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godmadeaterribleerror · 3 months ago

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Chapter 11 - The Wolves or The Ocean Rocks

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: This Chapter of No Love Lost is brought to you by blatant Jennifer’s Body propaganda, Too Much Plot™, acidditties infinite patience, and readers like you. Thank you. Chapter Title from Guilty As Sin? By Taylor Swift.

Word Count: 18.5k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: A new plan is made, and the team takes a trip to Staten Island. Usual warnings

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

Read on A03!

Chapter 10 - Chapter 12

You’re up against the wall. You weren’t sure how you got there—it was all a blur of teasing and mock fighting and getting just a little too close together—but you knew something had snapped. One of you had started this, this furious kiss that might be like a drug, that might ruin every other kiss you’ve had, will have. You think you’ll blame Ben later because he has no actual proof it was you that moved first and you can talk circles around that man for days. Most of the time. Right now you’re not sure if you know any words expect Ben and fuck and please.

Ben’s standing over you, his arms caging you between his body and the wall. Your hands are tangled in his hair, pulling him down to you so that this never ends. One of his hands has dropped to your waist, pulling you closer, closer, until you’re off the wall, pressed against Ben’s chest and wrapping an arm around his neck to stay steady.

His arm wraps fully around your body, the other hand leaving the wall to tangle in your hair, raising you slightly off the ground. You moan, and suddenly the arm around your waist drops to right below your ass, lifting you completely before all but slamming you back into the wall with a groan.

“Ben,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around him as his teeth pull at your lip. “Fuck, please-“

He chuckles, leaning back slightly. “You want me to fuck you, Sunshine?”

You whine, trying to return his mouth from where it’s torturing you—just a breath away—to where it belongs. Against yours, forever. Things like talking can be secondary, because this can never stop. “Ben, please-“

“Words,” He teases, and when he says your name it vibrates through his chest, through your blood. “I know you know how to use them.”

“Fuck,” you gasp, still trying to pull him back forwards. “Please.”

“I’ve never seen you speechless before. If this is all it took I’d have kissed you months ago.”

“Ben-“

“Words.”

Your indigence manages to push through your desperation. “That is a word, fuck-“ you hiss, because Ben’s pushed his knee up to rest between your thighs. “It’s a proper noun.”

His head drops to your neck, kissing bruises that vanish in seconds. “Can’t stand being wrong, can we?”

“Wasn’t wrong, you-“ Your head can’t fall further back, so he’s moving up, up. Kissing at your ear, your cheek, your forehead and nose and everywhere else but your mouth. “Fuck, Ben.”

“That’s what you want?” He teases. “Say it.”

You’re past dignity. “Please fuck me, Ben. You absolute cu-“

He cuts you off, kissing you long and heavy until there's no breath in your lungs to keep going.

“Bed?” He grunts, and you nod frantically.

You blink, and suddenly you’re on your back, still between Ben, still resting your legs on his hips, but the surface behind you is now soft. The bed is already squeaking slightly as Ben kisses you into the mattress, and you don’t realize that you’ve started to grind against him until he pulls back with a groan.

“Fucking quit that, or you won’t get what you want,” Ben snaps, and you can feel him, long and hard against your leg. You test your luck, pushing up into him one more time, making him moan against your ear.

“Plea-“

The word isn’t fully out of your mouth before Ben’s pulling away from you, weight moving off your body and making you push up on your elbows to try and bring him back. You barely have a chance to see him kneeling at the edge of bed—your lower body having somehow gotten exposed along the way—before you fall back with a strangled gasp as his mouth finds your pussy.

His beard is scraping at your inner thighs, his tongue is pushing inside you, his nose keeps brushing against your clit, and one large hand is managing to hold you still as you try to buck off the bed.

“Fuck, Ben, please-“ you moan and he growls against you, moving faster-

A snore tore through the air, yanking you from the hands of sleep in an instant. Still in bed, still on your back, and, torturously, still pinned down by Ben, who was all but passed out above you.

You were starting to lose your mind. Over the past week, Ben had solidified his habit of pulling you under him in the night, tangling your legs together and pushing his head into your shoulder as his arms covered your chest. It would’ve been sweet if—over the past week—you hadn’t been waking up every morning with an ache between your legs, covered in sweat and filled with an insatiable need for the very man sleeping above you.

You never moved. You couldn’t move. Ben looked so peaceful when he slept, and it made the Feeling warm and easy. His voice would roll through your body as he grumbled incoherently under his breath, his face would bury into you as he held you tightly, and you just weren’t cruel enough—to Ben or yourself—to wake him. You always waited until he let out the low sound that signaled he was leaving sleep, and then you’d start whispering his name, pushing at his arm slightly until Ben woke himself.

The pitfall to this plan was that you’d be trapped under Ben—horny and still half asleep—trying to fight yourself from doing something really, really stupid. Like kissing his pouting lips that looked really soft, or tracing his sharp jaw from his chin to his hair, or pulling him further into you just to be closer, feel his warmth and strength as he breathed against you. This was not a plausible long term way to exist. It was starting to become distracting, how much you wanted him. Yesterday morning he’d reached over you in the kitchen and you set the orange in your hand on fire. You’d somehow managed to play it off as being startled, but all you could think about for the rest of the day was Ben’s body and how it had pressed against yours in that split second. The thoughts followed you into your dreams, and the current position you were in wasn’t doing you any favors.

Time began to move in a cruelly slow passage. You might have been held under Ben for days or mere minutes, but it felt the same. He was right there, touching you so casually, and you couldn’t do anything about it. It had clicked, when you’d woken up from a safe and peaceful sleep last week, that the Feeling didn’t feel inseparable from your own self anymore. It was Ben. Your… attachment and care and ease with him. You were an adult, and you could admit that maybe it was just Ben. That you wanted him matching you step-for-step, holding you peacefully, and fighting that consuming thirst for just him, him, him forever.

And you knew where the catalyst lay, in that very thought. That was too much. It was more than infatuation, it was something deeper you didn’t really have a word for. And you knew that Ben wasn’t capable of that feeling that now sat under your skin with the fire. He didn’t want it—not with you—and you don’t blame him. But you don’t think you could do anything else, anything that wasn’t everything. You were an adult, a grown woman who had a PhD and was perfectly capable of living with the man she liked not liking her back. It would fade, or pass, or change back into something neutral and platonic. And if it kept growing and growing to affection and fervor and desire and undying-

You’d live. You’d find a way to live.

When Ben finally started to move, that low sound from his chest rolling through yours, it felt like mercy. You might have exploded—burst into a million pieces of want and desperation—if he hadn’t.

“Ben,” you whisper, tapping his arm where it holds you. “Wake up.”

His response is a low, muffled grumble. “No.”

“It’s noon.”

“So?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Go fucking eat, then.”

You sigh. “I can’t, not until you move.”

“Tough shit.” Ben doesn’t move, if anything he might be holding you tighter.

“Please,” you poke his shoulder. “I need to shower.”

“That’s not my fucking problem.” His words are becoming more firm—less slurred with sleep—and you can feel the tight content sitting in his chest. “You should’ve showered last night.”

“All the hot water was gone,” you frown at the ceiling, poking him again. “Because someone took their sweet fucking time.”

“You could’ve just used the damn guest bathroom.”

“You could’ve just used the guest bathroom. It’s not my shower that’s broken.” You almost jump when you look down at him, finding his eyes open and watching you with a heavy look. Your words stumble a little, mouth suddenly dry. “I’ve told you I can just call Mallory-“

“I don’t need the CIA in my shit any more then they already fucking are,” Ben mutters. “It’s not worth it.”

“Easy to say when you’re the one who gets to take hour long showers in my bathroom-“

“Our bathroom, Sunshine.”

You snort. “Our bathroom? Seriously?”

“It’s my bedroom too now, my fucking bathroom as well.” He sits up slightly when you giggle again, “what’s so fucking funny-“

“Nothing,” you shrug.

“Liar.” Ben’s propped up on an elbow, slightly over your body as he glares down at you. It’s not doing you any favors. “You have that shit-eating grin when you get to teach me something fucking dumb. What.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m not a sensitive pussy, I can fucking handle-“

“Communism, Ben. I’m laughing because ‘our’ is a communist sentiment.”

You feel irritation strain against him, but there’s no drums, no fury. “I ain’t no fucking commu-“

“I know. That’s the joke.” Still on your back, you stick your tongue out at him. “Jokes are funnier when you explain them, you know.”

Ben drops back to his side of the mattress, and you mourn the loss of his warmth. “Just for that shit, I’m not cooking tonight.”

“It’s my night anyways, dumbass.”

“And you’ll be blowing up the kitchen alone.”

You roll your eyes. “A girl blows up the kitchen one fucking time, and suddenly it’s all she’s ever done.”

“Twice,” Ben’s smirking when you look at him. “Pizza.”

He’s right. Five nights ago you’d tried to bake a pizza by hand, and destroyed the counter and several cabinets. And he knows he’s right, because he’s already got the cocky told you so look in his eyes, the one that appears when he wins an argument.

“Shut up,” you mumble, climbing out of the bed as Ben laughs behind you. “It’s not my fault pizza is so easily flammable.”

Ben sits up against the headboard, and you can feel him watching you move around the room. “I think you’d find a way to make stone ‘flammable’.”

“Everything in the world is flammable, Ben. That’s how melting temperatures work.”

“Fuck off, brat.”

You flip him off, moving to the bathroom and closing the door with a lock.

Ben had, in a remarkably short amount of time, made himself at home in your space. His razor was near the sink, shampoo next to yours in the shower, and his shield was—for reasons you still didn’t fully understand—sitting against the wall.

“Why does it have to be in the bathroom?” You’d asked, and he’d scoffed as if it were an insane question.

“Because.”

“That clears absolutely nothing up.”

“Don’t fucking worry about it.”

You’d frowned, following him into his own bathroom for the last of his items. “See, I wasn’t worried, but now I am. This is a big house, there’s definitely space-“

“I want it close.” He’d grunted, stepping into the shower for toiletries. “That’s it.”

“Close to where you shit?”

“Shut the fuck up.” He’d turned back to you, arms full. “This is everything.”

You’d looked around the room. “What about your toothbrush?”

“I don’t brush my teeth.” He’d pushed past you, and you’d followed his long strides back down the hall, gaping at his back.

“You don’t brush your teeth? For what possible fucking reason?”

“Don’t need to. Waste of fucking time.” Ben had glanced down at you, expression almost confused. “You don’t need to do that shit either, now. You have a better healing factor than I do.”

You’d blinked. “It’s a good habit.”

“Whatever,” he’d shrugged. “Not my damn time you’re wasting.”

After that conversation, you’d bought him a toothbrush. It was still sitting—bristle and dry—next yours, but it made all of it, made Ben, feel more concrete. Like some form of evidence that you were sharing a room, and he wasn’t sick of you yet. That he’d forgiven you enough to only roll his eyes when you suggested he use it.

He’d forgiven you. By some miracle, he’d completely and totally forgiven you. You’d played it all in your head a million times, trying to see if there had been a break in his words, a falter in what you’d felt from him, any sort of evidence that he was lying. But he wasn’t. You’d watch him bend a knife in half because it “wasn’t working properly” or make snarky comments at the show you’d be watching, and all you could feel from him when you grabbed his hands or your legs brushed together was ease. His words, his offer, looped and looped in your brain, and began to carve a groove.

Do you seriously fucking believe that Homelander would take you and I wouldn’t fucking burn everything to get you away from him.

You can always fucking be around me.

I trust you. I give a shit about you.

You picked the words apart. Trying to find a divot or crack to show that Ben was lying, that you needed to have doubt and tread carefully.

To get you away from him.

Away from Homelander. Not back to Ben, away from Homelander.

You can always fucking be around me.

Always.

I trust you. I give a shit about you.

He’d forgiven you. Fully, completely. And you didn’t know what that meant.

I give a shit about you.

