Summary: Working with the Boys was already dangerous enough before you met Soldier Boy. But somewhere between gunfights, safe houses and near-death missions, the line between protecting each other and wanting each other starts getting dangerously blurred.
-requested-
(prequel to "Fucking Brats") But you can totally read both stories on their own)
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 4171
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The cab dropped you two off in front of a brick building that looked more like a converted house than a clinic. No flashy signage, just a small brass plate by the door with a name you couldnât pronounce and âM.D.â after it.
You were still half in airport mode. Your skin was dried out from the flight, your hair up in a hasty tie and Benâs hoodie was hanging off your shoulders because youâd started shaking somewhere over the Atlantic and never really stopped.
Ben paid the driver and turned to you. âYou good?â, he asked.
You nodded. âYeah. Just⌠ready to get this over withâ.
He snorted softly. âThis is the easy part, kidâ. He caught himself, jaw clenching. âY/Nâ. Of course you didnât call him on it.
Inside, the âwaiting roomâ was three mismatched chairs, an old coat rack and a fish tank that held exactly two very unimpressed fish. A fading poster about quitting smoking curled at the corners. There was no receptionist, just a sliding glass window and a bell.
Ben ignored both and rapped his knuckles on the wood frame. âDoc?â, he called. âItâs meâ.
A gruff voice answered from somewhere down the hall. âYou ainât got an appointment, boyâ.
âSince when did I need one?â, Ben shot back.
Heavy footsteps approached. A moment later, the inner door opened and an old man stepped out. White hair, thick brows and glasses hanging from a cord around his neck. He wore a button-down shirt with rolled sleeves and a stethoscope he clearly forgot was still around his neck. He squinted. Then his face creased into something between a grimace and a smile. âWell, Iâll be damnedâ, he said. âFucking Benjaminâ.
Benâs mouth pulled into a lopsided smirk. âHey, Docâ.
âYouâre supposed to be deadâ, the man said, eyeing him up and down. âOr retired. Or in a hole somewhereâ.
âBeen busyâ, Ben said.
âClearlyâ. The old manâs gaze slid past him to you, half-hiding in the hoodie. âThat yours?", he asked Ben. Your stomach flipped.
Ben stepped half aside so you werenât shielded but still⌠covered. âY/N, that´s Stein. He patched me up more times than I can count. Doc, this isâŚâ. He hesitated just a fraction. âMy girlâ. Your cheeks warmed.
Steinâs eyes softened at that. âYouâre even more trouble than you lookâ, he said. âCome on inâ.
He led you down a narrow hall into a small exam room with peeling white paint an cabinet doors that didnât quite shut. An ancient-looking ultrasound machine parked in the corner like a relic. You sat.
Ben took the chair by the wall but didnât sit back, he leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, watching everything.
Stein washed his hands at the tiny sink. âSoâ, he said, like he was asking about a sore throat, âWhatâs the crisis?â.
You glanced at Ben, then back at the doctor. Your voice felt small. âI⌠took a test. Two, actuallyâ.
Stein nodded, like heâd already guessed. âHow late?â.
âThree monthsâ, you said.
His eyebrows went up. âThatâll do itâ.
He looked at Ben. âYou tell her the odds?â.
âI told her they said I was a goddamn brick wallâ, Ben said, jaw tight. âThey also said a lot of other bullshitâ.
Stein snorted. âVought lies. You didnât believe them, did you?â.
âBack then?â, Ben shrugged one shoulder. âDidnât careâ.
Steinâs eyes flicked between the two of you, taking in more than you wanted him to. âAnd now you doâ.
Ben didnât answer. He didnât have to. Stein sighed, the sound of it so old and familiar, like this wasnât the first time heâd been dragged into Soldier Boy-adjacent chaos.
âAlrightâ, he said. âWe do this proper. History, exam, labs, then we take a look. You eat anything today?â.
âHalf a muffin.â
âGood enoughâ. He pulled a clipboard from the counter and flicked a few pages. âAny pain? Bleeding? Fever?â.
âNoâ, you said. âJust⌠I´m tired. Nausea sometimes. Sore boobsâ. You winced at your own bluntness.
He nodded unbothered. âSounds about right. When was your last period exactly?â.
You gave him the date as best you could remember. He scribbled and made a little âhmmâ noise, then set the clipboard down.
âLie back, lift the shirtâ, he said. âWeâll start with the fun partâ.
Your heart leapt into your throat. âAlready? Donât you need blood orââ.
âWeâll do that tooâ, he said. âBut you flew in from god-knows-where and your nerves are shot. This tells us more, fasterâ. He flicked the old machine on with a practiced smack. It beeped to life, the screen flickering. He pulled over the cart, snapped on gloves and squirted cold gel onto your lower belly, making you flinch.
âSorryâ, he grunted. âThis thing doesnât warm up. Hold stillâ.
The probe was shockingly cold when he pressed it gently against your skin. His eyes were on the screen as he moved it, angling, searching.
Meanwhile you stared at the ceiling with your heart pounding.
Ben stood now, unable to stay in the chair, hovering at your side.
Steinâs brow furrowed. He adjusted the angle, pressed a little deeper.
âCome on, you little parasiteâ, he muttered. âWhere are you hidingâŚâ. Then he stopped. His shoulders eased. The corners of his eyes crinkled. âThere you areâ, he said softly.
You pushed up on your elbows, trying to see something. Your chest tightened. âThatâsâŚ?â.
âThatâs a babyâ, Stein said.
Your hand found Ben´s and clenched. He squeezed back, hard enough to steady you but not enough to hurt.
The doc adjusted the probe, tilting it. âHold onâ, he murmured. âDonât get misty yet, Iâm not doneâ.
You frowned. âIs something wrong?â.
He didnât answer right away. He moved the probe an inch, then another, angling down and to the side. The screen shifted again. Another dark oval slid into view. Your stomach dropped.
âAhâ, Stein huffed, like a puzzle piece had clicked into place. âThere you are. Thought I saw something tucked back thereâ.
You stared, your brain catching up too slow. âWait. Is that still⌠the sameâŚ?â.
âMm-mmâ, he said. âThatâs twoâ.
You blinked. âTwo what?â.
He gave you a look over the top of his glasses. âWhat do you think? Christmas ornaments? Two babies, kid. Youâre cooking a matched setâ.
The room went silent. Even the old machineâs hum seemed to cut out for a second. You felt Ben go rigid beside you.
âTwins?â, he said, like the word itself was obscene.
âFraternal, best I can tell from this angleâ, Stein said, as calmly as if he was calling the weather. He tapped a few keys, the measurement lines popping up on each dark pocket in turn. âTwo sacs, two passengers. Both measuring about the same. Hell of a trick for someone who was supposedly shooting blanksâ.
You let out a sound that wasnât quite a laugh, wasnât quite a sob. âYouâre⌠sure?â.
He tilted the probe so you could see clearly: two separate little spaces, each with its own tiny gray blob inside.
âPositiveâ, he said. âTrust me, Iâve been staring at these things longer than your boyfriendâs been radioactive. Oneâs snuggled in closer to the front, otherâs tucked back high. Thatâs why it took a minuteâ.
You swallowed. Twice. Failed both times. âBenâ, you said weakly. He didnât answer, so you turned your head.
He wasnât watching you. He was staring at the screen like someone had hit him with a truck made of feelings. Both hands were on you now. One clamped around your fingers, the other hovering near your stomach like he didnât know whether to touch or not. His eyes flicked from one little blob to the other, back and forth, like he was counting and kept getting the same impossible number.
âTwoâ, he said, very quietly. âThereâs⌠twoâ.
âYeah, geniusâ, Stein muttered. âKeeps happening when you idiots think biology is optionalâ.
Ben ignored that completely.
âDocâ, he said with his voice rough. âTheyâre okay? Both of them?â.
âHeartbeats are goodâ, Stein tapped a key and the room filled with sound. A rapid but steady thudding. âThereâs oneâŚâ. He shifted the probe a hair. A second, slightly different rhythm joined the first. Not perfectly in sync, just offset enough you could tell them apart. ââŚand thereâs the otherâ, Stein finished. âTwo distinct heart rates. Little speed-monsters, both of âemâ.
Whatever air you had left in your lungs left on a trembling exhale.
âThatâsââ, you started, then had to stop, choking on the word. âThatâs them?â.
âYepâ, Stein said. âThatâs your whole circusâ.
You stared at the monitor, tears blurring the blobs, or sacs or.. the flickers. Youâd barely wrapped your head around one. Two was⌠beyond you.
You felt Benâs thumb start moving against your knuckles, clumsy little circles like he was trying to soothe himself and forgot whose hand he was holding.
âFucking shitâ, he whispered. âI overachievedâ.
A wet laugh burst out of you, half-hysterical. âYeah, congratulations. You didnât just break science, you punched it in the faceâ.
He huffed something that mightâve been a laugh, too, still looking a little shell-shocked. âVought says I canât knock anyone up, I give âem twinsâ.
Stein clicked a few more buttons, snapped a couple of stills, then glanced at you both. âYou two planning on breathing at any point, or should I get the oxygen?â.
You sucked in a shaky breath. âAre twins⌠more risky?â.
âCan beâ, he said honestly. âMore to watch. But from what I see right now? They look fine. Youâll need regular checkups, more than a standard pregnancy, but itâs not a death sentence. Assumingâ, he added, giving Ben a pointed look, âyou keep her out of gunfights and away from explosions like a sane manâ.
Ben didnât even smirk at that. He dragged his gaze away from the screen long enough to meet Steinâs eyes. âSheâs doneâ, he said, no room for argument. âTheyâre done. No more missions. You´re done. I´ll tell Butcher you´re radioactive for the next year for all I careâ.
You opened your mouth to protest, maybe habit, reflex, but he cut you a look that shut it down fast.
âDonâtâ, he said quietly. âIâm not losing you or them because you think you gotta prove somethingâ. You just closed your mouth.
