flinched, just slightly, but that was all he needed. His stomach turned, but he didn’t stop.

Because this was the goddamn plan. This would push you far enough, wouldn’t it? It would probably make you hate him so much you’d go back in time just for the sole purpose of finally killing him.

Ben had never hated himself more than in this moment.

“That it, hm?” He caged you in with one arm against the wall, the other trailing down the curve of your waist like a slow threat, fingers dragging over fabric, flesh, and bone. “You thought some middle school dweeb was gonna fill you up? You wanted fuckin’ affection that bad?”

His fingers dug into your waist, just enough to stake a claim – just enough to threaten. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t move beyond the line. But he hovered on the fucking edge of it. Close enough to burn.

Your pulse began to race, panic biting at the edges – he could hear it. But your voice was steady and your shoulders straight. You didn’t cower.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you bit.

“You should be.”

His fingers tightened just barely again – enough to warn, not enough to bruise. Yet.

But as you looked up at him, stared into his eyes as if you could stare into his soul, something shifted in your gaze. Cold. Empty.

“I see it now,” you whispered. You didn’t sound afraid anymore, but he knew you still were. “That’s what this was always about. You want to break me.”

Ben froze, throat closing, but he didn’t take his hand off you.

“This is what it takes, huh? You want my dignity next? You wanna feel like a man? Rape me?” You spit the word in his face. “Go ahead, Ben. It’s still not gonna fucking break me.”

First time you ever used his actual name.

Ben flinched. Breath hitched. Heart hammering like he’d been the one cornered. He looked at you, really looked, and saw the hate there.

Clean. Pure. Uncompromising.

He’d finally fucking done it – and it felt like swallowing glass.

Finally, he took a step back like your sheer heat was burning him. “Careful, sweetheart,” he muttered. “Next time I won’t be so goddamn nice.”

And then he left. Fled your apartment, practically.

Because it was all he could do to keep himself from dropping to his knees and fucking screaming. The pressure that had been building in his chest all year – all eleven fucking months of playing the villain, twisting the knife deeper every day – it all burned too hot and sudden.

Ben kept telling himself then that it was just one more week. Seven fucking days. He could stomach anything for that long.

But each time you passed him in the hallway, eyes fixed on the floor, shoulders drawn in like you were bracing for impact, something inside him cracked further. You flinched when he cleared his throat. Stiffened when his shadow crossed yours. And when you looked at him, on the rare occasion you did, it was like you were finally seeing the monster.

It broke his fucking heart.

He had told himself this was the only way. That when it was over, when you were back – really back – he could explain everything.

But now, watching you move around him like a ghost of the girl he’d once known, he wasn’t so sure anymore. He didn’t know how to fix this. How to fix you. How to fix himself.

And the sick truth of it was, he wasn’t even sure he deserved the fucking chance.

▶️ Chapter 15: I May Be a Thief, but I Am Not a Cheat – JULY 6

Going back to the present next week! Yay 🥳

What did you think of this one? Did you expect Ben to go this far? Did you enjoy their little moments of bonding before Ben turned up the volume? Hope those last few chapters filled in some gaps. Writing his pov is always a bit wild 😂💚🦅

Coming Up:

Before his brain could supply more brilliant ideas, he caught you staggering another step. One more step backward and your hand darted to the brick wall beside you. You blinked, your knees shook, breaths grew labored. Your nose twitched, and your hand flew up to your face.

The blood came fast – just a drip, then another, your fingertips painted red.

His stomach dropped, his smirk dropped faster. Your knees gave just enough to make him lunge forward, and Ben was at your side in a second, arms reaching for you.

“Whoa, shit–… Hey, easy… I got you–”

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

Your voice hit like a whip. Not loud. Not harsh. Just final.

It stopped him cold. The words sank deep. Cut clean. Same tone you’d used back in 1942.

Same shit you said to him when he first offered you his hand and you looked at it like it was a trap. You didn’t want comfort then. You didn’t want it now either.

Ben slowly lowered his hands and backed off – and it hurt like fucking hell.

You leaned heavily against the wall of the corner store and slowly slid down to the cool concrete with a wince. Back slumped, one knee up, blood still streaking down the side of your face. Your eyes were sharp. Distant. Locked up like you couldn’t afford to let him close.

He watched you for a beat, jaw clenching. You were breaking. Physically. But you still wouldn’t let him in.

Of course not.

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