You’d expected him to be gone from the bedroom when you finished your shower, so you changed slowly in the lingering, humid steam. But you open the door to the bedroom and find him exactly where you’d left him, looking bored and sullen.

“Who takes long fucking showers now?” He mutters under his breath, and you blink at him.

“I thought you’d just go downstairs,” you say blankly, trying to read his face. “If I’d known you were waiting-“

“I wasn’t waiting.” Ben snaps, standing in one quick, abrupt movement. “I needed to shit.”

He pushes past you, into the bathroom, and you call as he closes the door, “there are like, four other bathrooms!”

You hear his shouted response through the door. “Shut the fuck up!”

Taking a step to the hall, you hesitate, glancing back at the bathroom door. “Is it a long shit?!”

There’s a pause, and then, “What?!”

“I’m going downstairs! If it’s not a long shit, I can wait-”

“I can shit by my goddamn self.” You can almost see his frown through the door. “I don’t need fucking help.”

“I wasn’t offering help, you asshole, I was offering to wait. So we can go downstairs together.” It sounds stupid as you say it, but you can’t bring yourself to take it back.

There’s another second of silence, then a gruff, “Fine.”

You hum, glad Ben can’t see the heat on your face, and drop back onto the bed. You expect to wait a few minutes at least, but the toilet flushes almost immediately and Ben pulls the door open with a grunt.

“I’m hungry.” He snaps, and you stand off the bed with a shrug.

“Join the club.”

“Fuck off.”

You laugh to yourself, following him down the stairs. “Thoughts on dumplings?”

“What?”

“For lunch. I saw a recipe in the book yesterday.”

He makes a tight face at you from the bottom of the steps. “I don’t fucking want oriental food.”

“Jesus Christ, Ben.” You sigh, shaking your head as you move a pace ahead.

“What? The fuck is wrong with-“

You stop at the counter, turning back to face him. “Do you still have my racist grandpa list?” You ask, half joking with your brows raised.

He stills in the doorway, and you could swear he’s almost blushing. “Yes.”

“Oh,” you blink, having expected it to find its way to the trash weeks ago. Shaking your head slightly, you say, “Add ‘oriental’ to it.”

“It’s upstairs. I’m not going all the fucking way back upstairs just for a stupid damn list.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to actually use your brain for once,” you walk to where the cookbook—a few pages burnt and heavily beaten but still in one piece—is laying near the sink. “Think that old man memory can retain one word until you go upstairs again?”

“Brat.” Ben sits down at the counter, and you flip him off.

“Cunt.

“Any word from the pussy-squad?” He asks, and you throw your phone into his chest.

“Check yourself.” You sigh, turning back to push through the cabinets for flour and salt. “We should really just get you your own phone.”

“I’m fine using yours.”

“Yeah, you’re really making a huge sacrifice, using my phone.” You turn around, watching him glare at the screen, tapping it aggressively with a single finger. “Need some help there, Pretty Boy?”

“This thing is fucking stupid,” he grunts, eyes scanning the screen. “And I’m doing damn well fine on my own, Sunshine.” He looks up at you with a cocky grin. “Starlight says they’ve got something.”

You tense, feeling air become tight around your body. “Something?”

“She says there’s a lead- goddamnit!”

You move forward, pulling the phone from Ben’s hand. “Oh, shove it up your ass.”

“I was using it-“

“My phone,” you snap. “I reserve the right to take it back whenever.”

“It’s fucking rude-“

You blow a raspberry at him, ignoring his indigent expression to read the message on the display.

Annie January: Arm Wrestling Champion

MM got a lead a few days ago from A-Train, Hughie just confirmed it. We’ll be over tonight, need to move fast.

You look up at Ben. “They’ve got a lead. They’ll be here tonight.”

“What time?”

You re-read the message. “Doesn’t say.”

“Assholes.” Ben grunts, standing up to walk to your side. “Do we have all the shit?”

“What?”

“For the dumplings.” He says, voice bored as he scans the cookbook. “I’ve fucking starving.”

“Aren’t you worried-“

“Worried is a little fucking dramatic. I’m vigilant, because I don’t trust those fuckers, or whatever goddamn ‘lead’ they have.” Ben looks over at you, eyes narrowed. “But we’re not about to whine and fret about it all day like pussies. We’re going to make shit-ass fucking dumplings, and you’re going to stay out of your own fucking head.”

“I wasn’t going to whine,” you grumble, even though he’s right. You’d already begun to spiral into what confirmed meant, and why the lead was from A-Train, or what about made you need to move fast.

“Sure, Sunshine.” Ben says dryly, nudging you with his shoulder. “Go get me some fucking rice wine.” He scowls at the page. “What the living fuck is rice wine.”

You lean over him, ignoring the rush of warmth when you touch him, and read where he’s pointing. “I’ll look it up. Can you start-“

Before you finish your sentence, Ben is roughly turning the oven dials, heating the front burner.

“Thanks,” you give him a smile, and he waves you off. As he walks past you to the fridge your arms brush, and your heart does a somersault into your stomach.

Rice wine, as it turns out, was an incredibly self-descriptive name for an alcohol that was fermented in rice. Given that the CIA hadn’t deemed it necessary to provide any and a grocery run wasn’t really in the cards, you made the executive call to use white wine instead. Ben supported your decision, informing you flatly that “booze is booze, Sunshine, and I'm not going to be a fucking pussy about it.”

In the week you and Ben had been trying to cook, this was the first time neither of you tried to break something in frustration. There was one close call, where Ben had failed to crimp the fifth dumpling in a row, but managed to restrain himself from smashing them all in vengeful fury. You offered him to take five—saying you were capable of doing this part yourself and he’d done more cabbage squeezing than you had—and though he’d taken a step back with a scowl, he didn’t leave the kitchen.

“I thought you could go set up the TV?” You look up at him, raising your brows. “I can do the rest myself.”

“Do you want me to go?” Ben says your name, eyes narrowed at where you were fixing the lines on one of his dumplings.

You shrug. “Doesn’t really make a difference. You just don’t have to stay here.”

He doesn’t respond, only leaning against the counter and watching you in a silence neither of you try to fill. You can feel Ben’s eyes following you, and trying to dissect what that means is more than enough to keep your mind off the lead.

When you turn to move the now-well-crimped dumplings into the skillet, you almost yelp when you find Ben—having moved impossibly quietly for a man of his size—right behind you. He silently takes the dumplings from your hands, dropping them into the skillet without a word and glaring at them as they cook.

“Plates,” he grunts, and you snap out of your state of mindlessly watching Ben to walk to the cabinets.

Setting them down next to the oven, you stand at Ben’s side with your arms crossed. “How’s the bomb?” You tap his chest, and he shrugs, eyes not moving from the dumplings.

“The fucking same.”

“Really?” You lean forwards slightly. “Because I can’t remember the last time it went off.”

“So?”

“It used to go off like, all the time. At least twice a week.”

Ben gives you a flat look from the corners of his eyes. “Say what you fucking mean.”

You give him a sweet smile. “I think you know what I mean.”

“Fuck you.”

“Uh huh,” you poke his shin with your foot. “Still not ready to admit I was right?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Ben drawls, picking up the skillet and turning away.

“It’s not that hard. You’ve even been sleeping better.”

“That has not a fucking thing to do with this.”

You frown at his back. “I mean, I’d say less PTSD induced nightmares is a pretty good sign-“

“Correlation isn’t fucking causation, ” Ben says your name in a mocking tone, and you huff.

“I fucking taught you that, you dick.”

Ben turns with your plate in his hands. “I’ve told you to stop teaching me shit, and you won’t fucking listen.”

“Shut up,” you grab your food, stuffing a dumpling in your mouth. “Maybe if you weren’t such a dumb-dumb I wouldn’t have to tell you everything.”

“Manners, brat. Don’t you know it’s not polite to eat with your mouth full?”

You stick your tongue out at him, and a large crumb falls from your mouth. “Cunt.” You swallow quickly. “And I still think the PTSD is getting better, no matter how much you bitch about it.”

“I’m not fucking bitching.”

“If you weren’t, you’d admit I was right.”

Ben takes a long, over dramatic sigh that ends with you receiving an impossibly strong death-stare. “Fine.”

“Fine?” You tease, even as a grin overtakes your own face. “That’s all I get? Fine? Not thank you, you queen among women. You were, as always, right, and I, Benjamin-“ you pause, frowning at him. “Do you have a last name?”

“Of course I have a fucking last name. And I’m not saying a goddamn word of that.”

You pout. “Rude.”

“Yep.” Ben starts to walk down the hall, and you follow behind, speaking through a mouthful of your second dumpling.

“Is it something embarrassing?”

He glances back at you. “The fuck are you talking about.”

“Your last name. Is it embarrassing?”

“No.”

“Is it long?”

“No.”

You fall back into the couch, kicking your feet up onto the cushions. “Are you not going to tell me?”

“No.”

“So you will tell me?”

“No, I said-“ He pauses at your wide, cocky grin, rolling his eyes. “You’re a fucking menace.”

“Yep. Why won’t you tell me?”

“It hasn’t been my last name since the damn 40s. It died when Soldier Boy was born, and I don’t want a fucking thing to do with it.”

You tilt your head at him. “Cause of your dad?” He gives an annoyed, low sound of affirmation, so you nod. “Ok.”

He frowns. “That’s it? Just ok?”

“You don’t have to tell me, I was just curious.” You give him a half-smile. “I get it, if I had to carry my mom’s name everywhere, I’d hate it.”

“We’re both too good for them,” Ben grunts., and you wrinkle your nose in thought.

“Are we?”

“Yes, we fucking are.” He snaps. “My dad was a fucking pussy, and your mom sounds like a bitch. I’m not-“

“A fucking pussy?” You finish, and your smile is full and toothy. “Does that mean I’m not a bitch?”

He scoffs. “Of course you’re not.”

“Say the full thing.”

“What?”

You lean forward. “Say the whole sentence. Say ‘you aren’t a bitch,’” you say your own name sweetly. “So I know that you mean it.”

Ben glares at you. “I fucking mean it, Sunshine. I’m not a-“

“Liar, I know.” You grin. “Prove it.”

With a deep sigh, impressive scowl, and laziest voice you’ve ever heard, Ben says your name. “You aren’t a bitch.”

“Was that so hard?”

“You’re lucky I put up with you, beautiful.” Ben mutters, and your heart feels warm and full.

“I could say the same for you.” You nudge him, forcing yourself to ignore the beautiful part because you’ll go insane trying to find reason in it. “You’ve been blessed with my infinite patience, Ben. Never forget that.”

Ben looks you up and down—like he’s trying to find a piece of you he’d missed before—and when he finally meets your eyes, his own are firm. “I’m going to say something, and you have to swear not to lose your damn mind.”

“No promises.”

“Sunshine.”

“Fine.” You grumble, placing your plate on the floor. “But you have to swear that it’s not something weird.”

“You didn’t want to see your sister because of your shit fucking plan.”

You wrap your arms around your body, holding yourself tightly. “Doesn’t-“

“If you say matter I will revoke all your favors right fucking now.”

“That’s not how it works.” You mutter, keeping your eyes firmly watching your lap.

“Fucking try me.” You feel Ben’s hand rest on your shin, and something that stings your heart rushes through your body. When you look up he’s frowning, but there’s no anger behind it, and his gaze is careful. “We’re not doing your plan. You should tell her you’re not dead. She needs to know.”

“What if this doesn’t work?” You say softly, nails digging into your skin. “What if the lead is a dead end and I-“

“If it’s a dead end, we’ll find another fucking lead. And another, until we find one that does something.” He squeezes his hand against you, and heat moves through your body. “You’re not going back. That’s fucking that.”

“Okay,” you breathe, and even after Ben nods sharply, neither of you look away. You swallow, forcing yourself to speak. “I’ll think about it. About telling her.”

Ben grunts, but still doesn’t turn back to the TV. “Once this is over, you’ll fucking have to if you want a damn life.”