Stein turned the sound down, the tiny heartbeats fading to a ghost in the machines as he wiped the gel from your belly. âYou can sit upâ, he said. âIâll get the lab stuff ready. Try not to fall off the table thinking about college tuitionâ.
You pushed yourself up slowly. Ben was there immediately, hand at your elbow, the other still clutching the little strip of grainy photos Stein handed over. He looked at them like they might disappear if he blinked. Two little shapes. Side by side in black and white.
He swallowed hard. âWe made twoâ, he murmured, a little stunned and a little proud. Well, more than a little. âGuess I really donât do anything halfway, huh?â.
You laughed again, still helpless. âNever thought Iâd wish you were less effectiveâ.
He finally looked up at you then, and there was something blazing behind the shock. Fear, yeah, but also this fierce, stunned joy that made your chest hurt.
âHeyâ, he said softly. âLook at meâ.
You did.
âWeâll figure it outâ, he said. âHowever big this shit gets. However loud. However many⌠tiny terrorists you end up carryingâ. His mouth twitched. âWe got thisâ.
You nodded, the word ours settling somewhere deep and shaking you apart in a way that somehow put you together at the same time.
Stein cleared his throat, shuffling in a drawer for vials. âAlright, lovebirdsâ, he grumbled. âSave the epiphanies, we still got blood to draw. And youââ, he pointed at Ben, ââsit down before you face-plant. Youâre white as a sheetâ.
âIâm fineâ, Ben said.
You squeezed his hand. âSitâ, you echoed.
He sighed but sat. But his knee stayed pressed against the exam table, his shoulder in easy reach, the little ultrasound strip clutched between his fingers like heâd finally found something he actually wanted to protect more than his own warped, indestructible hide. Two somethings. Well, three.
-
One month later, Ben bought a house. Like, an actual house.
You stood in the gravel driveway in front of it, hoodie unzipped over the first pair of stupid maternity jeans youâd finally caved and bought, staring up at the two-story place like it might disappear if you blinked wrong.
White siding, dark roof and a porch that wrapped halfway around. A scraggly yard that could be nice if someone cared about it. A Big old tree out front with branches stretching over the street. Not a mansion, not a shack. Just⌠a house.
âPretty sure this is illegalâ, you said eventually. âPeople like us donât get houses. We get bunkers and safe houses and places with moldâ.
Ben snorted beside you, jingling the keys like a kid with a new toy. âRelax. Deedâs legit. Papers are signed. I even paid the damn taxesâ.
âWith what?â, you asked. âVought reward points?â.
He smirked. âBack pay. I finally got my hands on my money from before they stuck me in the Russian popsicle machine. If they want it back, they can try and pry it from my cold, glowing handsâ. He bumped your shoulder with his. âCome on. Before you decide youâre allergic to normalâ.
Inside, the air smelled like dust and wood and fresh paint in a couple of rooms. The living room was big and empty, sunlight slanting through bare windows onto worn hardwood floors. There was a fireplace. An actual fireplace.
You turned in a slow circle. âThis isâŚâ.
âWeird?â, he offered.
âYeahâ, you said. âWeirdâ.
He watched your face, that half-smirk pulling at his mouth. âWait till you see the kitchen. It has counters that arenât metal. And a dishwasherâ.
You let him tow you through the downstairs. Kitchen, dining room, a little office space he muttered something about turning into âmission commandâ even though you werenât supposed to be doing missions anymore.
Then he steered you toward the stairs. âCarefulâ, he said, hand at the small of your back.
You rolled your eyes. âIâm pregnant, not ninetyâ.
âYouâre bothâ, he said. âYou get winded putting on socks nowâ.
âThatâs your faultâ, you muttered climbing.
You were already showing; just enough that the hoodie didnât quite hide it anymore. A soft curve low under your ribs, more obvious in the mornings and after you ate. Ben had noticed the second it started and hadnât shut up since.
âYouâre really gonna bring two extra passengers into my house and then complain about being tired?â, heâd grinned earlier that week, palm curving over the new roundness. âSelfishâ.
Upstairs, he stopped you in the hallway, one hand over your eyes. âNo peekingâ, he ordered.
âBenââ.
âTrust meâ, he said, steering you forward. âYouâll like this oneâ.
He pushed the door open, guided you a few steps inside, then let go. You blinked.
Sunlight poured through a wide window overlooking the patchy backyard. The walls were bare, but someone, definitely not him, had patched the plaster and smoothed the corners. The floor was empty, just clean wood and light.
Two doors stood on the far wall. Two rooms. It hit you then. âSeriously?â, you said, your throat tight.
He shrugged, aiming for casual and missing it by a mile. âFigured they should have their own spaces". He gestured. âThat oneâs a little bigger. Maybe for the firstbornâ. His mouth twitched. âUnless they both come at once and fight over it. In that case, they can arm-wrestleâ.
You didnât move. You felt⌠frozen. Like your brain had hit some kind of emotional overload and pulled the plug. He noticed.
âHeyâ, he said, a little softer. âYou alright?â.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, fingers linking over the stretch of fabric at your middle. âIt just⌠looks real in hereâ, you said with a thin voice. âItaly was⌠vacation. The apartment was⌠temporary. Even the ultrasound was just a screen. But thisââ. Your eyes flicked to the window, the walls, the closets, back to him. âThis looks like⌠foreverâ.
His jaw worked. âThatâs the ideaâ, he said quietly. âYou said you never had a place that was yours. Soâ. He spread his hands. âHereâ.
A hysterical little laugh escaped you. âYou bought us a houseâ.
âYeahâ.
âA house-houseâ.
âLast I checkedâ.
âWith rooms for kidsâ, you said, like if you said it out loud it might make more sense. âAnd a fireplace. And probably a water billâ.
âAmong other adult horrorsâ, he said. âGarbage day. People asking to borrow toolsâ.
You laughed weakly, then went quiet.
He watched the way your shoulders curled in, the way your eyes flicked away from the doorway that led to another room what would clearly be a nursery, then back to the floor. âYouâre not breathing againâ, he said.
You dragged in air, but it didnât help much. âI just⌠Iâm nineteen, Ben. I dropped out and ran away, then killed supes and hid in shitty apartments and now Iâm⌠here? In a house? Withââ, your hand fluttered helplessly at your stomach, ââthem?â.
He didnât flinch at the number. Youâd said it before. You were legal, heâd drawn the line, youâd crossed it together.
But this was different.
He stepped closer, leaning his shoulder against the door frame across from you. âYou want the truth?â, he asked.
âThat would be refreshingâ, you muttered.
âI donât know what Iâm doing eitherâ, he said. âIâve blown up tanks and flown planes and done PR tours on three continents. Iâve never bought a fuckin´ cribâ. His mouth twisted. âKinda thought my skill set wouldnât ever include âlearn how to install a baby gate without breaking the wallââ. You snorted, despite yourself.
He pushed off the frame and came to stand in front of you, hands slipping into his pockets, giving you space without stepping away. âYouâre scared âcause youâre youngâ, he said. âIâm scared âcause Iâm old. You think youâre too early, I think Iâm too late. Congratulations, we cancel each other outâ.
You made a face. âThatâs not how it worksâ.
âSure it isâ, he said. âIf we say soâ.
You sighed, looking down at your stomach. It was rounding more every day, your shirts tugging a little tighter. Sometimes, when you lay still, you swore you felt a weird flutter⌠gas, probably, but your brain turned it into something else.
âI feel likeâŚâ. You hesitated, searching for the words. âLike I skipped levels. Like I was supposed to have other⌠lives first. Parties. Stupid jobs. Bad apartments that are mine instead of Butcherâs. Maybe a shitty, age-appropriate boyfriend who cried when I dumped himâ.
Benâs expression barely flickered at that, but his eyes went a shade darker. âIf you want a shitty little boyfriend, I can throw a rock at the nearest collegeâ.
âShut up,â you said, but there was no heat in it.
He looked around the room, the empty walls, the clean floor, the doorways to the not-yet-rooms. âLookâ, he said, more serious, âyou didnât get those lives. You got this one. Raw deal in a lot of ways, sure. But itâs the one weâre standing inâ. He met your gaze again. âYou donât have to pretend to be thrilled. You donât have to do the now-days mom thing where youâre ecstatic about every stupid onesie. You wanna be pissed youâre young and got drafted into parenthood early? You get to be pissedâ.
You swallowed. âAnd you?â.
He shrugged, a little helpless, a little fierce. âIâm⌠happyâ, he admitted. âIn my own fucked-up way. I didnât think I got this. At all. House. You. Them. Any of itâ. He glanced at your stomach and his voice went softer. âFeels like I stole something back they tried real hard to takeâ.
The words dug under your ribs.
âI donât want you to feel like Iâm not happyâ, you blurted. âI am. I just⌠my brain keeps switching between âwow, this is amazingâ and âholy shit, I am a child, someone call an adultââ.
He snorted. âHoney, there are no adults. Just other motherfuckers with mortgagesâ.
You huffed a laugh, wiping at your eyes with your sleeve. He stepped in closer, finally, and rested both hands lightly on your sides, thumbs curving under the small swell of your bump. âYou got scared when we found out about themâ, he said. âI werenât sure then either. But⌠I still wanted âem. You wanted them, right?â. You nodded, throat tight. âThat hasnât changedâ, he said. âWhat can changed is where we are when it all hits. I donât want you raise my kids in a apartmet with a chair under the doorknob. I want you here. In a bed that doesnât sag. With a working lock and a room ready for them if you decide to keep âem with meâ.
Your heart stuttered. âIf?â.
He held your gaze. âItâs your lifeâ, he said. âIâm all in if you are. Hell, Iâm already halfway to buying fucking little shoes. But if you wake up tomorrow and say you canât do this, Iâm not chaining you to the white fence with a smile and a lieâ. You stared at him, floored by the bluntness. âYou want outâ, he went on, voice only a little shaky, âwe talk. You want in, we paint these walls whatever stupid color you want and I learn how to assemble fucking furniture without killing anyoneâ.
You looked around the room again. At the blank space, the open doorways, the sunlight. At his big hands resting on your body like you were something to protect, not trap.