“Not if I go with you.” The words fall out of you before you realize you’re saying them. Your heart stumbles around in your chest, mouth falling open, but Ben’s already speaking.

“You should still fucking tell them. They can come visit.”

You blink. “Visit?”

“They aren’t going to ship me off to fucking Mars, Sunshine.”

“Yeah, I got that. I just didn’t think you’d want visitors.”

“I don’t give a shit. They’re your family.”

“They think I’m dead.” You frown. “They think you’re a terrorist. They’ll have questions.”

“Then we’ll fucking answer them.”

“We don’t know where you’ll be going, what we’ll be doing-“

“Probably some shit-ass island,” Ben grunts “And I have money. We’ll be fucking fine.”

“Well,” you frown. “We don’t know what island, and all your money is gone-”

“The fuck do you mean gone.” Ben cuts you off, sitting up rigid.

“Everyone thought you were dead,” You say carefully. “Dead people don’t get money.”

“But I wasn’t fucking dead,” He snaps, scanning your face. “I was fucking alive.”

“I know that. But I’m not the government in the 1980s.” You frown. “Did you think all your money was just, sitting around and waiting for you?”

“I didn’t fucking think about it!” Ben looks remarkably distressed. “I didn’t think anyone had laid their pussy ass hands on it!”

“I mean, it’s been like 45 years.”

“So fucking what? It’s my goddamn money!”

“Ben,” you place your hand over where he’s still holding you. “Calm the hell down.”

“I’m fucking calm!” You try to hold your amusement as his voice raises, feeling his genuine anger and shock through your body.

“I can see that,” you say dryly, and Ben scowls at you.

“Get off your fucking high horse,” he snaps. “You’d be fucking angry-“

“If my death was faked and my life was taken away from me?” You give him a bored look. “Gee, I wonder what that’s like.”

He pauses, still glaring at you. “Smartass.”

“Yep.” You shrug. “You’ll be fine, Ben. Part of the CIA deal was livable compensation. And you could get a job.”

He glowers. “A job?”

You snort. “It’s this thing normal people do, where they provide service in exchange for money-“

“Shut the fuck up,” he squeezes his hand again, and you hope he doesn’t see the flush of your face. “I know what a job is.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Brat,” he grumbles. “What fucking job could I possibly get.”

“Well,” you tilt your head in mock thought. “With the forty year gap in your resume-“

He gives a huff, but you feel the amusement shooting through him. “Not funny.”

“A little funny,” you dismiss, continuing. “You could do construction, or be a bouncer. You’d kill it at any physical labor. You be an ok birthday clown if you weren’t such a grump-“

“I am not a grump-“

You talk over him. “Now, my personal vote is escort. And if I go with you, I think I’d be an amazing pimp. We could build an empire, earn all your money back.”

Ben snorts. “Why do I have to be the whore?”

“You’re doing it for free right now,” you try and keep your face straight, but are unable to hide the delight in your voice at his adorable frown. “And I’d be a terrible whore. We’d be out of business in a week.”

“You’d be a great whore,” Ben’s voice is shockingly indigent. “You’d make a fortune.”

You frown, unsure if it’s meant to be a compliment, or why you can feel his offense so strongly in your body. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” he grunts. “And I’d be a better fucking pimp anyway.”

“Holy shit,” you laugh. “You’d be a terrible pimp.”

“And what makes you think you’d be better, Sunshine?” He sneers, and you shrug with a smile.

“For one, I don’t call escorts whores. And I’ve read about your business endeavors in the 80s. I never would’ve tried to open a Soldier Boy themed bar and grill, and if I had I wouldn't've served green-dyed rocky road ice cream as the only desert option.”

Despite the annoyance you can feel through him–proven by the tick of his jaw and glare—Ben asks, “What would you have done.”

“Mint chocolate chip.” As you’re grinning at Ben’s scowl, you realize that he’s distracted you again. For a second you’re almost resentful—not loving how easily he flashed something shiny for you to ramble about and how fast you took the bait—and then you realize his hand is still on your shin, and that you’re not gripping at your arms or cutting into your skin anymore.

“You think you’re real clever,” he mutters, and your smile widens.

“Of course I do. I’m the brains, you’re the beauty. That’s what makes the business model work.”

Ben is giving you a cocky smirk, and you don’t hear your words until his rush of smug satisfaction hits you. “I’m the beauty?”

“Well, yeah.” You try to act bored, nonchalant. Like your heart isn’t fluttering and your body isn’t warm. “We’re both the brawn, you’re definitely not the brains, and I’m not the beauty, so we divide-“

His hand on your leg tightens its hold. “The fuck do you mean you’re not the beauty?”

“I mean, I’m not ugly.” You say passively. “But I’m not-“

“Not what?” He snaps, and you blink at him.

“I don’t know, Vought level.”

“Vought level?”

“Yeah. Sparkling, jaw-dropping, brand-worthy.”

“What makes you fucking think that?” He’s glaring at you, like you’ve personally offended him. You can feel something strong, something confusing, pounding through his chest. “You’re plenty jaw-dropping.”

“I’m not being self-deprecating,” you frown. “I’m stating fact-“

“That’s not a damn fact.”

“I’m not upset about it,” you frown at him. “I’ve got other good qualities-“

“Well, you’re still fucking wrong.”

His grip on you is so tight, you’d be worried about bruising if that was possible. You can still feel his anger, and though it’s not aimed at you it’s still powerful. Tight and loud.

“Ben-“

The entrance door bangs open, and you both look up to see MM entering the house, Hughie only a few steps behind.

“Good, you’re already dressed-“ MM cuts himself off as he passes the kitchen. “The fuck happened in there?”

“Cooking,” you say sheepishly, craning your neck to see if anyone else is coming through the door. “Is it just you guys?”

“Everyone else is in the car,” Hughie explains, and you frown.

“Everyone?”

“It’s all hands on deck,” MM says shortly, still glaring at the kitchen. “It looks like a bomb went off.”

“Several almost did.” You stand, Ben’s hand falling from your leg. “What’s going on? Annie said there was a lead-“

“We’ll explain on the way,” Hughie says nervously. “It’s a little time sensitive.”

“We’re not going fucking anywhere-“ Ben rises, glowering at Hughie. “Until you tell us the goddamn deal.”

MM pulls his gaze from the kitchen. “You’re going wherever the fuck we tell you.”

“The fuck we are-”

“We are,“ you whack Ben’s arm, giving him tense look of don’t be a fucking dick. “Time sensitive, Benjamin. They’ll explain.”

Ben shoots MM and Hughie distrustful glares. “It might be fucking stupid-“

MM scoffs. “We’re not the ones who come up with stupid plans.”

“That feels targeted,” you mumble, and Hughie gives you an apologetic look.

“I promise it’s worth something,” he says, looking between you and Ben quickly. “We wouldn’t put you in danger,” Hughie says your name gently, and you shrug.

“I know.”

Ben snorts, muttering just loud enough for you to hear. “You do that enough by your fucking self, Sunshine.”

You stomp hard on his foot, giving MM and Hughie a smile. “Let’s roll then.” As they turn, slightly confused looks on their faces, you stick your tongue out at Ben.

“You’re so fucking mean,” he complains, following you out the door.

“Shut up,” you roll your eyes. “You love it.”

Ben grunts, and you walk a little faster so he doesn’t see the flush on your face or accidentally touch you. That might send you into cardiac arrest.

MM wasn’t lying. It’s all hands on deck. Frenchie and Kimiko look up from their silent conversation as the doors open, Annie’s jittering slows as Hughie takes his spot next to her, and Butcher is glaring at you as Ben helps you climb into the van.

“Well, aren’t I just tickled that America’s golden couple decided to join us,” he sneers, and you flip him off, waving to Kimiko.

I’m glad you’re here, she signs. This is a good plan, you’ll like it.

You smile. So I shouldn’t be worried?

Only the regular amount.

You laugh, and Ben nudges your shoulder.

“The fuck did she say,” he mutters in your ear.

You keep your response quiet, walking to sit along the edge of the wall. “That I’ll like the plan.”

“Are any of you pussies going to actually fucking tell us the plan?” Ben raises his voice, and you roll your eyes.

“Drama queen,” you say under your breath, and he subtly whacks your leg.

“Remember last week,” Annie starts, leaning forwards as she addresses you. “When MM asked you about where Homelander was holding you when he started the V?”

You take a heavy breath, nodding. You’d answered his text best you could—somewhere near the Hudson, south of Albany—but at the time you’d just ran. In any direction, as far as you could without collapsing. Eventually you’d found an interstate highway and followed it until you found somewhere to rest and take stock of your surroundings, but that was miles from where you’d started.

“Well,” she continues, voice a bit softer even as the van’s engine begins to rumble. “A-Train gave us some documents about Vought-owned spaces in the region, and Vought scientists who lived near them.”

“We don’t know if Homelander was even using a Vought building-“ You protest, but Annie shakes her head.

“He probably wasn’t. But he would’ve needed easy access to Vought supplies. And we found a warehouse in Climax, New York-“

You feel Ben stiffen next to you, and shoot him an I heard it too, but please shut up look.

He returns it with a fucking killjoy eye roll, but stays quiet.

Annie, oblivious to the exchange, continues. “That stored compound V, along with a lot of other experimental chemicals. There were also seven Vought chemists and biologists who lived in the area, all of whom died six months ago, and each one had a close-casket funeral.”

You swallow, bile that tastes like guilt rising in your throat. You’d burned them alive. There might not have even been bodies to bury. “If you- If you show me a photo-“ Ben leans into you slightly—hand finding your thigh—and you can speak without choking. “I could identify them. They were the only people I saw for the four months after Homelander moved me.”

You can feel something sharp shot through your ribs—Ben’s ribs—living a stinging trail in its wake.

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Hughie says, glancing at Annie. “We should’ve just done that.”

“What did you do instead?” You ask, frowning.

Hughie gives you an embarrassed look. “We kind of, uh…”

“Jesus, Lad, just bloody say it.” Butcher mutters before giving you a wolfish grin. “We visited the families. Asked ‘em about what fuckery their beloved spouses and children got up to.”

“You harassed families about this?” You ask just as Ben says, “And did they fucking tell you anything?”

Butcher ignores you, answering Ben instead. “Most told us to fuck off, but one said that her dear husband always seemed fuckin guilty about something. Said he’d come back haunted.”

You feel the fire under your skin. Haunted. He’d felt guilty, for what he was doing. To you. But he’d kept doing it.

Your voice is slightly cracked. “I don’t see how that’s a lead though-“

“We asked her if she knew where he had worked,” Hughie says. “Like what town or city, and she said he never told her because of the NDA Vought made him sign, but that he always came back with donuts from this one shop. We looked it up, and it was near the warehouse.”

“From there it was real bloody easy,” Butcher drawls. “Hughie worked his fucking little geek magic, and we checked finance statements of a few shops in the area. A few cunts who were buying donuts and coffee are currently six feet under after an accident six months ago. Terrible thing, all their faces exploded, like a bloody laser hit them. Wanna guess who they fuckin worked for?”

You shake your head, but Butcher isn’t waiting. “The one and only rich bastard, Tek Knight.”

“That could be a coincidence,“ you say nervously. “I don’t think it would hold up as evidence.”

“It ain’t fucking evidence,” Butcher grins. “It’s proof that someone who ain’t Homelander or bloody dead might’ve known about project Anomaly. It’s a solid fucking lead.”

“So we’re going…” You trail off, looking around the van for someone to explain. “Where?”

“Well, Love,” Butcher leans back. “I happen to know from a few informants that Tek Knight runs a gentlemen’s club in bloody Staten Island. Real classy joint, underground, need a password to get in type shit.”

“Informants?” You give Butcher a flat look, and he rolls his eyes.

“Had to do something with all the threats I made last week. I didn’t get fucking shot just to waste a perfectly good mole.”