âI want inâ, you said, quietly but clear. âIâm just⌠terrifiedâ.
He let out a breath you hadnât realized he was holding. âGoodâ.
âGood?â, you repeated incredulous.
âYeahâ, he said. âMeans youâre paying attentionâ.
You let out a shaky laugh.
He dipped his head, kissed your forehead, lingering there for a second. âIâll be happy enough for both of us for a whileâ, he murmured. âYou catch up when you canâ.
You closed your eyes, letting that sink in. When you opened them, heâd pulled back enough to look at you, that irritating smirk creeping in again. âBesidesâ, he added, tone turning teasing, âyouâre already halfway to that funny walk. You kinda waddled getting out of the cabâ.
You gaped at him. âI do not waddle.â
âYou kinda doâ, he said, eyes flicking down, amused. âLittle bit of⌠swayâ.
âThatâs your children stretching my ligaments, you assholeâ, you said, swatting his shoulder.
âOur childrenâ he corrected, smug. His hands slid around to the small of your back, tugging you in until your bump pressed against his stomach. âAnd for the record? You look good. Think I might have a thing for the whole⌠âcould stab me if I say the wrong fucking thingâ vibeâ.
âYou have a thing for being punchedâ, you muttered, but your cheeks heated anyway.
He grinned. âOnly by youâ.
Silence settled again, softer this time.
You looked past him, out the window at the tree in the yard, at the stretch of grass that could someday be full of plastic toys and tiny shoes and two little people who didnât exist anywhere but a fuzzy ultrasound and the gentle outward push of your belly.
You were still young. Too young, maybe. Still scared.
But as Ben stood there with his hands warm on your back and his stupidly hopeful eyes on your face, in a house heâd bought with blood money to try and build something that wasnât all damage- you felt something else weave through the fear. Not all-out, movie-montage joy. But somehing. The beginning of wanting this.
âYouâre really okay with this?â, you asked one more time, needing to hear it.
He glanced around at the empty room, then back at you. âBabeâ, he said, âI bought a goddamn house. I´m in deepâ.
You snorted, soft. âFairâ.
He squeezed your sides, mouth curving. âCome on. Letâs go check out the backyard".
Summary: Working with the Boys was already dangerous enough before you met Soldier Boy. But somewhere between gunfights, safe houses and near-death missions, the line between protecting each other and wanting each other starts getting dangerously blurred.
-requested-
(prequel to "Fucking Brats") But you can totally read both stories on their own)
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 4467
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The Italian sun was hotter than youâd imagined. The sky above the Amalfi coast was blinding blue, all salt breeze and sun-warmed tile and not a hint of Vought billboards or safe house tension in sight. Your apartment was small, but the water was just a hundred steps down the crooked street.
Right now you were in the bathroom, twisting under the mirror, trying to decipher which tie went where and how the hell these bottoms counted as âcoverageâ. Ben had bought you a new bikini. A european one.
You squinted at your reflection, huffing as you tried to knot a stubborn strap behind your back.
You fought the suit another minute, growling as the top twisted around itself for the third time.
âOh, come onâ, you muttered, wrestling with a loop. Then the tie snapped out of your fingers, the knot half-done and the whole thing threatening to come loose.
âBen!â, you shouted, frustration tipping into laughter, âI need help!â.
You heard the heavy tread of his feet and the kitchen noise cut off. He didnât even bother with the door, just stuck his head in, eyebrows raised, sunglasses still perched on his head.
âThought you said you were a grown woman who didnât need a damn thing from meâ, he said, a smirk already threatening at the corners of his mouth.
You shot him a glare over your shoulder, arms twisted behind you and the bikini top dangling uselessly. âYeah, well, I also said I wouldnât die of embarrassment in a tiny Italian bathroom, and look how thatâs goingâ.
He came in, making the room feeling smaller instantly. He let the door swing shut behind him and reached for the dangling strings.
âTurn aroundâ, he ordered, with his voice softer than usual.
You did, cheeks burning, letting your arms drop.
He took his time, much more than was strictly necessary, and sliding the straps into place, while his knuckles were brushing your bare skin. His breath was warm at your ear. âRelaxâ, he said quietly, knotting the tie with effortless precision. âYou look goodâ.
You scoffed, rolling your eyes, but you didnât move away. âI look like I got lost in a pile of spaghettiâ.
He made a noise, something between a laugh and a hum, and his hands lingered on your hips, pulling you back against him, bare skin to bare skin. âIf spaghetti looked like this, Iâd never fucking eat anything elseâ.
You felt the laughter catch in your throat, nerves fluttering as you let yourself lean back against his chest, the last of your anxiety dissolving in his touch.
âAlrightâ, he said, mouth brushing your shoulder, âletâs see how many Italians we can make crash their fucking scooter todayâ.
You snorted, turning to swat him on the chest, but he only grinned wider.
âCome onâ, he said, tugging you toward the door. âBeach is waitingâ.
At the beach, youâd barely had time to pick a spot when Ben reached over, hooked an arm behind your knees and another around your back, and just⌠lifted.
âBenâ!â, you yelped, instinctively grabbing his shoulders as your feet left the ground. âPut me down!â.
âNopeâ, he said, already striding toward the water, utterly unbothered. âYouâll chicken out and sit there reading a menu in bad Italian for an hourâ.
You clung tighter. âI can walk!â.
âYeahâ, he said. âBut this is funnierâ.
The sea breeze whipped at your hair, droplets of salt spray already kissing your calves as he waded in. The water was bright blue up close and clearer than anything youâd seen back home.
You squirmed. âSeriously, put me down, you assholeâ.
He huffed. âChrist, youâre heavier than last timeâ.
Your jaw dropped. âWow. Thats fucking Rudeâ.
âNot my faultâ, he grunted, adjusting his grip, arms flexing under you. âYouâve been eating lasagna like thereâs a war onâ.
âYouâve been feeding me lasagna like thereâs a war on!â, you shot back. âThatâs your fault and your weird love affair with italian food. You bought me gelato twice yesterdayâ.
âYeah, wellâ, he said, smirking up at you, âlooks good on youâ.
Heat crawled up your neck that had nothing to do with the sun. You resisted the urge to hide your face in his shoulder while he took another few steps. The water was swirling around his knees now, then his thighs, cool and sharp against your skin where it splashed. He stopped when the water reached just under his chest, waves lapping at your calves where they dangled. He adjusted his grip again, sliding one hand a little higher on your back, the other under your thighs, holding you up like you weighed nothing.
âYou know I´m obsessed with you, right?".
You stared at him, sun and salt and stupid tears stinging the back of your eyes.
He didnât even blink, like the answer was obvious. âYeah. Like the kind of obsessed that buys gelato twice and pretends itâs just because it was on the wayâ. His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed steady on yours. âYou can call me an asshole all day, Iâll take it. But donât you ever think for a second Iâm not crazy about youâ.
âBenâ, you said, voice a little unsteady.
âWhat?â.
âThrow meâ, you said. âBefore I get sappyâ.
He barked out a laugh and without warning, tossed you forward into the water. You hit the sea with a squeal and a splash.
He was still laughing when you broke through, pushing your hair out of your face.
âYou said throw youâ.
âYou launched me!â, you spluttered, shoving water at him. âIâm gonna drownâ.
âYou floatâ, he said. âIâve seen itâ.
You lunged at him, sending another wave in his direction. He let you splash him once and twice, then reached out, snagged you around the waist, and pulled you back against his chest, both of you half-submerged now with the water warm around your hips.
âHeyâ, he said, low enough that only you could hear over the crash of the waves.
You looked up, breath still a little fast, cheeks flushed from more than the swim.
âI mean it".
You just nodded since your throat was way too tight.
-
Open suitcase, crumpled receipts and a trail of sand from the door to the bathroom. You were digging for a clean shirt when your fingers brushed cardboard. You glanced down. Tampons. A half-full box, flaps open, shoved in the corner where youâd tossed it when you first unpacked.
You stared at them for a beat with your brain blissfully blank.
Then something ugly and cold slid down your spine. You hadnât touched that box since⌠you tried to remember. Before the safe house mission with the sniper. Before the couch. Before that night you turned eighteen and everything jumped tracks. Before the couch.
You sat down hard on the edge of the bed. Your shirt was long forgotten in your hands.
Your period was always a mess. Stress, bad sleep, shitty food, the constant whiplash of near-death⌠it all did a number on your body. Youâd skipped before. Came late. Came early. It was chaos. But not like this.
You did the math, staring at the box like it had personally betrayed you.
Last time had been⌠the week you got your hip sliced open. Before Ben changed the bandage in the safe house. Youâd grumbled about the timing, shoved pads in your pocket, doubled up on painkillers and pretended it was fine.
That was⌠almost three months ago. Your mouth went dry. Three. Whole. Months.
You glanced toward the half-open bathroom door. Steam was still fogging the mirror from Benâs shower. You could hear the faucet dripping, the faint clink of him in the kitchenette humming under his breath, probably making coffee too strong for mortals.
Your heart started to hammer. No. You grabbed for excuses with both hands.
Stress. Youâd almost died, more than once. Missions back-to-back, adrenaline spikes, moving to a new place, your whole life turning itself inside out. Bodies did weird shit under pressure. Cycles went off the rails all the time.
Three months, though.
You swallowed and pressed your palm flat against your stomach, as if youâd feel something different. It was just⌠you. A little softer maybe, from Italyâs carbs and gelato, but notâno.
You thought of what heâd said in bed: âDidnât find out till way down the line it wasnât on the menuâ. The V. Sterile. âNot on the menuâ.
Your throat tightened. It couldnât be that. He couldnât. You couldnât. Youâd half let yourself go reckless because of it, somewhere in the back of your head. No condoms. No pills. Supes didnât make babies. Not naturally. Your brain threw up cruel questions anyway.
What if Vought was wrong? What if youâre the exception? What if youâre late and stupid and this is your own fault?
Your hands shook.
âBabe?â, Benâs voice drifted in from the other room, casual. âYou seen my other boot? The dumb Italian one. Looks like an idiotâs boat shoeâ.
You startled so hard the box flipped, tampons spilling over your clothes. One bounced onto the floor at your feet. You stared at it like it was a grenade.
âUhânoâ, you called, voice way too high. âHavenât seen itâ.
Silence from the kitchen.
âYou good in there?â.
You scrambled for normal. âYeah! Justâdropping everything I own. As usualâ.
You shoved the tampons back into the box with shaking hands, stuffed it into the suitcase, and yanked the zipper halfway closed like that might shove the thought away too. It didnât.
Your pulse skittered and your mind ran ahead of you: How would Ben feel?
You remembered his hand on your belly last week, his thumb stroking idly as you lay on the beach. The way heâd talked about kids like they were something heâd buried and stamped classified years ago.
You didnât know if this was real. You didnât know if you could even be. But you knew one thing: You had to know. Really know. Not âmaybeâ, not âwhat ifâ, not mental math and panic and guessing.
A pharmacy was two streets over. Youâd walked past it yesterday.
âBen?â, you said, stepping out of the bedroom.
He was standing by the counter, in a soft t-shirt and those stupid Italian shoes, hair still wet and a coffee mug in hand. When he saw your face, his brows pulled together instantly. âWhatâs wrong?â, he said, just like that. No warm-up. No joke.
You forced your shoulders to loosen. âNothing. Just⌠thinking I might walk down, grab some stuff. Shop. Whateverâ.
He frowned. âWhat stuff?â.
Your brain offered up pregnancy test way too loud.
You swallowed it. âGirl stuff. Boring stuffâ.
His eyes flicked over your bare legs, your hand still subconsciously hovering near your stomach and the way you werenât quite meeting his gaze.
He set the mug down, lips pressing into a line. âYou sure youâre alright?â.
You lied. âYeah. Just⌠restless⌠Sandâs gotten into⌠everythingâ.
He studied you a second longer. You felt stripped bare, like he could see every thought stamped on your forehead. Then he nodded once. âAlright. Donât let some creep talk you into buying fake sunglasses for a hundred euros. And take your phoneâ.
You managed a smile. âYes, dadâ.
That earned you a faint eye roll and the ghost of a smirk, but his eyes were still sharp.
You grabbed your bag, slipped on sandals with hands that didnât feel like yours, and stepped out into the blinding Italian sunlight.
You walked on autopilot. Your heart thudded all the way there and louder still when you stepped into the cool, white pharmacy.
The shelves were full of unfamiliar brands, everything labeled in Italian. You wandered until you found the section with little boxes covered in pastel colors. It was weirdly quiet.
You grabbed the first recognizable test with shaking fingers, then a second, just in case. The woman at the register didnât even blink, just handed you a flimsy plastic bag and a soft âgrazieâ. You murmured something back and walked home in a fog.
A few minutes later, you slipped inside your rental to find Ben on the couch with one arm draped along the back cushions, watching the door the second it opened. His eyes immediately dropped to the bag in your hand. âGet what you needed?â, he asked.
You tightened your grip around the plastic with your pulse in your throat. âYeah. Just⌠shampoo. Stuffâ.
He looked like he wanted to call you on it. Instead, he nodded once, slow. âBathroomâs all yoursâ.
You practically bolted, closing the door behind you with a soft click. The little room suddenly felt too small.
You set the bag on the sink, pulled the tests out and stared at them. The instructions were half in Italian, half in tiny pictures. And all along, your stupid hands wouldnât stop trembling.
Youâd faced supes. Guns. Explosions. Youâd watched Ben take bullets, watched people die, watched buildings fall.
But this? This stupid little plastic stick? Terrifying.
You took a breath and you did what you had to do.
Then you set the test on the edge of the sink, sat down on the closed toilet lid, and buried your face in your hands while the clock in your head screamed.
Five minutes later, the little plastic window might as well have been a gun barrel pointed at your face.
You watched the color creep across it, breath shallow, fingers digging into your knees. One line bloomed fast. The control line. The second took longer.
For a moment you thought maybe youâd imagined the faint shadow of it. Stress or the light. Anything.
Then it darkened. Undeniable pink.
Positive.
Your ears buzzed. The tiny bathroom tilted, the edges going swimmy and your heartbeat loud enough to drown out everything else.
No.
No, no, no.
You grabbed the second test with hands that barely felt attached to your body and went through it again. Same steps. Same shaking. Same stupid waiting.
Same result. Two lines. Twice.
Your mouth was dry. Your thoughts had turned into fog. Words like impossible and supe and V and this canât be happening collided uselessly in your head.
You donât even know how long you sat there with your elbows on your knees and both tests dangling between your fingers, while staring at nothing.
But eventually Ben knocked.
âY/N? You fall in or something?â.
You flinched so hard the tests nearly slipped from your hand. You couldnât think. You couldnât form a plan. The idea of hiding it, shoving the sticks in the bin and pretending, vanished the second you pictured his face if he found out later. If something happened. If you didnât say it.
Your legs felt like they were filled with sand when you stood.
Then you opened the door.
He was right there in the little hall with one hand braced on the frame and worry already etched between his brows. The TV behind him was still murmuring some Italian show no one was watching. His eyes swept your pale face, then dropped to your hand. To the two small white sticks. He frowned. âWhatâs that?â.
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.
He reached, carefully, closing his fingers around one of them, easing it from your grasp. He turned it over in his hand, squinting at the little window, at the lines.
âThat a⌠medical thing?â, he asked, voice gone flat. âYou sick? You catch something?â.
You swallowed. âItâs a pregnancy testâ.
He went very still.
You saw the exact second his brain went somewhere sideways. Saw his eyes harden and pull back, like heâd just taken a hit he hadnât seen coming.
âYeah?â, he said slowly. âAnd, uh⌠whose is it?â.
You blinked, thrown. âWhat?â.
He held the test up a fraction. âYou waving around somebody elseâs fucking problem at me, or you wanna tell me why youâre in my fucking bathroom crying over two pink lines?â.
âIââ, your throat closed. âItâs mine, Ben. Obviouslyâ.
Something ugly flickered across his face. Hurt, confusion and anger tangled up. âYou didnât think to mention that before you started shacking up in my bed? When exactly did we fit in the fucking part where you went and got knocked up?â.
For a breath, all you could do was stare at him.
Then the shock boiled over into something sharp and hot and way easier to hold than fear.
âOh my God!", you snapped, voice cracking. âAre you fucking serious right now?â.
His eyes narrowed. âYou gonna answer the fucking question?â.
âYeah, sure, let me check my schedule!â, you shot back, words tumbling out fast and mean because if you slowed down youâd break. âWas it before or after you practically moved into my freaking vagina for two months straight? You wanna run the timeline together?â.
âY/Nââ.
âNo, reallyâ, you barreled on, half-hysterical. âAt what point between âtaking my virginity on the safe house couchâ and âdragging me to another country and barely letting me out of bedâ did I have time to go sleep with someone else? You think Iâm teleporting dick in on my lunch break?â.
His mouth opened, closed. Some of the color drained from his face.
âYou havenât left me alone for more than five minutes since my birthdayâ, you said, quieter now but shaking, tears burning hot at the corners of your eyes. âYouâve been there every night. Every morning. Every time. So if you wanna know whose it isââ. You jabbed a finger at his chest, the test wobbling in his hand. âDo the damn math, Ben!â.
Silence. Ben stared at you like he was trying to see straight through your skin. Then he looked down at the test again, at the twin pink lines. His throat worked.
âThatâsââ, he started. âThatâs not possibleâ, he mumbled.
You laughed, a broken little sound that had nothing funny in it. âYeahâ, you said, wiping at your face with the heel of your hand. âThatâs what I thought tooâ.
Ben just stood there. He looked⌠wrong. Like someone had pulled the ground out from under him but he was still standing on muscle memory. His hand tightened around the test until the plastic creaked.
âThey said I couldnâtâ, he muttered, more to himself than you. âThey tested it. For weeks". His mouth twisted. âVought doesnât leave that kind of thing to chanceâ.
âI know what two lines meanâ, you said with your chest tight. âTwiceâ.
He dragged a hand through his hair. âCould be wrong. Could be a bad batch orâshit, I donât know, Italian cheap knockoffâ.
You held up the other stick, your hand still shaking. âTwo different brands, Ben".
He stared at it. At you. At the bathroom like it might offer backup.
âHave you been sick?â, he asked suddenly, too fast. âThrowing up, dizzy, anythingââ.
âYesâ, you snapped. âBecause we keep nearly dying and you keep wearing me out and Italy keeps feeding me dairy. I thought it was stress. Or jetlag⌠Or youâ.
He winced.
You exhaled, the anger burning itself down to something more raw. âI havenât had a period in three monthsâ, you said quieter. âMy bodyâs never been this late. Not even when things were at their worst. I checked twice. I did the test twice. You can tell yourself itâs fake, but Iâm the one living in itâ.
Silence stretched.
Then he finally sank down onto one of the kitchen chairs like his knees had given out, the test still dangling between his fingers. For the first time since youâd known him, he looked⌠lost.
âIf this is realâ, he said slowly, âthat means they liedâ.
You let out a humorless huff. âPretty on-brand for themâ.
His jaw clenched. âNo, you donât get it. They built my whole life on that. On what I could and couldnât do. If they screwed this up, if they knewââ. He broke off, something ugly and hot flashing in his eyes.
You realized, distantly, that part of his panic wasnât just about what was happening to you now, it was about every woman heâd ever touched while believing he couldnât do this. Every risk he hadnât thought was a risk.
He stared at the floor for a long moment, then looked back up at you. The anger was still there, but it had shifted direction.
âGuess I shouldnât have said thatâ, he rasped. âAbout you fucking with someone else. That wasââ.
âYeahâ, you cut in. âThat was bullshitâ.