Hughie stares at Butcher, agape. “You got shot?”

Butcher waves a dismissive hand. “I’m fine, it ain’t a big deal.”

“Well, yeah,” you frown. “Because I healed you. It was bad,” you say to Hughie. “Big shot, right on his chest.”

“Got blood all of the fucking floor,” Ben mutters, and you scoff.

“You’re not the one who had to clean it up, Ben.”

“I offered-“

You glare at him. “You said ‘I’ll hold the bucket’. That’s not cleaning, it’s barely helping.”

Hughie coughs, returning your attention to him. “Um, the shot?”

“Oh, yeah. It was bad.” You shrug, tapping your leg as you look at Butcher. “You never actually said what happened.”

“I was getting your fucking plan ready,” Butcher over enunciates the your, glaring around the van as he does so. “Making sure Homelander would hear about you and not think twice of it. Had my own little double agents, took a shit ton of effort to get them, too. And like I said, I ain’t about to waste all my hard work.”

“So they told you about the club?” You ask, and Butcher smirks.

“They didn’t tell me just about the club. They told me the password, and that Tek Knight’s there, right fuckin now.”

“And that’s where we’re going,” MM called from the front. “Hopefully that motherfucker will have some answers.”

You almost ask but what if he doesn’t? What if there’s nothing? but Ben squeezes your leg, and you look up to find him watching you.

This will fucking work, his face says. And because you can feel his resolve, that protective concern wrapping around your body and through your blood, you nod.

You’d been to Staten Island once. The Senator had been attending a fundraiser in New York and insisted on taking you and your siblings to the National Lighthouse Museum, because he was the most boring man in the world. You’d asked to go to the Met, or the zoo, or at least the Empire State Building, but no. The National Lighthouse Museum. Now, years later, you were slightly taken about by how similar everything looked to your hazy childhood memory. Brick and stone and trash against the curb.

“Why Staten Island?” You ask, and Hughie shrugs.

“It’s cheap, I guess.”

“Isn’t Tek Knight a billionaire?” You point out. “That’s like, his whole thing.”

“Does not stop him from being cheap,” Frenchie mutters. “Every cheap man I have known holds millions of dollars behind his back.”

“Well, if it’s a high end club, you would think he’d want some modicum of luxury in his location.”

Butcher snorts. “I think this ain’t the type of place that requires luxury, Love.”

“You said it was a gentlemen’s club-“

“It is. Of sorts.”

“Of sorts?” You snap, wide-eyed. “I swear to god-“

“It’s an indulgence. For rich pricks who need to get away from their wives and have some fucking fun.”

“Butcher,” Annie says slowly, coldly. “Are we going to a sex club?”

“No,” Butcher’s face is scornful. “They don’t do the sex in the club. That’s for after.”

“After?” You gape. “After what?”

“The performances. Bunch of classy broads whose daddies didn’t love ‘em enough, competing to get the richest cunt pay to take them home and do coke off their tits.” He winks at Ben. “You’ll fuckin love it, gov.”

Ben’s grip on you tightens, and you feel hot anger in his chest. “Fuck you.”

“Aren’t we sensitive,” Butcher jeers, “Gone soft, have we?”

You narrow your eyes at him as you cover Ben’s hand with yours, feeling his anger barreling towards fury. In a miracle of timing, the van comes to a stop right when you think Ben might punch a hole through Butcher’s chest.

As you exit the van, the alleyway around you is abandoned in the night, a few closed doors looking like they lead to very abandoned buildings.

“Are you sure this is it?” Annie voices your thoughts, looking at MM with concern.

“This is the address Butcher gave me, ask him.”

“This is right,” Butcher looks around, hands in pockets. “Frenchie, got the costumes?”

Hughie’s face pales. “Costumes?”

Butcher ignores him, shouting, “Frenchie?!”

“Oui, in the back.”

“Go bloody get them.”

Frenchie frowns, but disappears back into the van, Kimiko following after signing lazy asshole at Butcher.

“What do you mean costumes,” Hughie pushes further. “Like disguises?”

“On the money, Lad.”

“You said we had the password, Butcher,” MM glowers. “The fuck do we need disguises for.”

“They ain’t gonna just let us in,” Butcher says. “Even if they don’t recognize us, Soldier Boy and Starlight together are a dead bloody giveaway that somethings shady. We’re goin through the back, passwords just a failsafe.”

“So why do we need costumes?” MM snaps.

“Blendin in, mate.” Butcher shrugs as Frenchie exits the van, with a set of folded outfits. “Let’s get fucking moving, we’ll change inside.”

After Butcher shatters a window that sits around knee-height, Kimiko drops through it with another glare and scowl. A few, stressful seconds later, one of the steel doors opens down the alley, and you follow the group down steep stairs and into one of the creepiest fluorescent lit hallways you’ve ever seen.

“You ever see The Shining?” Ben mutters in your ear, and you nod, glancing back at him.

“When I was thirteen, at a friend’s sleepover. I wanted Jennifer’s Body, but I got outvoted. Why?”

“This creepy fucking hallway reminded me of it.” You can hear the tone drop that means he’s frowning, feel his confusion as his hand brushes your arm. “What’s Jennifer’s Body?”

“Teen horror movie. Megan Fox gets possessed by a demon and murders a bunch of men about it. It’s hot.”

“Hot?”

You nod passively. “Her dress is kind of ugly at the end, but she’s so pretty it works. We’ll watch it later.”

There’s pause. “You like it?”

“The movie, or Megan Fox?”

“Both.” He says, and you hum an agreement.

“Megan Fox is objectively hot, and it’s a great movie. I mean, it’s trash, but that’s what makes it great. You’ll like it.”

“Fine.”

“Hot ladies and murder, Ben, it checks all your boxes.” You shoot him a grin over your shoulder as you follow the team into a side room, and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m already fucking sold, Sunshine.” He says, stopping at your side. “Calm the hell down.”

You wrinkle your nose at him as Butcher starts to direct everyone’s role in the plan.

“Me, MM, and Soldier Boy will be rich cunts. Try and squeeze some information out of these haughty fucking pricks.” Butcher points at each person as he speaks, and Frenchie passes them neatly folded and pressed suits.

“I’m not wearing a fucking suit,” Ben grunts, glaring at you for aid. You just shrug, half because you pick your battle carefully and know you’ll lose this one, half because you really want to see Ben in a suit.

“Don’t look at me, Pretty Boy. I’m not the one you have to convince.”

“And you don’t get to pick and choose this shit, motherfucker.” MM snaps. “You don’t get special treatment.”

“Aren’t I not allowed anywhere without-” Ben’s grumble of your name is cut off by Butcher’s snort.

“We’ve got enough of Frenchie’s Soldier Boy Special to knock out the whole bleedin state. You’re wearing the suit, Gov.”

You shrug half-heartedly, giving Ben an apologetic look you can feel his exasperation at through where his arm is brushing yours.

Fucking traitor. His frown says.

You grin. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

“Frenchie and Kimiko will be staff,” Butcher says. “Talk to some of the waiters and shit, see what they’re hearin.”

Nodding, Frenchie sets a stereotypical waiter’s uniform down on the floor for himself, and passes one to Kimiko.

Why are we staff? She signs at Frenchie with a frown, and he shrugs.

Because, you nudge Kimiko with your foot, signing when she looks. Your dick is too big for those insecure, money hungry assholes, they’ll start crying about it.

She grins, and you look back at Butcher in time to hear the last instructions.

“Starlight and Hughie will search the back courtesy of our very own songbird.” He turns to you with a smirk, saying your name. “I hope those pipes are warm and ready.”

You blink, speaking slowly as fire starts to itch in your throat. “What are you talking about.”

Butcher’s smile grows. “Figured we’d put your talent to use. You’re going on stage.”

Everything feels white-hot along your lungs and brain, and your mouth is dry. “What the fuck did you do.”

“Signed you up for the talent, Love.” Butcher's tone is passive, bored, and you might start screaming. “I hear exposure therapy works wonders.”

“Holy shit, Butcher.“ Annie gives him a look of disbelief. “What the hell is your problem?”

“We needed someone backstage, workin the girls.” Butcher shrugs. “She’s the easiest in.”

You take a deep, heavy breath, pushing the fire down and meeting Butcher eyes steadily. “Is this because we dropped the plan? Is that why you’re being such a fucking child?”

“I ain’t got a clue what you’re implying.”

“Butcher,” you say, slow and careful in your words. “I can’t do this. You don’t want me to do this.”

“Because of a little fuckin stage fright? You don’t get any exceptions either-”

“No,” you grip yourself tightly as you cut Butcher off. “I just need you, for once, to trust me. You don’t want this.”

“I think I’ll manage to live,” Butcher sneers, and something in you feels fraught.

“I can’t fucking do this,” you look desperately around the room. “Somebody else has to do this. Annie can sing, have her do it.”

“But she’s recognizable,” Hughie says sorry, his face a picture of guilt.

You whip around to MM, saying his name in a plea. “You can’t let him do this. It’s not just stage fright, I can’t sing in front of people.”

“They probably won’t put you on stage,” MM frowns. “And even though he’s being a fucking dick about it, he’s right. We need someone backstage.”

“No,” you shake your head in disbelief. “You don’t understand.”

“Look, we’ve all bloody heard you,” Butcher says lazily. “And MM’s right, you probably won’t even go onstage. We all gotta make fuckin sacrifices.”

“You don’t care about the sacrifices,” you hiss, the brittle thing in your body snapping in two. “You just hate me because I’m a supe and you can’t control me. I’m not scared to go onstage, I fucking can’t. I’ll-“ you choke over your words, pushing down the truth. They’d heard you sing. They hadn’t been in the room with you. They hadn’t seen what it did.

Ben's hand is on your back, and you feel the rage in him. Violent and bloody and making the world focused. From the corner of your eye, you see him glaring at your team, the look on his face murderous.

You take a deep breath, steady your heart into even beats, your world sharp and cold as your words become measured. “I don’t have words for how terrible an idea this is.”

Butcher shrugs. “Well-“

“But I’m going to power through and find them.” You sneer. “It’s a dogshit, idiotic, fucking insanely stupid idea, so much that I’m almost fucking impressed! It’s so batshit crazy that it makes my brain hurt, makes me wonder how fuck you’ve gotten away with not dying yet.” You take a rushed breath. “But I’m going to do it. I’ll do it, because I said I was going to do what it takes. But I will never,” you say every syllable long and clear. “Ever, fucking forgive this.”

Annie says your name apologetically, even as she takes a step back. “I’m sorry, but it’s the only way-“

“I know that,” you say, holding your ground. “And I know you don’t hate me. I know you’re afraid of me, and I get it. But you don’t trust me. I don’t know why, but none of you trust me. So I’ll do it, but you don’t get to be mad at me or disappointed in me when it goes sideways.”

You snatch the last thing Frenchie is holding, a dress, and don’t flinch as you hold their nervous, shameful expressions.

“Bathrooms are down the hall,” MM mutters, not meeting your eyes. “We’ll get changed and split up. Everyone keep their phones near them.”

As everyone filters out, Ben holds you back. “We can fucking lea-“

“We’re not leaving,” you say flatly. “I’ll be fine.”

“You look like you’re about to damn explode,” He says your name with a frown, and you roll your eyes.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t do that,” Ben growls. “Don’t lie to me. I’m not afraid of you, I trust you, and I came to terms with the fact that nobody can control you a long fucking time ago. It’s one of the things I like about you. So don’t fucking lie to me.”

You make yourself hold your eyes to his, but you can’t keep your voice controlled. “Ben, I have to tell you some-“

Hughie pushes the door open, looking between where you and Ben stand, close together with his hand on the small of your back. “Sorry,” he stumbles words over each other. “Annie and I just, uh, we can’t go without you.” He’s still not glancing at you for more than a second, even as he says your name. “So, whenever you’re ready.”