He nodded once, no defense. âYeahâ. His eyes met yours, steady now, if still rattled. âYouâre right. Iâve been glued to your hip since the couch. I justâŚâ, he blew out a breath, âI just⌠It Doesnât exactly line up with what Iâve been told for decadesâ.
You swallowed and your shoulders started sagging a little in relief you didnât want to admit to. âI get it. Kind ofâ.
He glanced down at the test again, thumb brushing the plastic like it might change.
âYou feel okay?â, he asked. âAny pain?â.
âJust⌠weirdâ, you admitted. âStomachâs been off. Tired. Thought it was you dragging me around Europe like a backpackâ.
He snorted before he set the test down very carefully on the table and stood. Then he came closer. Close enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep his face in view.
âCome hereâ, he said.
You didnât move at first. Your feet felt rooted. His expression softened a fraction.
âIâm not gonna yellâ, he added. âJust⌠c´mereâ.
You stepped toward him and he reached out, slowly, and rested his warm palm flat against your lower stomach. You watched him watch his own hand, disbelief and something like awe warring in his eyes. Your throat tightened. He huffed out a small, strangled sound that mightâve been a laugh if there hadnât been so much emotion caught in it.
Then his arm slid around your back and he pulled you in. Your forehead hit his chest and the rest of you followed, fingers bunching in his t-shirt like you were afraid the tile might drop out from under you next. You felt smaller than you had in a long time. Not because of him, but because of everything. The weight of what might be sitting under his hand and the way your whole life had just pivoted on two faint pink lines in a foreign bathroom.
His chin settled lightly on the top of your head. For a guy who could snap steel, he held you like you were made of blown glass. âWeâre gonna need to go to a fucking doctorâ, he murmured into your hair. âFor blood work. And CT or.. whatever the hell they do these days. Find out if itâs trueâ.
You swallowed. Your voice came out small. âHere?â.
You pictured yourself trying to mime âhi, I might be pregnant with a supeâs babyâ at some Italian doc. Your stomach rolled.
âI donât⌠speak enoughâ, you admitted. âI can order coffee and point at gelato. Thatâs itâ.
He sighed, the sound rumbling through his chest against your cheek. âYeahâ, he said. âDidnât think that far ahead when I decided to play touristâ.
He was quiet a second, his thumb rubbing slow circles at the small of your back like he was soothing himself as much as you.
âI guess Europeâs on pause for nowâ, he finally said, resigned. âWe go backâ.
You pulled back just enough to see his face. âBack where?â.
âStatesâ, he said. âSomewhere I can actually read the medical paperwork before I break someoneâs noseâ.
âNew York?â, you asked.
His mouth twisted. âWhere else? Thatâs where the devils we know are. And Iâd rather be on a continent where I understand the swear words if something goes wrongâ.
Panic fluttered in your chest at the thought of stepping back into that mess of Butcher, of Vought, the whole rotten pile, while this sat under your ribs.
You searched his face. âYou sure?â.
He held your gaze for a long beat. Something settled behind his eyes.
âIâm sure Iâm not runningâ, he said. âThatâs what I got right now. The restâŚâ. He huffed, self-deprecating.
You nodded, a little dazed. âSo⌠we go backâ.
âYeahâ. He glanced past you, toward the window where a slice of sea and sky showed between the shutters. âIâll book flights. We go straight to a doc that doesnât have Vought stamped on the door".
âWe tell the others?â, you asked, stomach flipping.
He considered it. âNot yetâ, he said. âNot till we know for sure. Iâm not handing Butcher fresh ammunition based on two pieces of plastic and a panic attackâ.
You exhaled, a little of the pressure easing. âOkayâ.
His hand shifted, fingers splaying a little wider over your belly. It was so light it barely felt like a touch, but you felt it everywhere.
âYouâre gonna eatâ, he said, slipping back into that bossy tone that had somehow become⌠steadying. âAnd drink water. And sit your ass down on the flight, no heroics, no heavy lifting, no sprinting through airports because you âdonât wanna miss duty freeââ.
You made a face. âThat was one timeâ.
âOne time too manyâ, he said. âYouâre⌠on a different list nowâ.
âAsset?â, you asked, grimacing at the word.
He shook his head, expression hardening like the idea offended him. âNo. Youâre mine. Thatâs the listâ.
You let out a shaky breath and nodded. âOkayâ, you said again. âWe go homeâ.
He softened, just a touch, reaching up to brush a damp strand of hair from your face. âHeyâ, he said. âYouâre allowed to freak outâ.
âI am freaking outâ, you said. âInternally. Loudly. You just canât hear it over your own crisisâ.
That pulled a real, rough-edged laugh out of him. âYeah, well. Guess weâre in this one together tooâ. He bent his head, pressing a brief, firm kiss to your forehead. âGet dressedâ, he said against your skin.
Summary: Working with the Boys was already dangerous enough before you met Soldier Boy. But somewhere between gunfights, safe houses and near-death missions, the line between protecting each other and wanting each other starts getting dangerously blurred.
-requested-
(prequel to "Fucking Brats") But you can totally read both stories on their own)
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 6484
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You woke up. For a second you didnât remember the room, or the aches deep in your muscles, or why the blanket that covered you smelled faintly of sweat and⌠whatever. Then you shifted and everywhere between your thighs lit up with a deep, pleasant soreness. Then memory slid into place in a messy and out-of-order rush.
The couch. Ben. The way heâd taken care of you after. Youâd drifted, lost in exhaustion and his heartbeat, so deep you mightâve slept through an earthquake.
Now, you blinked your eyes open to the soft light seeping through the blinds. You stretched experimentally, just a little, careful of the ache, and realized you were wearing his shirt. You definitely hadnât put it on yourself. The last thing you remembered, youâd been too limp to move. Your own clothes were nowhere in sight, but you didnât even care.
Somewhere across the room, you heard a zipper and the low clink of metal on leather. Ben stood by the cracked mirror, half-dressed in his supe suit, with his hair still wet from a shower. He was moving quietly, like he was trying not to wake you, but even half-assembled he looked huge.
You made a soft, questioning noise in your throat, still bleary. Benâs eyes flicked to you and something about the look, possessive, fond and a little smug, made your belly flip all over again.
âMorning, sleeping beautyâ, he rumbled, adjusting a strap on his vest. âYou planning on joining the land of the living, or you want me to tell Butcher you died of exhaustion?â.
You groaned, dragging the blanket higher over your bare thighs. âIf he asks, tell him I was killed by a natural disasterâ.
Ben snorted. âYouâre not dead. Just worn outâ. His gaze lingered on the expanse of bare leg below the hem of his shirt, something satisfied flickering in his eyes before he forced himself to look away. âYou should get dressed. The idiotsâll be here soon and Iâm not explaining why youâre naked except for my shirtâ.
You laughed, but it came out shy, your cheeks heating as you sat up slowly. You caught him watching and you couldnât help but grin. âYouâre just embarrassed because you got soft last nightâ.
He raised a brow, buckling his belt. âSweetheart, thereâs nothing soft about me right nowâ.
You snorted, swinging your legs off the couch. Your skin was dotted with bruises and love bites, little marks that only made the memory heavier.
Ben watched you for another heartbeat, his expression unreadable. Then he came over, crouching beside the couch, one hand gentle on your knee as he looked you over, checking for anything he mightâve missed. âYou okay?â, he asked, just a bit quieter now.
You nodded, letting your fingers tangle in the loose hem of the shirt. âSore. Good soreâ.
He smiled, a really fucking rare one, and brushed his thumb over your knee. âGoodâ.
A knock sounded, sharp and sudden, at the door. You both jumped, adrenaline fizzing through the peace.
âShitâ, Ben muttered, pushing to his feet. He finished zipping up his vest. âGet dressed. Iâll stall themâ.
You made your way to the bathroom. Ben, for all his grumbling, had gathered up every scrap of your clothes (panties, jeans, even your socks) and stacked them neatly on the closed toilet lid. Folded. Folded.
You snorted, pressing a hand to your mouth to muffle a laugh.
Your body ached in a hundred places. Inside and out, every muscle humming with the memory of his hands, his mouth and his weight pinning you to the couch. But you didnât regret a single second.
You peeled off his shirt slowly and breathing in the lingering scent of him. You pulled your underwear back on, wincing a little at the tenderness, then jeans, then your bra and shirt. Every movement felt strange, like your skin didnât quite fit right anymore, too alive and new and stretched in all the right places.
You glanced at yourself in the mirror as you buttoned your jeans, pausing at the flush on your cheeks, the wild look in your eyes and the marks blooming on your throat. You looked different. Older, maybe. Like someone whoâd been claimed and cherished and wrecked, all at once.
You smoothed your hair, ran cold water over your wrists and tried not to think too hard about what came next.
When you heard voices drifting from the kitchen, you padded down the hall.
ââŚI am telling you, mon coeur, this is the best bagel in the city within walking distance of a crime sceneâ, Frenchie was saying.
You stepped into the doorway. Frenchie, still in his jacket, had a cardboard tray of coffees on the table and a paper bag already ripped open, bagels spilling out. Kimiko sat on the counter, swinging her legs.
Ben leaned against the opposite counter in full suit and a mug in hand.
Three heads turned when you walked in. You were suddenly very glad youâd checked your reflection twice.
Frenchie brightened. âAh! Tiens, the ghost of the safe house appearsâ. His eyes flicked to the microwave clock, then back to you. âYou´re here⌠earlyâ. He squinted playfully. âVery earlyâ.
Kimiko cocked her head, watching you closely. Her nose started wrinkling a little, like she smelled something she couldnât quite name.
Benâs gaze swept over you once, quick. His jaw ticked almost imperceptibly when he saw you wince the tiniest bit stepping over a loose board.
âCouldnât sleepâ, you said, going straight for the bag like that was the most important thing in the room. âYou two forget your keys again?â.
Frenchie pressed a hand to his chest. âWe chose to knock. It is called manners, petiteâ.
âYou also texted âopen the door we are keyless againââ, you said, grabbing a bagel.
âThat is⌠a separate issueâ, he said. âBeen here long?â, he asked casually, tearing his bagel in half. âOr did you simply teleport from your mysterious little flat in the sky?â.