Forcing your head not to turn back to Ben, you nod. “I”m coming,” you say, and hate the bitter tone in your voice as you walk into the hall.

You find the bathrooms with ease, Annie leaning outside the door in the same clothes from before, and push past her through the swinging door.

Kimiko is there, sitting silently on the sink in her waiter uniform. You give her a small, joyless smile before pushing into one of the disgusting, grime covered stalls. The dress you’ve been given is short, low-cut, and feels like poison on your skin. When you walk back out, fully changed, Kimiko jumps down from the sink, moving to grab your hand firmly.

You blink at her, feeling the genuine guilt and sadness running through her, without any pity or fear.

“I’m not mad at you,” you say gently. “You couldn’t have done much.”

She shakes her head, releasing her grip to sign I’m still sorry. They shouldn’t have done that, even if it’s important.

“I’ll live. And I know they mean well.” Even if the words feel hollow, you say them anyway.

Doesn’t make it okay, she signs furiously. You’ve sacrificed.

“But-“

You have. Just as much as all of us. You didn’t choose to be this, just like me. It’s not your fault you’re a supe, you shouldn’t be punished for it.

“It’s different. They all trust you.”

They can hurt me with weapons. I heal, but they can hurt me. They can’t hurt you. So they do this instead.

You sigh. “This won’t hurt me. It’ll just be….” You watch your reflection in the mirror. “Bad.”

Why?

“Because,” you give her a sad smile. “They’re right not to trust me. I keep too many secrets.”

Secrets?

“The third V shot, it-“

For the second time, right before you can lift this weight off your chest, the door opens.

“We need to go,” Annie says. Just like Hughie, she won’t look at you either.

You nod, giving Kimiko a closed-lip, grimacing smile, and follow Annie out of the bathroom. Hughie’s waiting outside, foot tapping with his hands on his hips.

��Are we ready?” At Annie’s nod, Hughie gestures down the hall. “Butcher said he marked the door. I don’t know what that means.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Annie reassures him, and you follow them further down the hall.

“They’ll have a different dress backstage for you, this is just to get you in the door.” You blink at Annie as she drops a step back to talk to you. “I’m really sor-“

“Save it,” you say flatly.

“If this works, it’ll be over soon. All of it.” Her voice is soft, like you’re fragile. “I know you said you can’t-“

“Annie.” You keep your eyes ahead, make your voice firm. “For both our sake, please just stop.”

“We’re here.” Hughie stops any further attempts to apologize from Annie as he points to a scratch mark on the frame of a red door. He says your name in that same, delicate tone Annie was using. “You’ll go first, Butcher said to find the ‘sleazy greased cunt’s office’. Just, uh, prop open the door or something and we’ll follow.”

You nod, and—without another look to either of them—walk through the door.

The difference is immediate. Lush, carpeted floors. Clean walls. Everything smells like smoke and spice and all the lights are a soft yellow. You walk carefully down the hall, and stop when you reach a door that’s been left slightly ajar, enough to fully see inside the room. There’s a middle aged man at a desk, wearing a gray suit and an egregious amount of hair mousse as he scrolls through something on the computer. Glancing back at the door—sporting a silver plaque reading Talent Office—you decide it’s more than an educated guess that he’s the sleazy greased cunt Butcher was referring to.

Steeling yourself, you knock.

The man looks up almost immediately, a crude smile crossing his face. “Well, hello there. How can I help you, sweetheart?”

“Are you in charge of the talent?” You ask, making your voice sweet, eyes doe-like, and expression naive and innocent. It takes an active effort to keep your lips from curling in disgust at the once over he gives you.

“Read the sign, gorgeous.” You want to wrap that too-big tie around his throat, even as you give him a simpering pout.

“Oh, sorry.” Breathy laugh, inflate his ego, don’t rip out his slimy hair. “My friend said he found me a job.”

“Your friend?” The man asks, frowning slightly. “Angry brit?”

“Yeah,” you silently curse Butcher, both for the situation he’s put you in and not giving you enough information about it. “I hope he didn’t give you enough of a problem? I can go-“

“No,” the man stands, moving from behind his desk. “You’re just fine where you are. Dude seemed protective, but seeing you, it makes sense.” He chuckles, and the sound crawls along your skin.

“Oh, thank you.” This smile is making your cheeks hurt, and you move your hand behind your back so he doesn’t see your nails in your skin. Or that the marks don’t stay.

“Yeah, I’m liking what I’m seeing.” He winks at you, and you wonder how easy it is for eyes to burn. “I’m gonna get the big boss, you stay right here beautiful.”

You want to rip out his tongue. He doesn’t get to call you that. Nobody gets to, except-

“Oh,” you shake your head slightly, trying to seem shy while physically forcing the thoughts out of your head. “I’m sure you don’t have to bother him-“

“Nah, he’ll love to see you.” The man reaches up, rubbing your arms as he moves you slightly to the side. “Don’t go anywhere.”

With one last awful wink, he’s gone.

You feel your phone buzz in your hand.

Annie January: Arm Wrestling Champion

Are you in?

Not yet, you text back. Butcher was right, Tek Knight is here.

Annie’s typing, but before she can send the text, you hear a voice coming and look up sharply. You barely manage to turn back into the terrible persona you’ve chosen for yourself before Mr. Talent returns, another suit-clad man at his side.

This one you recognize. Grossly expensive suit, short hair, wolf-like smile and cold eyes.

“Tek Knight,” you reach out your hand, making your voice soft and of wonder rather than fevered disgust. “It’s a honor, sir-“

“This her?” Tek Knight looks you up and down, slower than Mr. Talent had. “Nice.”

“Thank you,” you say, bowing your head instead of punching his.

He ignores you. “And someone vouched for her?”

Mr. Talent nods. “Yes, sir. Mean guy, sounded British over the phone. Said she sounded like an angel.”

“He your boyfriend?” Your mouth falls open when you realize you’re being addressed.

“No, just a friend. Wanted to help me out, I haven’t had much luck finding a new job.”

“Good,” Tek Knight’s nod makes your stomach churns, his eyes still scanning over your figure. “She’s got the looks. Smoking hot.” You have to physically bite your tongue. “Can you dance?”

“Enough,” you say truthfully, even if the words are sugary. “I know how to put on a show.”

Tek Knight nods, speaking to Mr. Talent without looking away from you. “Put her on stage. Tonight. And tell me when she’s up.”

You think the shock in your body might stop you from ever speaking again. You just stare, mouth open, as Tek Knight gives a click of his tongue and walks away. You don’t even have a mind to try and play it off as graceful shyness, or humble disbelief from being chosen. The fire is loud in your ears, time moving too fast. The world isn’t blurry, it’s too sharp, bright and far away. Mr. Talent is talking with a hand on your lower back, but you can barely feel it, and you can’t really hear him. All you can think is no. He’s guiding you down the hall, through another door, and all you can do is stumble where he pushes you forward.

“…and we’ll need your measurements, sweetheart.” Mr. Talent’s words manage to find their way into your head as he pushes you down into a chair, across from one of those dressing mirrors you’ve only seen in movies. “We can find a dress that fits fine until one of the girls will make you something special.”

“Oh, that's not necessary.” Your voice is quiet, and you’re not faking nervous humility anymore as you try to stand on shaky legs. “I can just-“

“All of our talent gets custom outfits,” Mr. Talent speaks over you, hands moving to your shoulders. Holding you in the seat. “We’ll figure out your sell, and you’ll get one too.”

“My sell?”

He winks at you in the mirror. “Your brand, darling.” You wish he would settle on one nickname. “Are you sour or sweet? Hot or pretty? Heartbreaker or girl-next-door? Gentle or a little spitfire? What’s your pitch? Why should they take you home?”

“I don’t-“

“Now usually, we’d wait a few shows before deciding. But I think the boss might want you to fit to him.” A painful lump is sitting in your throat. “And luckily, I know what he likes. Candy!”

You frown—confusion pushing through your clouding fear as you think you might be about be covered in whipped cream and chocolate—until a pink-haired, acrylic-nailed woman appears from seemingly nowhere at Mr. Talent’s side.

“What’s up, Mikey?” She’s talking to Mr. Talent, chewing gum loudly through her words, twisting a large and gaudy diamond ring on her finger.

“New girl. I’m putting her on in an hour, get her ready.”

Candy scans over you through the mirror, a pouting frown on her face. “She new new?” At Mr. Talent’s nod, she gives him a worried look. “Shouldn’t we wait-“

“No time for regular training, boss’s orders she’s on tonight.”

“Boss’s orders?” Candy's mouth falls open for a second, and Mr. Talent just shrugs. “Does that mean-“

“Full special. She’s singing, make sure it matches.”

Candy nods, and with that, Mr. Talent is gone.

“What’s your name, babe?” Candy asks, her nails combing gentle through your hair, holding your gaze in the mirror.

You tell her truthfully, and she hums.

“How’d you end up here?”

“My friend got me the job.”

“Friend? How’d she know about this?”

“He’s into shady shit.” Truth. “But he just wants what’s best for me.” Lie.

“He?” Candy makes a sour face, and when her hand falls to your shoulder you feel genuine concern running through her chest. “He ain’t your boyfriend, right?”

You shake your head. “You’re the second person to ask me that,” you say carefully. Her heart flips slightly, so you push forward. “Would it be a, like a problem if he was?”

“They don’t like us having those types of attachments,” she says flatly. “Makes the clients insecure.” You glance at the ring on her finger, and she chuckles slightly. “My wife don’t count to them. It’s exotic, sexy. Not a threat.”

“That sucks,” you mutter, and she just shrugs.

“I get to keep her. Get to be happy. Most girls here don’t get that.”

You watch Candy reach to the side, pulling to her side a trolley of makeup and products that would put Annie’s to shame. “How long have you been here?”

“Almost ten years. Longer than anyone, even Mikey.” She examines lipsticks as she speaks, glancing between your reflection and the colors. “Been dancing twenty, ballet, but this pays better than any arts center.”

“So you know everyone?” You make your tone casual, curious. An innocent girl at a new job. “Even Tek Knight?”

Though her face is neutral, Candy’s hand brushing your hair from your face betrays something sour in her gut. “Most everyone. And he’s a fine boss, but that’s all I know about Tek Knight.”

“What about the other staff?”

“Lot of turnover,” she pulls your hair fully back with a clip. “Mikey said you’re singing?”

The stone in your gut and itch in your throat returns quickly. “I don’t know, I don’t have anything prepared.”

“They’ll take care of that.” Candy moves around to stand in front of you. “You just gotta put on the show they want.”

“Oh,” you swallow, and Candy must notice, because she gives you a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry, you’ll do great. Just play up whatever they tell you to by a hundred.” At your confused expression, she continues. “If they want us sweet, we make it sickly. If they want us hot, be the sun. Mysterious, be Agatha Christie.”

“I don’t know what they want from me though.”

“You’re getting the boss special.” Candy explains, holding your chin up as she begins her work. “He likes them gentle but fierce, cute but hot, a good chase but an easy catch. “

You try and keep your face still as you respond. “That doesn’t make any sense. Those words are oxymorons, you can’t be both at once, it’s a Madonna-whore complex-“ You cut yourself off at the amused look on Candy’s face.

“We know that.” She says. “But they don’t care. They want a toy, not a woman. Lucky for us, they pay a shit ton for toys.”

You give a small sound of acknowledgement, falling silent as Candy continues her work, and when she steps to the side your face is painted—lips red and eyes shimmering—with every strand of hair in a careful place.

“Gorgeous,” Candy smiles at you. “You’re up soon, feel free to warm up while I get your outfit.”

As she leaves the room, you watch yourself in the mirror, the person almost unrecognizable. You can’t do this. Not just because it will give everything away, because the secret you’ve buried too deeply and piously will be revealed. Because there’s no way to know what will happen. You don’t get to pick the song, they could give you one that sends you into a dreamscape or conjures fireworks, or one that sends you into childhood. Into the white room. You can’t do this. Even your team didn’t think it would come to this. It’s not too late to run. You could find Ben easily—you don’t think you could miss him in a crowd if you tried—and tell him the truth. He’d help you leave, he’d always help you leave. But no matter what, you need to find him. Tell him first. The last secret, he needs to know before anything else happens. You need to tell him, now-

Candy returns, holding a long, silky dress. Passing it into your hands, she gives you a kind smile.

“You’re going to do great, they’ll love you.” You don’t want them to love you, you need to find Ben. Before- “You’re next, I’d get changed now.” Candy squeezed your hand, and you feel genuine worry for you, paired with nervous hope. “Good luck.”

You’re rooted in place for a minute after she leaves. There has to be a way out of this, you heard the door’s lock click, but there has to be a way. You can’t do this, you have to go find Ben-

Only the buzzing of your phone pulls you from your head.

William Butcher: Worst Boss Ever

Starlight says you’re not answering her.

If you’re not dead, get your shit together.

You glare at the messages before dropping your phone next to the dress, running its material through your hands. It’s cool and smooth, and when you finally manage to make yourself change into it, it feels like a snake skin. Flowing around you, cold and slimy and wrong.

“You ready, gorgeous?” It’s Mr. Talent—Mikey, Candy called him—pushing through the door and letting out a bone-chilling whistle when he sees you. “Hot damn, yeah you are.”

“I, uh-“ You need to find a way, at least delay this. “I still don’t know what I’m singing.”

Mikey winks at you, holding out a sheet of printed paper. “I took care of that for you, beautiful.”

You force down the fire pinching at your nose and lining in your tongue, taking the paper and reading along the printed lyrics. Your chest starts to contract, lungs and heart pushing up against your ribs.

It’s a song about sex. You recognize it, you’ve heard it before, and it’s a song about sex. It’s not subtle or coded with innuendos. It’s just a song about sex. Plain and blatantly simple. And when you look up at Mikey, he’s smirking at your flushed expression.

“I don’t want to do this one,” you say, trying to sound docile and timid. You want to scream and burn, but that’s not an option. You need to play your hand, a naïve girl who is nervous to sing about sex.

“Bosses orders.” Mikey winks again. He should just sow his eye shut at this point. “We can put the lyrics on a teleprompter-“

“I know the song,” you shake your head, borderline frantic. “I just-“

“Of course you do, you little vixen.” Mikey looks you up and down again. “Oh, you’re going to kill it sweetheart. Just put some of that sweet honey on it.”

You don’t know what that means. You don’t get time to ask, though, because you’re herded further into the backstage area. You leave the mirror and makeup to stand behind a red curtain where you can hear applause and taunting laughter.

Mikey leaves your side for a heartbeat, and you hardly notice, too occupied fighting the coal-tasting fear in your mouth. He returns, ushering a large, bald man in an all-white suit along with him.

Mikey says your name twice, tone a little sharper the second time when the first only received a blank stare. “This is Mr. Great, he’ll be on piano for you.”

“Mr. Great?” You repeat, looking the newcomer up and down. His suit is somehow both too tight and too loose at once, he’s wearing round sunglasses that make him look like a dollar store Ray Charles, even as the high collar of his shirt and toothy smile give him an aura of Elton John.

“It’s my stage name, honey.” Mr. Great extends his hand, and when you shake it you feel almost inflated pride and grimy amusement. “You can call me Steve.”

You will not be calling him Steve.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Great,” you say his terrible alias kindly, an overly excited smile plastered on your face.

“Pleasures all mine,” Mr. Great says your name, the grime pulsing through his hand into you, and you hold down bile in your stomach. “I’m sure we’ll make a great team.”

Mikey’s tapping on his phone, glancing up as you pull your own hand from Mr. Greats grimy one. “All set, sweetheart?”

You nod. This is happening, now way out. Not as Mr. Great is smiling like a snake and Mikey is taking you in one last time. You still try, just one last time. “Are we sure I’m ready? You haven’t even heard me sing-“

“You’re ready,” Mikey dismisses. “And they,” you loathe the way he says that word, long and cold. “Don’t care how well you sing. You’ve already done the important part.”

“The important part?”

Mikey winks one last time, already turning away with a smirk. “Look like something they want.”

You watch him leave, giving a small start when you feel Mr. Great’s hand rubbing the small of your back.

“You’ll have them eating out of your hand, darlin.” He turns you around to face the velvet curtains. “Remember, it’s all in the hips and smile.”

“What does that-“ Mr. Great is gone before you can finish, ducking behind the far end of the curtain as applause sounds loudly from the other side. You really wish these people would stop talking in indecipherable and cryptic metaphors.

A blonde, curvy and full lipped woman opens the curtain before you, walking past you in a smooth strut that turns to a slouched, glowering stance once the audience is muffled once more.

She doesn’t look surprised to see you, pulling out a cigarette and addressing you wearily. “You new?”

You nod, words reduced to lumps in your throat.

“Good night to be new.” She hums thoughtfully. “Boss is here. Lots of good pickings for bidders. You a singer?”

“How did you know,” you manage to ask.

“Saw Steve. Good luck, new girl. Confidence is key.”

With that, she’s gone, and everything feels vile and sharp and bright.

You hear a voice that might be Candy, but cheerier and faster than you’d heard before, saying your name. Growing louder as wolf whistles and cheers start to sound.

Confidence is key. Hips and smile. Put sweet honey on it.

All the advice ringing in your head is pointless—this is going to hell and chaos no matter what kind of show you put on—but that doesn’t scratch the words from spinning through you.

The curtain opens to bright lights and shadow-cast bodies behind them. Candy’s gesturing you onto the stage, and your feet move of their own accord. She gives you a squeeze, gentle on your arm, and walks down stairs off the side, leaving you alone, elevated with a microphone and cold sweat in the spotlight.

You’re saved from trying to greet your audience, trying to find words that aren’t panicked or fearful by the first notes of the piano. It’s setting a rhythm—a little longer of an introduction than the song usually has—and you take the time to search the crowd. Tek Knight is watching in the back, behind a roped off, throne-like booth that he leans forward on. But your gaze is pulled away, because there is something you can feel, something angry that’s rioting against you. Something stone like watching you.

You lock eyes with Ben, his handsome face just barely visible from the back of the room, just before your cue hits, and you have to start the show.

The lyrics are pulled from your brain, sensual and explicit with flowing low notes that you force warm emotion into and belted high notes you make breathy. Time has become long, because the song is only vocals—no longer instrumental breaks—and you can’t control what’s happening. But you can’t look away from Ben either. It’s like his eyes are pulling you, removing you from your body to just watch your own show.

It starts almost deceptively simple. Hazy fairy lights floating through the room. Ocean-like mist against skin, everything smelling like pine trees and coffee and gunpowder. Gravity feels less powerful, the sky is opening up to stars and moons as everything is cast in a soft glow. And you still can’t look away from Ben, even as the room gasps, half-entranced and half-bemused. You can’t look away, not as the instrument accompaniment fills the room, drowning out Mr. Great’s piano but amplifying your voice. You can’t look away, not as the chorus hits and your singing seems to split into echoing harmonies, your body swaying in time with the music.

Then you’re yanked back into your body, because you feel someone behind you and when you turn—never missing a beat—it’s Ben. Not real Ben, still in the silently watching crowd. Fake Ben, smiling at you the way Real Ben would, eyes glimmering the way Real Ben’s do. Moving with you, hands on your hips and body pressed to yours. You can’t feel anything from him, no amusement or anger or desire, but you can’t stop. It’s like you’re under a spell, the rest of the world fading except for you, the imagined Ben before you, and the true Ben who you can still hauntingly feel.

The song starts to move too fast. Fire is spreading across the stage and you don’t know if it’s real or just another effect. Soft steam is rising, and the pine smell is growing stronger. You’re dancing with Fake Ben, his hands are tracing along your waist and resting on your hips and it feels so real. You reach up to touch his face—still holding the microphone in one hand—and even his smirk looks like Real Ben’s. His hands have all the same callous’ he moves the same way Real Ben does, and when he spins you—pressing your back to his chest—you can hear his heartbeat. It’s one second off from Real Ben’s.The song drops into a slower tempo, a rest before the finale, it’s all moving too fast away from you. Fake Ben falls to his knees, and when the high note comes he picks you up, spinning you around as the whole room becomes flooded with light. You feel high.

And you can still feel Real Ben.

In barely a second it’s over, and Fake Ben disappears into shining mist with the rest of the song. You’re in a dark club, alone on the stage, illuminated by the spotlight as the room hangs in silence.

The first person applauds, and everyone erupts. You look out into the crowd—you need to find Ben—and he’s right where he’d been before. His mouth is closed, stiller than a statue, and his shock and confusion and something hot and loud and powerful is coursing across the room into you. It’s his, you’re certain. It’s not yours, or Candy’s as she pulls you backstage, or Mr. Great’s as he claps your back. You know it’s Ben’s. You just do.

You’d bet the world on it.

The blonde woman, Candy, and Mr. Great are all trying to talk to you, but you can’t hear them. They sound as if they’re speaking gibberish, and everything is so bright and you can’t feel anything but Ben. Almost on instinct you try to walk back onto the stage, to find Ben, but you barely push the curtain aside before Candy is yanking you back.

It’s enough though. All the world comes crashing back, violent and acidic, when—in those split seconds—you see it.

Tek Knight is gone from his throne.

Like you’ve been re-animated, you turn to Candy, words harsh and fast. “I need to leave. Now. You need to pretend you’ve never met me, and get as far away from here as you can.”

“What was that, are you a supe?” Candy’s panicking, arms frantic.

“Yes. Kind of. Not really. I mean, Vought-” You stumble through the words quickly, shaking your head. “Look, there’s no time. You need to listen to me. You’re in danger.”

Candy yells your name. “You need to fucking explain-“

“I can’t. You need to go, get out, right fucking now, I can’t let more people die because of me-“

“Because of you?!” Candy’s voice is shrill, and you feel her panic as you try to herd her to the exit.

“You need to go, I’m so sorry, you need to-” You choke on the words when you see Mikey coming down the hall with anger in his eyes. You don’t look at Candy as you say “run”.

Mikey barely has time to speak before you’re barreling past him, down the hall, trying to re-trace your step. Outside of your adrenaline consumed mind, you know going out onto the stage, where there was a crowd and you knew the team had been was the better idea. But all you can think is get away, far, far away. There’s no smoke filling your vision, everything feels frozen over in your body, so you just run.

You’re moving too fast to see the foot, stretched out to block your path.

Falling forwards, your hands don’t catch you on the ground before someone is grabbing your arm. You never hit the ground, being yanked back and pulled to the side. A door slams behind you, a white and flickering ceiling light turns on, and you’re in a storage room. Surrounded by dresses, costumes, feather fans, ribbons, and Tek Knight. Towering over you, hand still gripping your arm, pushing you back, back, back into a wall.

You try to burn him, but everything is so cold. All you can feel is your blood and his disgusting satisfaction. No matter how hard you try, you can’t feel any itch of flame below your skin.

“It looks like I won the fucking lottery,” Tek Knight leers at you, arm pinned to your side, and says your name. Your full name. Your real, full name that’s carved into stone in Boston. “Sister Sage told me to look out for you, little girl. She was complaining about some sort of fucking security breach, told me to look for you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir-“

Tek Knight’s laugh is a crude, over-enunciated cackle. “Don’t play stupid with me, Bitch. You’ve been giving me problems. I designed that fucking security system, and now Homelander and Sage won’t get off my ass about it-“

You drop any buttery, over-innocent persona. Jig is up, gloves off. “I thought your company designed that security system.” You sneer. “I read that fucking article about the lawsuit, asshole. All you did was take credit for someone’s work.”

“That scientist was a fucking liar,” Tek Knight hisses, slamming you back into wall, your head hitting concrete. “He was just jealous of me, because his wife wanted to sleep with me more than that blue-balled nerd.”