You bit into yours to buy time. âGot in⌠earlierâ, you said around a mouthful. âBeats trafficâ.
Frenchieâs eyes narrowed, playful but sharper than usual. âAh bon? And our dear Captain?â. He jerked his chin at Ben. âYou are here before nine? Voluntarily? This is⌠how you say⌠deeply suspiciousâ.
Ben didnât even look up from his coffee. âSomebodyâs gotta make sure she doesnât get herself killed on her way to the fridgeâ.
âYou both beat us hereâ, Frenchie said, zeroing in now. âYou, I expect late. You, I expect dramatic entranceâ. He flicked his gaze between you, then gasped theatrically. âMon dieu. Have you been⌠responsible?â.
He said the last word like it tasted bad.
You rolled your eyes, feeling your face warm anyway. âMaybe I just wanted first pick of the bagelsâ.
âLiarâ, he said cheerfully, but let it drop.
Kimiko hopped off the counter and crossed to you. Up close, she scanned your face, your shoulders, your neck. Her eyes lingered on a faint purplish smudge just under your jaw, the one youâd missed.
Her gaze snapped to Ben. Then back to you.
You widened your eyes at her. Donât.
Her lips curled, just a little, like sheâd been given the best gossip of her week and was graciously choosing not to weaponize it. She gave your arm a quick squeeze, then went to steal Benâs mug, taking a sip like she owned it.
He let her, which told you just how off-balance he still was.
The front door clicked again. This time no knock. Just the scrape of keys and Butcherâs muttering.
Annie stepped in first, shaking rain out of her hair, followed by Hughie juggling a folder and a reusable coffee cup. MM followed.
âOiâ, Butcher said, sniffing. âSmells like sadness and stress. Must be Tuesdayâ.
His gaze bounced around the room.
âYou two are up with the birdsâ, he said, nodding at you and Ben. âLose a bet?â.
âCouldnât sleepâ, you said for the third time that morning.
âTrainingâ, Ben said at the same time.
There was a brief, awkward pause. MMâs eyebrow twitched upward. âHuhâ.
Annieâs eyes flicked between you and Ben, lingering a second too long, then dropped to your neck. Her mouth pressed into a line. âYouâve got aââ, she started, then stopped herself. âNever mindâ.
You surreptitiously tugged your collar up.
Hughie, bless him, zeroed in on the bag instead. âAre those⌠bagels?â, he asked. âBecause I will sell everything for oneâ.
âSoldâ, Frenchie said immediately.
âAlright, enough breakfast foreplayâ, Butcher said, clapping his hands once. âWeâve got Voughtâs filth to sort throughâ. He dropped a stack of files onto the table with a thud. âGather âround, childrenâ.
You slid into a chair, ignoring the way sitting made your thighs protest. Ben took his usual spot behind you, one hand braced on the back of your chair. If anyone noticed how close he was standing, they didnât say anything.
MM spread the files out, starting in on the rundown.
Every so often, you felt the lightest brush of Benâs fingers at the top of the chair⌠maybe accidental, maybe not. Once, when you shifted and your face tightened, his hand settled there a little more firmly, steadying what no one else could see.
No one here knew youâd been sleeping on this couch more nights than not.
No one here knew exactly what had happened on it last night.
To them, it was business as usual: one more job, one more meeting, one more day sticking it to the most powerful corporation on earth.
To you, every second felt double-exposed.
âY/Nâ, MMâs voice pulled you back. âYou got that?â.
You blinked, then found your place on the map, brain snapping into gear. âYeahâ, you said. âVent access. Same as last time, only dirtierâ.
âPerfectâ, he said.
Butcher launched into the next part of the briefing. The table hummed with argument and strategy, the way it always did.
Behind you, Ben shifted his weight.
âEyes up, kidâ, he murmured under his breath, low enough that only you could hear. âLot of moving parts todayâ.
You didnât look back at him, but the corner of your mouth ticked up. âIâm not a kidâ, you whispered back.
His hand gave the chair a tiny tap, like a secret punctuation only you would notice.
âYeahâ, he said quietly. âI knowâ.
-
Pre-mission ritual: eat whateverâs left in the kitchen and pretend none of you might die in an hour.
You drifted toward the living room, just to stand, stretch your legs and shake off the briefing.
Hughie wandered with you, scrolling through his phone. âIâm just sayingâ, he was rambling, âif Vought did ever try to make a dating app, it would beââ. He dropped onto the couch. Onto that couch. The only one.
You froze mid-step.
He bounced once, settling back with a sigh. âOkay, this is⌠dampâ, he muttered. âWhy is this damp?â.
You could still see last night in your head if you let yourself: your knees braced there, his hand there, the wayâ Nope. Abort.
Ben, from the doorway, went very, very still.
Kimiko paused mid-bite on a piece of bagel, eyes flicking from Hughie to the cushions, then to you, then to Ben. Her nose scrunched faintly. Her gaze sharpened like sheâd just caught a whiff of something again.
ââŚprobably condensationâ, you blurted. âRadiatorâs weirdâ.
âThe radiatorâs across the roomâ, Hughie said, frowning. He patted the cushion, then sniffed his hand. âAnd it smells like someone spilled⌠I donât know. Something Funny?â.
You had to look away before you lost it, biting your cheek so hard you tasted blood. There was no universe where you were going to admit what really made that cushion damp. Especially not with Ben just inside the door, statue-still, watching the whole thing with that iron control that made you suspect he was just as close to losing it as you.
Hughieâs face twisted. âThis is definitely not waterâ, he said, then wiped his palm on his jeans. âGod, what did I just sit in?â.
Kimiko, whoâd been watching with hawk-like intensity, shrugged one shoulder and signed something quick at you when Hughie wasnât looking. You caught the gist: Your secret is safe. But ew.
You shot her a look equal parts gratitude and mortification.
Frenchie drifted in, pausing behind the couch. He leaned in, sniffed once, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. âAh, oui, that is⌠the scent of loveâ, he said, straight-faced, but with the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You made a strangled sound, barely keeping your water down. Ben looked like he wanted to throttle someone, maybe Hughie, maybe Frenchie, maybe himself.
Hughie got up fast, rubbing his hands together, clearly unsettled. âIâm gonna⌠yeah. Iâll just, uh, get a chairâ.
But he barely got up, when MMâs voice rang out from the kitchen. âLetâs go, people! Gear up or get left behindâ.
Butcher clapped his hands, ready to get moving. âIf anybody left bodily fluids on the furniture, youâre on cleanup dutyâ.
You felt your cheeks go red all over again. Ben looked straight ahead, a little smirk threatening to ruin his whole soldier-boy image.
Then you grabbed your vest and headed for the door, the chaos of the team swirling around you, everyone falling into old rhythms. You made a mental note: next time, not on the couch. Just⌠anywhere with a washable surface. Just⌠not the couch.
-
Gear-up always felt the same. Except it didnât feel the same. Not with Ben this close.
You were tightening the straps on your vest when his shadow fell over you. Benâs hand landed on the front buckle, his big fingers brushing yours aside like you were a kid trying to help in the garage.
âToo looseâ, he muttered, cinching it tighter. The motion pulled you a fraction toward him, your nose almost bumping his chest. âYou wanna keep your ribs or not?â.
You swallowed. âKinda attached, yeahâ.
He huffed and gave the strap one last firm tug, his knuckles grazing the side of your breast. If he noticed, he didnât let it show. His gaze stayed on the gear, not your face.
âStay behind me when we breachâ, he said, already shifting to check the side straps. âNo hero shitâ.
You rolled your eyes. âThatâs Kimikoâs departmentâ.
âAnd yours, latelyâ, he said, low. âCut it outâ.
You didnât get a chance to answer, cause MM called positions while Frenchie started humming something that was definitely not calming.
The target was another Vought satellite site. A nondescript office building with too much surveillance for the amount of âlegitimate businessâ going on. The plan was simple: Annie and Kimiko on heavy hitters, Frenchie and MM on cleanup and Hughie and Butcher running support and extraction.
You? Eyes, ears, and get-in-get-out through tight spaces. Normal.
Except you didnât get three steps from the van door before Ben was there, falling into stride at your side like it had been assigned.
You frowned. âYouâre supposed to be pointâ.
âI am pointâ, he said. âYouâre with meâ.
âThat wasnâtââ.
âNew planâ, he cut in. âCongratulations, youâve been upgraded to ânever leaving my fucking sightââ.
You shot him a look. âYou realize Iâm more useful when Iâm not welded to your shoulder, right?â.
âYouâre plenty useful right thereâ, he said. âI can see youâ.
âYou donât have toââ.
âI do, actuallyâ, he said. âTurns out I sleep better when youâre not bleeding out in a stairwellâ.
That shut you up.
You reached the side entrance. MM nodded at Ben. âYou take point, we stack behind. Y/N, youââ.
âWith meâ, Ben said automatically.
MMâs eyes flicked between you for a second. He filed that away, you could tell, but didnât comment. âFine. Just donât steamroll the rest of us⌠Captainâ.
âNo promisesâ, Ben muttered, but there was no real bite in it.
Inside, it was the usual.
You moved like you always did. The difference was him. Every time you ducked ahead to check a corner, his hand shot out, catching the back of your vest, the strap of your backpack or the crook of your elbow. Not yanking you back, just⌠reeling you in, keeping you within armâs reach.
âSlow the fuck downâ, he muttered the third time. âWalls arenât going anywhereâ.
âYou brought me for reconâ, you whispered. âYou want recon, you gotta let me get eyesâ.
âThen stay where I can see youâ, he said.
âYou can see me fineâ, you hissed. âSupe eyes, remember?â.
He grunted but didnât argue.
The deeper you got, the worse it became. Not the threat, no⌠his orbit.
When you boosted yourself into a ceiling panel to crawl across a blocked hallway, he paced directly underneath, shadow tracking your movement like he could catch you if you fell.