“I’m sure he was really jealous of your tiny dick,” you spit, almost relishing in the childish anger through Tek Knight’s body. “And your shit fucking business ideas. Did anyone even buy those Tek Knight phones, or did they see how it shrank your dick and-”

Tek Knight’s elbow presses into your throat, a too wide smile across his face as your words turn into a long wheeze. “I’m a genius,” he sneers. “I’m going to get the reward for finding you, giving you over to Homelander.”

The fire is still gone, because the pain and fear and panic is freezing you alive. Biting into your brain and heart and lungs and limb to hold you down in place as Tek Knight taunts you.

“He’s going to beg me to join the Seven,” your eyes feel like icicles are moving through them. “I’ll kick that diversity hire bitch out,” your tongue feels numb in your mouth. “And while I’m at it, that fast boy out too,” you can’t move and everything is so heavy, something deep from the back of your head is trying to flee your body. “and I’m going to buy you, fucking own you, you weak fucking bitch-“

Tek Knight’s eyes grow wide, his grip becoming slack as his body locks up. You can’t feel him, you’re still filled with frost along your bones and mind. It feels bigger. Doubled, consuming, and never-ending. His arm is still against your air-pipe, leaning further into you as he loses balance. Something is moving behind you both, shouts and thumps and gunshots, but everything is just cold and your head feels like air.

The last thing you see before the world goes dark is Ben, pushing the door of the storage room open with a roar.

————

Butcher had noticed Tek Knight’s absence before Ben. The room was in a chaos, some rich pussies whining about being drugged, some trying to push backstage, most just fucking confused. But Ben was locked in his seat, rigid and reeling. He didn’t know what had just happened. She’d looked at him, and started singing—that same warm and clear voice that could move mountains and armies—and the whole world had unraveled. Lights and water and nature had taken over, and Ben had wondered if the French Prick had slipped him some sort of experimental psychedelic. Then he’d managed to see MM and Butcher from the corner of his eye, wearing matching shocked and spellbound expressions.

It had felt like an enchantment had been cast over the room. Whatever trick She was pulling, those illusions she was somehow spinning felt so fucking real. Nobody could move, or look away from Her. And She wouldn’t look away from Ben.

The Thing had been so powerful—eating him and burning him and roaring in his chest—before it had even happened. Then the clone, an eerie fucking perfect replica of Ben, was at Her side. And dancing with her, and touching her, and she was looking at it the way she did in Ben’s fantasies, and the Thing became all Ben could feel. When she’d finished, all he needed to do was get to Her. His feet wouldn’t fucking move, he was locked in place, but Ben needed to fucking find Her.

“Frenchie says she ain’t backstage, and they can't find Tek Knight either.” Butcher’s words, loud over the mayhem of the room, finally sprang Ben into action.

Danger, the Thing bellowed. She’s in danger.

He had pushed through the crowd, up onto the stage and through performers and club staff, ignoring MM and Butcher’s calls behind him. A guard had tried to stop him as he moved further, Ben had shoved him aside, and alarms had begun to go off. More guards had flooded the halls, gunshots going off around him, but Ben had just kept fucking moving. Looking for Her heartbeat, locking into it and following it to a closed, locked door labeled Performance Storage.

She’s falling, slumping against the wall with her eyes dropping just when Ben finally sees Her. Butcher and MM are still moving down the hall, Ben’s ripped the door off its hinges, and someone is shouting after him, but it doesn’t fucking matter. Not when he’s storming across the room, tossing a still-bodied Tek Knight to the side with little effort, and catching Her before she can hit the ground.

Ben held Her, cradling the back of her head as she remained limp against his chest. He’s half aware of Butcher and MM, now with the French Prick and Kimiko, entering the room. But he doesn’t look at them, the Thing becoming tighter in his chest the longer Her eyes stay closed. They should be open by now, they should’ve been open goddamn minutes ago. Why weren’t they fucking open, what if they didn’t fucking open. Ben could hear Her heart, but he couldn’t hear her breath. Where was her fucking breath. She can’t die, it’s not even a damn option on the table, so why couldn’t he hear her breath-

Her body shook with a cough, and her eyes blinked open, meeting his. Her hands shoot up, one pressing into Ben’s chest as the other finds her throat, scraping along it in a clawed hand. Ben—still holding Her against him—drops his hold on her head, pulling her away from where she’s leaving quickly-fading red marks along her throat.

“Breathe,” he says Her name in a low but firm voice, twice when Her head shakes frantically. “You’re fine, it’s okay, breathe.”

She makes a choked sound. “Can’t- He said- reward-“

“You’re okay,” Ben brushes the hair clinging to her sweat-drenched forehead. “I’m right fucking here, nothing’s going to happen. I just need you to fucking breathe.”

She nodded, and though there were tears in her eyes and her breaths were still weak, but Her heart grew to an even rhythm as Ben rubbed small circles where he held her hand. He was aware of the movement behind him, MM and Kimiko dragging Tek Knight up from where Ben had thrown him, the French Prick rummaging through bins to find something to tie the asshole up. Butcher, moving behind Ben and saying Her name, cold and harsh.

“Care to explain what the fucking hell that was.” He growled, and Ben pulled Her up, holding her steady and they turned to face Butcher.

“Now’s not the fucking time-“ Ben started to sneer at Butcher, but She squeezed his arm around her and shook her head slightly.

“It’s okay, I need to-“ another long breath, Her heart still slightly erratic as she spoke softly, the words vomiting out of Her. “It’s the third shot of V. Sensory manipulation. It only happens when I sing, and-“

“I’ve fucking heard you sing, Love,” Butcher snapped. “That shit didn’t-“

“You have to be in a certain range for it to work, I don’t know. I think it’s like a pheromone or something, I can’t control it, I didn’t think Homelander even knew about it, but he,” She pointed a shaky finger at Tek Knight. “Said that Sage was telling him to look for me.”

“Look for you?” MM looked up from where he stood, keeping gun pointed at Tek Knight’s unconscious head. “Why did they think you’d be here?”

“Security breach,” She looked nervously at Tek Knight, and Ben felt her body press closer to his own. “Sage must have seen that you got those records.”

“Well, he’ll tell us the whole bloody story when he wakes up, won’t he?” Butcher turned to the French Prick. “He ain’t dead, right? That’d be fucking annoying.”

The French Prick looked up from where he was examining Tek Knight’s body, shaking his head with a frown. “He should wake up soonish, I do not see any burns or physical damage.”

Just then, a weak, pathetic groan escaped Tek Knight, and his eyes slowly opened. His eyes found Her first, his face twisting into a half-afraid, half-furious expression.

“What the fuck did you do to me, you fucking bitch.” His voice was hoarse, but filled with wrath. “How dare you lay a fucking hand on me-“

“I’d calm the hell down, Motherfucker.” MM pressed the gun into Tek Knight’s temple. “You don’t have any sort of upper hand right now.”

Even as the pussy falls silent, Tek Knight didn’ take his glare off Her, and Ben held her a little tighter.

“Good bloody work, Mate.” Butcher taunted, taking a step closer and bending down Tek Knight’s eye level. “Followin orders like a good little cunt.”

“Fuck you,” Tek Knight spat into Butcher’s eyes. “This is fucking bullshit, don’t you know who I am-“

“We know exactly who you are,” MM snapped. “And we’ve got some questions for you.”

“I’m not telling you fucking shit-“

“See, we ain’t asking.” Butcher gave a crude smirk. “You recognize him?” Tek Knight followed Butcher pointing finger to Ben, and his face fell pale as Butcher continued. “One word from us, and he flattens you like a pancake.”

“Soldier Boy doesn’t fucking scare me,” his voice was shaky, and Ben just watched him coldly.

“You sure?” Butcher said, brows raised mockingly. “Cause from where I’m sat, it looks like you might be pissin yourself a little, Mate.”

“What do you want? Money?” Tek Knight looked around the room, voice growing higher. “I can give you fucking money. I can give you whatever the fuck you want.”

“We want answers,” MM clicked the safety off, and Tek Knight flinched. “And you’re going to give them to us. First off,” MM angled the gun to leave a mark on Tek Knight’s temple, pointing at Her, still silent against Ben’s side. “What do you know about the Anomaly?”

“I’m not telling you shit-“

“Yeah, yeah.” Butcher rolled his eyes. “Save us the whining and answer the fucking question.”

Tek Knight shook his head. “I don’t know what hell you’re talking about.”

“You said you knew about me,” She said, voice unsteady but loud. “You said you were going to turn me over to Homelander.”

“She’s making that shit up, trying to turn you against me.” Tek Knight snapped. “I never said any of that.”

“No, she’s not.” Ben growled, and Tek Knight scoffed.

“You really fucking believe this bitch? After all her fucking lies?” He laughed as Ben felt Her shrink backwards, heartbeat picking up pace once more. “That’s right, sweetheart. I know fucking everything. I know about all your little whore powers. I figured it out, your brain manipulation. Homelander came to me, begging for help, and I saw all the clues on the cam footage.”

“Cam footage?” MM snapped, and Tek Knight fell silent at his slip. “What fucking cam footage?”

“I told you, I’m not telling you fucking shit-“

“And we told you,” Ben hissed. “We’re not fucking asking.” He didn’t let Her go, letting her continue to lean against him as he threatened Tek Knight. “You tell us what you know, right fucking now, or I’ll break your pussy brain in half.”

“I don’t know anything-“

The French Prick snorted. “You just admitted you ‘figured it out’, no?”

“It was Sage, not me,” Tek Knight said frantically, folding in half like a fucking house of cards. “I don’t know anything, I’m a scapegoat, it’s a fucking witch hunt-“

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” MM muttered. “Answer the goddamn question.”

“I don’t know anything, they don’t tell me shit, I just help Homelander when he asks-“

“Help him with what?” Butcher snapped. “We want fucking specifics.”

“I dunno!” Ben could smell Tek Knight’s fucking sweat, coming in damn buckets. “He wants guards, I get him guards! Money, I get money! You would too, the dude is fucking terrifying. Insane!”

“Yeah, we’ve figured that out,” MM said dryly. “You keep a record of this shit?”

Tek Knight shook his head. “It’s all off the book. He doesn’t pay me, but I’m on the shortlist for the Seven-“

“Jesus bloody Christ,” Butcher gave a scornful laugh. “Your head is all the way up Homelander’s puckered ass, ain’t it?”

“He’s going to fucking kill me,” Tek Knight was panicking, moving like a damn bobble-head. “I shouldn’t have told you anything, he’s going to kill me-“

“What about that cam footage?” MM asked. “The fuck was that about?”

“It’s gone, Sage erased it after the breach. Holy fuck, this and the breach, I’m fucking dead.” Tek Knight look around at them, desperate and fucking snot-nosed. “You have to help me, he’s going to kill me, I shouldn’t have fucking called him-“

“Called him?” MM glanced up at Butcher as he spoke, and She went rigid at Ben’s side. “The hell you mean, called him?”

“Homelander’s fucking coming, I told him about her,” his nods were aimed in Her direction, and her heart was moving so fast Ben thought it might explode. “And he’s going to kill all of us, you have to untie me, right now, please-“

“Nah, I think we’re good,” Butcher shrugged as he pulled out a gun, and Tek Knight’s eyes barely had time to widen before the shot went off.

“Butcher!” Tek Knight slumped forward into MM’s gun, and MM gave Butcher a pissed scowl. “The fuck was that, we weren’t done-“

“Yeah, we were.” Butcher was turning away, watching the door with sharp eyes. “This was a shit fuckin dead end, and now we’re right back where we damn started.”

She let out a strangled gasp, and started tugging at Ben with hushed, frantic words. “He said Homelander-“ Her nails were pushing into his arm, but he just held her steady. “Homelander’s coming, he’s coming-“

“We heard him.” Butcher’s eyes didn’t leave the door as he loaded his gun. “Frenchie, look for any weapons that cunt might have, MM, tell Hughie to get the van ready, we have to move fast.”

The door burst open, and MM fired right at Starlight who had jumped in front of Cocksucker at the last second.

“Oh shit!” Cocksucker yelled, catching Starlight as she stumbled backwards. “It’s us, it’s just us!”

“Homelander,” Starlight’s breath was heavy, coughing as she spoke. “He’s here, just landed at the stage.”

“Did he see you?” Butcher demanded, catching the rounds the French Prick was tossing to him.

Cocksucker shook his head. “I don’t think so, I mean he didn’t try to laser us so that’s a good sign, but it’s all I have to go off-“

“Kid,” MM said sternly. “Not the time for rambling. Did he see you, yes or no.”

“No?”

He on his way?”

“Probably?”

“Shit,” MM exchanged another look with Butcher. “The halls won’t be safe. There got to be a back exit-“

“That's how we got in,” Butcher grunted. “It’s our best fucking bet. Kimiko and Soldier Boy will have to lead-“

“The fuck I’m leading,” Ben interrupted Butcher with a glower, gesturing to Her. “She can’t fucking walk-“

“She’s gonna have to,” MM’s voice was apologetic as he said her name, and Ben didn’t give a shit. “She’s an adult, she’ll be fine. Butcher-“

Ben tuned out the continuing arguments and planning as he looked down at Her, with hands fisted on his sleeve and legs shaking. The strangled sounds had died from her throat minutes ago, and all she seemed to do was stare at the door with terror, breaths coming jagged and short. He said her name lowly, and she didn’t even flinch.

“We need to run,” he said Her name again. “I need you to fucking run.”

All he got in response was a shaking head.

Ben stalked over to the French Prick, holding Her slightly off the ground to move with him. “Give me a fucking gun.”

“Not in goddamn hell,” MM answered before the French Prick could.

Ben spat his words at no one in particular. “I’m only taking the lead if you give me a fucking gun.”

“Give it to him, Frenchie.” Butcher’s order was brisk as he looked Ben up and down, eyes resting on where She still clung to his side.

“Monsieur Butcher-“

“Now.” Butcher snapped, turning to face the hall.

“Butcher are you fucking insane-“

“We don’t have time for bloody useless arguments, MM, we’ve got to go, right fucking now.”

Ben snatched the gun offered weakly by the French Prick, not sparing him a fucking glance. As he lowered one arm to hold Her up—wrapping fully around her waist—Ben dropped his voice so only she could hear as he began to load his gun.

“I’m going to pick you up,” he grunted. “Because you can’t fucking run right now, and I’m not leaving you. Got it?” When she was only silent, Ben angled her face to his. “Sunshine, I need to you to nod. I’ve fucking got you, understood?”

“Ben-“ Her voice was weak, tired, afraid. The Thing was stilled from rage in a second, needing to make it better. “I’m-“

“You’re going to be fine.” He hissed. “I swear on my goddamn life.”

With that, Ben tossed her over his shoulder like a perfect, beautiful, fear-frozen sack of fucking potatoes and walked to the door as she grew slack against him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Soldier Boy,” MM grabbed his arm as they passed each other. “If you screw us, motherfucker-“

Ben yanked his arm away. “This is two way road, you fucking got that? If you pussies screw us,” Ben didn’t have to gesture to Her for MM’s eyes to glance between them. “You’re going to wish Homelander had killed you.” He turned to where Starlight stood at the door. “Now are we fucking ready?”

“Whenever you are, Gov,” Butcher drawled, falling into his place in their shit formation at Cocksucker’s side.

Ben paused for a half second, making sure She was secure around him, before walking—gun raised and braced for oncoming fire—into the hall.

It was quiet. Too fucking quiet. The only heartbeats Ben could hear were Hers and the Pussy-Brigades behind him. Kimiko was keeping pace with Ben’s long, fast steps, and he didn’t miss the quick, worried looks she kept giving Her. She was still unmoving, breath almost mechanically steady, and smoke had begun to rise from her body. It didn’t cloud Ben’s vision, and She’d only grown warm without flame, so Ben kept fucking moving. They were so goddamn close to being out, and everywhere was still so fucking empty. Through the door, down the creepy as shit hallway. Up the stairs, into the still abandoned alleyway. The team filtered after him, weapons not lowering for a second. The door slammed behind MM and Starlight at the rear, and—in a vigilant silence—they loaded into the van. She didn’t let go of Ben as he sat against the wall, engine rumbling to life, and he didn’t try to make her.

Something was wrong, this was too fucking easy. The Thing, still fully focused on Her, felt wired, on edge, like she might vanish from Ben’s hands. She still hadn’t spoken, and as Ben lowered her into his lap she moved her grip to the collar of his shirt. They were getting further and further away, but something still felt fucking off. Ben didn’t fucking trust it, some sort of other shoe was just waiting to fucking drop-

Her hands raised to Ben’s face, a frantic sound escaping her as she lowered his eyes to meet hers. “Ben-“ Her voice was barely audible, and Ben leaned forward until they were almost sharing a breath. “Something’s wrong.”

“I know, Sunshine-“

“No, no, you-“ She tugged Ben closer in a tiny movement, hands pulling at his hair. “My phone, I left my phone-“

“Where.”

“The dressing room, before it happened, I forgot it, Ben I forgot it-“

She froze, head whipping towards the front of the van as a ring sounded through the van.

“Hughie,” Butcher grunted, cocking his head towards where his phone rested on the console. “Get that, will you?”

“No,” She whispered as Cocksucker grabbed Butcher’s phone, frowning at the screen. “Ben, you have to-“

Cocksucker said Her name, glancing back at her and Ben. “It looks like you’re calling me?”

She gave a small, desperate sound, shaking her head.

“She lost her phone,” Ben snapped at Cocksucker, wrapping Her hands into his own as they began to smoke against his head. “Left it back at that shit hole.”

“Answer it, Lad.” Butcher ordered, and Ben pulled Her hands to rest between their bodies and she began to shake.

“No, no, Hughie don’t-“

Cocksucker put the phone to his ear, eyes darting around the van. “Hello?”

“Hughie Campbell! What are you doing with William’s phone, hm?”

Homelander’s pathetically fucking cheery voice was muffled through the phone. Ben tried to keep his face stoned and neutral—he wanted to see what Cocksucker would do—but She wrung her hands, still held between his.

“What’s he saying? Ben.” Her voice was rising, and the Thing grew bloody with her panic. “Please, Ben, what-“

“Who is it,” Butcher muttered to Cocksucker, who had gone slack-jawed and pale. “Hughie,” Butcher glanced off the road with a frown. “Who’s on the fucking phone?”

“Go on, Hughie.” Homelander encouraged mockingly. “Answer the man, don’t let our conversation stop you.”

“It’s him,” Cocksucker’s voice was unsteady, and Ben heard a cold laugh through the phone. “Homelander.”

“Are you fucking serious?” MM hissed. “Kid, that’s not funny-“

“Put me on speaker!” Homelander’s voice was manic. “Let me talk to the gang!”

Cocksucker dropped the phone from his ear, hand shaking as Homelander’s voice grew louder through the speaker.

“Is everyone here? Obviously Hughie, listening to orders so well as always. William, I heard you, you rascal, too big to pick up the phone, huh?”

“Nah, just can’t be fucked, cunt.” Butcher drawled, even as Ben could hear the race of his heart and see his scowl in the rearview mirror.

“Delightful as always. Who else, hm,” the van hung in silence as Homelander paused in fake thought. “Starlight, probably, she and Hughie are attached by Campbell’s dick. I think I heard Marvin, and of course I wouldn’t be able hear the fucking mute. She there too?”

“What do you want, Homelander?” Starlight called from across the van. “What’s your angle?”

“I’m wounded, Starlight. Can’t I call to catch up with old friends?”

“We ain’t friends, and if we were you’d know to text,” Butcher’s hands were white on the wheel. “Answer her bloody question.”

There was a silence, the line only humming static, before, Her name was said, tight and crude in Homelander’s voice. “Is she there? I know she was here, I found her phone,” Homelander laughed. “But you know that!”

“We’re not telling you shit-“

“Oh, don’t be like that, William. It’s an innocent question. It’s not like I’m asking who leaked those records to you, or which of you killed Tek Knight!” Homelander clicked his tongue. “Unbelievably annoying, by the way. Now I’m going to have to give a fucking press statement about it.”

Butcher’s lip was curled into a sneer. “How fuckin tragic for you.”

“Thank you! You know, nobody ever thanks me for that, but it’s hard work! I’m going to have to say so much nice shit about this asshole, you have no idea. Now, stop trying to distract me, and answer my question.” Homelander’s voice dropped in a cruel, cold tone. “Is she fucking there?”

She was searing a hole into Ben’s shirt as she pressed further into him, all eyes falling to them. Ben held their gazes firmly, letting every bit of rage for Her in his body, from the Thing, fill his face. If one of them, any fucking one of these pussies, said a goddamn word, he’d rip their spines out.

“What about Soldier Boy?” Homelander asked, and Her face shot up from Ben’s chest to meet his eyes, her hands shaking in his. “I heard a lot of people saying their last words about him. Is he there?”

More silence.

“If one of you doesn’t speak-“

“Homelander, we’re not going to answer your question,” Starlight snapped, and Ben respected her for the first time. “So tell us what you want.”

“Can she hear me? If she’s there can she hear me-“

“Talk, cunt.” Butcher grunted, and Homelander gave a dramatic fucking pussy sigh.

“I just wanted to tell you that I missed you this time, but I’m fucking onto you. Flipping my employees, stealing my property, trying to fuck me over-“

“You call just to whine, Twat?” Butcher cut Homelander off with a sneer. “Or is there fucking point.”

“Patience is a virtue, William.” Homelander gave a tsk. “And I want to make sure that you don’t think you’re ahead. I don’t know what your plan is, but it won’t work. I’m invincible. I’ll find the leak and plug it, I’ll figure out what you're doing and stop it, because I always win.”

Butcher snatched the phone from Cocksucker’s hand, hissing into it. “That it?”

“Patience.” Homelander growled Her name, and the Thing became molten fury in Ben. “I don’t know if you’re there, because these weak, unworthy ants won’t fucking tell me. But I want you to know that, when you come home, which you will because I will find you, I can’t wait to hear you sing again. I can’t believe you hid what V did, it’s amazing, powerful, god-like, but I forgive you. I won’t lie, I’m wounded that you didn’t trust me, but I forgive you. And I’ll see you, all of you, soon.”

The line clicked dead, and She went limp in Ben’s arms. Nobody spoke, they wouldn’t fucking dare, and Ben just held her. The Thing wanted Her closer, even with their skin pressed together, their air the same, and their hearts in time with each other. But Ben needed to be fucking mad at her. She’d had another secret, she’d had chances to tell him, everything he knew, everything he understood told Ben he needed to be mad at her. But the fear in Her eyes was imprinted on his brain, and the sound of her pleading his name, looking to him for comfort, would ring in his ears until she laughed again.

Ben should be fucking mad at Her, but Ben and the Thing were hardly even separated anymore, not when She was so close. Not when She mattered like this. Not when She was choosing to stay right here with him. Not when She, for some stupid fucking reason, kept choosing to hang to Ben’s side.

He had to be mad at Her, to find it in him some fucking where, but the performance was echoing in his head, feeding the Thing. Ben gave up—for now—trying to find reason with it or what it meant. What he meant to Her. Because She was shaking against him, and he was keeping her secure in his arms. And She wasn’t trying to run or fight, so Ben wouldn’t either. It was just them, even in the cold silence of the van.

It was just them, so Ben stayed right there with Her.

Thank you for reading!

Always leave a comment if you want to! They feed me, and y’all are funnier than me <3

End Note: Not to trash on my source material, but my version of Tek Knight is better and more interesting and makes me want to vomit less. Eric Kripke, you will pay for your crimes against my son, Hughie Campbell.

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