In the server room, while Frenchie and Annie argued about whose method of extraction was faster, you catched him watching you.
You raised an eyebrow. âYou know I can walk and not spontaneously combust, right?â.
âDebatableâ, he said. âYou bruise like fruitâ.
âYeah, well, youâreâŚâ, you gestured at all of him, âoverkillâ.
His mouth quirked. âGet used to itâ.
You wanted to say youâre being weird because of last night. You wanted to ask him if he was going to do this forever, if he expected you never to take a risk again just because heâd decided you were⌠his, aparently. You didnât.
Mostly because an alarm started blaring.
âTimeâs up!â, Butcher yelled. âFive minutes till this place fills with piss and vinegar. Move your arsesâ.
The sprint to the extraction point was a blur. You almost slipped on a step slick with something you didnât want to identify. You didnât hit the ground, because Benâs hand clamped around the back of your vest, hauling you upright so fast your feet left the concrete for half a second. âGot you".
âI had meâ, you shot back, breathless.
âNot the way I likeâ, he said.
You also didnât have a comeback for that.
By the time you piled back into the van, your lungs burning and ears ringing, you were wired and wrung out in equal measure. Frenchie flopped dramatically, Hughie tried not to hurl, Annie leaned her head back against the metal with her eyes closed. You slid into your usual spot. Ben sat beside you this time. Not across. Not near the door. Right there, his knee touching yours when the van lurched.
You stared at him for a second. âYou know if you baby me on every mission now, theyâre gonna noticeâ, you murmured only for him too hear.
âLet âemâ, he grunted, not looking at you, staring straight ahead. âThey can be annoyed youâre alive. I donât careâ.
âIt canât always be like thisâ, you said. âYou canât always throw yourself in front of every bulletâ.
He finally turned his head, his eyes finding yours. âWatch meâ.
Your heart did that annoying, traitorous stutter. You bumped his shoulder lightly with yours. âYouâre impossibleâ.
He smirked, just a little. âYou picked meâ.
You hated how much that made you want to smile.
So you did. Just a bit. Only for him.
-
The day dragged endless after the mission. Debrief, patch-up, and pizza boxes scattered across the kitchen while Butcher threatening to kill Frenchie if he sang another word. By evening, everyone peeled off.
You were wiping down the counter, mind already drifting toward a hot shower and maybe a half-hearted attempt at sleep, when you realized Ben wasnât in the kitchen anymore.
You found him by the door, suit still filthy, splattered with someone elseâs blood. He was holding up your jacket, dangling it by the collar like he expected you to snatch it out of his hand.
âCâmonâ, he said, voice rough. âLetâs goâ.
You blinked, your hands pausing over the dish towel. âGo where?â.
He rolled his eyes. âIâm not gonna fuck you on that couch againâ. He jerked his chin at the living room, mouth twisting in disgust. âItâs officially haunted. You come with meâ.
You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. âWhat, you got a hotel room now?â.
He snorted but looking personally offended. âWhat, you think Iâve been jerking off in broom closets this whole time?â. He shook your jacket a little. âI got an apartmentâ.
You stared. âSince when?â.
âSince I decided I was sick of waking up with Frenchieâs fucking socks on my faceâ, he muttered. âYou coming or you wanna keep arguing semantics in a kitchen that smells like old ass?â.
You hesitated. âYou⌠never said anythingâ.
âDidnât know I had to send out a change-of-address cardâ, he said. âCâmon, kidââ, he caught himself, jaw tightening, ââY/N. Before change my mindâ.
You stepped closer, grabbing the jacket from his hand. âFine. But if this is a Craigslist murder situation, Iâm haunting youâ.
He rolled his eyes, but you saw the quick, satisfied flicker in his expression when you shrugged the jacket on. âIf I was gonna kill youâ, he said, opening the door, âIâd have done it with my dick buried deep inside you, sweetheartâ.
âWowâ, you muttered, following him into the hallway. âReassuringâ.
You fell into step beside him automatically, your shoulder brushing his arm as you headed down the stairs. âSoâ, you said, âwhere is this very real, definitely-not-fake apartment?â.
âCouple blocks overâ, he said. âWalkable. Iâm very urban now. Fit right inâ. He gestured vaguely at himself; bloody suit, battered shield and dried gore. âNobody looks twiceâ.
You huffed a laugh. âThatâs the worrying partâ.
The walk didnât take long. He kept you on the inside of the sidewalk, between him and the buildings, like it was instinct. Again you didnât comment on it.
The apartment building he led you to was old brick. The kind of place with more locks than is strictly legal and a lobby that smelled faintly of cigarettes and pine cleaner. He punched in a code, then used an actual key on the inner door.
âWowâ, you said as you stepped into the stairwell. âKeys and a code? Somebodyâs paranoidâ.
He glanced back at you over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching. âYepâ. Him. He was paranoid.
The door to his place had three separate locks. He went through them fast, muscle memory, then shouldered it open so you could go in first.
You stepped into⌠a box. But a lived-in box.
Small living room with an old couch (mercifully less cursed than the safe house one), battered coffee table, TV on a crate. A kitchenette with exactly one pan on the stove and a dish rack full of mismatched mugs and a pair of heavy boots by the door.
You toed off your shoes automatically. âHuhâ.
âThat bad?â, he asked, shutting the door behind you. You heard the locks slide home in quick succession.
âNoâ, you said. âItâs⌠youâ.
âMeaning itâs ugly and functional and probably smells like bloodâ.
You sniffed. âAnd weedâ.
He snorted, moving past you toward the bathroom. âShowerâs this way. Youâre bleeding on my floorâ.
You looked down. A thin line of dried red trailed from a scrape on your arm youâd forgotten about. âThatâs your bloodâ, you said.
âDoesnât matterâ, he called back. âItâs still rudeâ.
You followed him but pausing in the bathroom doorway. He stared at himself in the mirror for half a second, then started stripping the armor off, dropping pieces into the tub for later.
âGoâ, he jerked his chin toward the shower. âGet the worst of it off. Iâll order food before you pass outâ.
âYou should shower firstâ, you said. âYou look like a crime sceneâ.
âIâll be right behind yaâ, he said, already digging his phone out of a pocket, thumb flying over the screen. Clearly knowing his way with his phone by now. He shot you a quick wink, like this was just another night and not⌠whatever it was.
You rolled your eyes, but your stomach did that annoying little flip anyway. So you turned on the water, got undressed and stepped under the spray. You braced your hands on the tile, letting it run over your neck, your back and your bruised shoulders.
Muffled through the door, you caught fragments of his voice until the bathroom door squeaked open behind you and a little chill slipped in with the draft. Youâd just started rinsing the shampoo from your hair when you felt Benâs presence. Unmistakable, big and solid, blocking half the light as he pulled the curtain aside and stepped in behind you.
He didnât say anything at first. Just reached past you for the soap, his shoulder brushing yours. His body crowded the tiny space, filling it like he belonged there.
âMove overâ, he grumbled, nudging you with his body. âI need waterâ.
You huffed a laugh and made room, pretending you werenât suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of skin he might see.
You risked a glance at him, at his hair pushed back, jaw shadowed, green eyes half-lidded and unreadable. âThought you said youâd be behind meâ, you said, tone teasing.
He snorted. âDidnât say how close. Sâmy shower. Besidesââ, he caught your chin lightly, tilting your face up, ââcanât let you use all the hot waterâ.
His touch lingered a second longer than necessary, his thumb traced your jaw, before he kissed you. Firm and sure, with nothing hesitant about it. The kind of kiss that said mine.
Your back hit the cool tile, steam curling around your shoulders, and you felt his arm slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He cradled your smaller body against his like it was the most natural thing in the world, while the water was beating down over both of you, slicking your skin. His other hand threaded into your hair, tilting your head up so he could kiss you even deeper, tongue coaxing yours until your knees went soft. You pressed closer, arms coming up around his neck, fingers tangling in the damp hair at his nape. He made a low, satisfied sound in his chest and nipped your bottom lip, just enough to make you gasp and him grin.
He broke the kiss only when you both needed air, resting his forehead against yours, noses brushing. His hand stayed firm at your back, holding you in the small space between his body and the wall. âYeahâ, he murmured, voice roughened by more than just the water, âthis is definitely better than that fucking couchâ.
-
You barely left Benâs apartment the next few days. It was like the world shrank down to the four battered walls, the thud of rain against the window and the constant weight of him beside you⌠above you, behind you or everywhere you turned.
When Butcher called, Ben answered on speaker, with his voice low and unbothered. âIâm occupiedâ. No explanation. No room for negotiation.
You echoed the same to Annieâs texts, not bothering to add a lie. âTaking time offâ, you typed and left it at that.
No one pushed. Maybe they knew better. Maybe they didnât want to know.
In the quiet, Ben was⌠relentless. Sometimes teasing, sometimes rough, sometimes slow enough to make you ache, but always there, always in control until you were boneless and shaking under his hands.
He kept you close, only letting you leave the bed for food or water or the rare, shared shower; though half the time, that just meant you ended up right back where you started, dripping and tangled together in the sheets.
You learned every inch of his body, his scars and his freckles. The map of his shoulders and the way his mouth found places you didnât even know could feel that good. He made you come until you forgot your own name, until you had no idea if it was day or night, until youâd lost count of how many times youâd begged for more.
He wasnât gentle all the time, but he was always careful. Even when he had you on your knees, hands braced against the mattress, hips snapping into you hard enough to make the headboard crack the wall, he never let you forget that you could stop him with a word.
You never wanted to.
Sometimes heâd flip you onto your back and fold you in half, fucking you so deep and slow that tears spilled down your cheeks and you clung to his biceps for dear life. Other times heâd pull you into his lap, let you ride him at your own pace with his hands locked on your hips and his mouth trailing lazy bites down your throat while muttering filth in your ear until you came apart all over again.
He liked to see how far he could push you, how many times he could make you shake and cry out, and when you went limp and overstimulated, heâd hold you close, lips soft against your temple with his hand rubbing slow circles down your spine.
Between it all, you slept curled up together, his arms wrapped tight around you, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
In those quiet moments, with his thumb tracing circles over your skin and his breath warm in your hair, you understood what it meant to feel safe for the first time in your life.
He didnât say much about it, but every look and every possessive grip on your hip when you shifted too far away told you everything you needed to know.
-
You were draped over him like youâd melted there. Your skin was still warm, limbs loose and your cheek pressed against his chest. His heartbeat thudded slow and heavy under your ear, the rise and fall of his ribs gently rocking you without either of you moving much.
The room was dark. The only light came from the streetlamp sneaking past the blinds. The sheets were twisted around your legs and the air humid with leftover heat and the faint tang of sweat and detergent.
Ben had one arm hooked under your shoulders and the other resting on his stomach with a blunt pinched between two fingers. He took a slow drag, the tip flaring orange, then exhaled toward the ceiling. The smoke curled lazy before disappearing into the shadows. You watched it, eyes half-lidded.
âWhatâre you thinking about?â, he asked eventually, voice low and rough, vibrating through your cheek.
You hesitated. âYou really wanna know?â.
He snorted softly. âIf I didnât, I wouldnât ask. Iâd turn the TV on and ignore youâ.
You huffed a tiny laugh, fingers tracing idle patterns over his ribs. âOkay, thenâ. You let your mind drift, the words unspooling easier than you expected. âI was thinking about⌠leavingâ, you said quietly. âNot now. Just⌠somedayâ.
His chest tightened under your hand, just a fraction. âLeaving what? The team?â.
âNew Yorkâ, you said. âThe country. All of itâ. He went still.
You kept talking, eyes on the ceiling. âLike⌠actually seeing stuff, you know? Not just flying past it or blowing it up. Other countries. Different cities. Hotels that donât have bloodstains under the bed. Places where Vought isnât stamped on every screenâ.
Ben took another drag, slower this time. The ember lit his jaw for a second.
âWhere would you go?â, he asked.
You shrugged against him. âI donât know. Paris, maybe. Just to piss Frenchie off by going without him. Some tiny village in Italy where nobody has a phone. Japan. I wanna see Tokyo at night. And somewhere stupid and touristy, like those beaches where the waterâs stupidly blue and people get drunk on overpriced cocktailsâ.
He hummed. âYou in a little bikini, drinking something with an umbrella in itâ.
Heat crawled up your neck. âThatâs not the only partâ.
âDidnât say it wasâ, he said. âJust saying I can picture itâ.
You hid your face a little more against him. âMostly I just⌠wanna know what itâs like to exist somewhere without constantly checking exits. Without thinking about where Iâm gonna sleep that night. Without wondering if a supeâs gonna come through the wall while I brush my teethâ.
His hand, resting on your shoulder, tightened just a little. âYeahâ, he said quietly. âCan see the appealâ.
âWhat about you?â, you asked, tilting your head enough to look up at him. âIf you could do anything. Be anywhereâ.
He didnât answer right away. You watched his eyes go distant, unfocused, like he was looking at something only he could see on the cracked ceiling.
âNot a lot of places in the world that want a walking weapon with a bad attitudeâ, he said after a moment.
âThatâs not what I askedâ, you said softly.
He took one last drag from the blunt, then reached over to crush it out in the ashtray on the nightstand. His chest rose and fell under your hand, heavier now. He stared at the ceiling another beat, then blew out a breath.
âUsed to think about a houseâ, he said finally. âBack when I was still playing hero for cameras. Some little place with a yard. Maybe a dog. Neighbors who didnât know what I could do. Just thought I was some guy who got up too early and drank too much coffeeâ.
You tried to imagine itâŚ. Ben in a normal house, picking up mail, yelling at a lawnmower. Weirdly, it⌠fit.
âAnd kidsâ, he added, almost offhand.
Your heart clenched. âYou⌠wanted kids?â, you asked.
He kept his eyes on the ceiling. âDidnât think about it much at first. Too busy being carted around like a prop. But later⌠yeah. Kinda didâ. His mouth twisted. âDidnât find out till way down the line it wasnât on the menuâ.
You were quiet. "There something in the V?â, you asked carefully.
He huffed a humorless laugh. âYeah. Turns out when they rebuild you from the inside out, they donât give a damn if you can make rugrats after. Useless side-feature. They wanted soldiers, not⌠dadsâ.
âYou ever⌠try?â, you asked, then winced. âSorry, thatâsââ.
âItâs fineâ, he said. âNo. Not really. Too many contracts, too much travel. Plenty of women, sure, butâŚâ, he shrugged under you. âNever the right⌠setup, I guess. And by the time I thought maybe Iâd want to actually know some kid with my eyes, it was a moot pointâ.
You studied his profile for a moment.
âYou still think about it?â, you asked quietly.
He was silent for a long moment.
âSometimesâ, he said. âI see some idiot yelling at his kid in a grocery store because they knocked over cereal, and I think, âYou have no idea how easy youâve got itââ. His voice went rougher. âIf Iâd ever had something like that, I⌠probably wouldâve ruined it. But I still think about itâ.
You shifted up a little, propping your chin on his chest so you could see his face. âYou wouldnât have ruined itâ.
He gave you a look like youâd said the most ridiculous thing in the world. âSweetheart, I can blow up buildings by sneezing wrong. I am not exactly father of the year materialâ.
âYouâre better than you thinkâ, you said. âYou already take care of a bunch of idiots who never listen and constantly try to hurt themselvesâ.
âThatâs differentâ, he said.
âIs it?â, you asked. âYou yell, you protect, you show up. Thatâs more than mostâ.
He didnât answer that. Just stared at the ceiling again, jaw working.
You hesitated, then laid your cheek back over his heart, wrapping your arm a little tighter around his waist. âFor what itâs worthâ, you murmured, âyou donât have to actually share DNA with someone to be⌠that. To be familyâ.
âYeahâ, he said, after a beat. âSo they tell meâ.
You swallowed. âAnd if I ever⌠I donât know. End up with that⌠stupid little house somewhere, and a kid who knocks over cerealââ. You felt your throat get tight. âIâd still want you thereâ.
His hand slid up from your shoulder to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you a little closer.
âYeah?â, he said quietly. âYouâd let the walking war crime near your hypothetical future spawn?â.
You smiled against his skin. âPlease. Youâd be the one teaching them how to swear properlyâ.
He snorted, a genuine sound, his chest rumbling under your ear. âDamn rightâ.
You lay there in the quiet after that, with the smoke fading from the air and the night sounds of the city filtering in through the window.
âYou know none of this is guaranteed, right?â, he said eventually, voice soft. âYou, me, the next mission. Any of itâ.
âI know,â you said. âThatâs why we get to want stuff anywayâ.
He was quiet. Then: âYou really wanna see Tokyo?â.
âYeahâ, you said. âAnd Italy. And that stupid blue waterâ.
âMaybeâ, he said slowly, âwhen weâre done blowing holes in the worst of âem⌠we take a tripâ.
Your heart gave a stupid leap. âWe?â.
He shifted, just enough that his lips brushed your hair. âYou think Iâm letting you wander around foreign countries alone?â, he muttered. âYouâd trip into a dictatorâs bunkerâ.
You laughed, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, even though you hadnât realized theyâd gotten damp. âYou planning on terrifying customs everywhere we go?â.
He smirked. âGotta have hobbiesâ.
You closed your eyes, listening to the steady beat under your cheek, the rough comfort in his voice and the ridiculous, terrifying hope curling up inside your chest. You didnât know what tomorrow would look like. Next month. Next year. But right now, in that too-small bed in that too-small apartment and with his hand in your hair, you let yourself want it anyway.
Summary: Working with the Boys was already dangerous enough before you met Soldier Boy. But somewhere between gunfights, safe houses and near-death missions, the line between protecting each other and wanting each other starts getting dangerously blurred.
-requested-
(prequel to "Fucking Brats") But you can totally read both stories on their own)
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The last few days felt like someone had tightened every wire in the safe house and just walked away.
Nothing changed on the surface. You and Ben still bickered over who got the âgoodâ side of the couch. He still checked the locks three times before sitting. You still flung your blanket over both of you and pretended it was about warmth, not proximity. He pretended to grumble, but he always let you.
But under all of it, something was alive. A kind of static that prickled every time you got too close, every time he looked at you just a second too long.
It was in the way your knees touched when you crowded together at the table to look at maps, the way heâd lean over your shoulder and drop his hand to your back to steady you. Never quite at your waist, never moving, but lingering just long enough that you felt it the rest of the night.
It was in the late evenings, too, the ones that stretched longer as your birthday crept closer. Youâd curl up beside him, your head tipped to his shoulder while the flicker of a silent TV was throwing shadows over the room. He never pulled away. But he never gave you more, either.
Every night, you felt his restraint. His hand, heavy on the back of the couch, just inches from your shoulder, sometimes brushing your hair when you shifted. His eyes on the wall when you crossed the room in a top too short, his face unreadable but ears red in the lamp light.
Once, he made you laugh so hard you spilled water on your shirt and had to pull it away from your chest. You caught him looking before he caught himself, jaw flexing, eyes snapping up to the ceiling. For one wild second, neither of you moved. Then you dragged the blanket higher, and he exhaled, ragged, and muttered something about âfucking women and their see-through laundryâ.
You played chicken with the boundary, and so did he.
Heâd linger around while you brushed your teeth, passing behind you, so close you could feel the heat off his skin. When you looked up, youâd catch him in the mirror watching, just for a heartbeat, then looking away, his reflection tight with want and regret in equal measure.
The tension coiled tighter every day. Every touch, every laugh, every joke that slid a little too close to the edge.
You tested the line, but never crossed it. Not quite.
Youâd walk around in your sleep shirt with bare legs and feel his gaze skate down, always stopping at your face. His eyes would linger and his hands flexing at his sides. The air between you would go thick and heavy and neither of you would move. And you learned to live in that moment with your heart pounding, skin prickling and the ache of wanting to close that last bit of distance.
One night, on the couch, you shifted in your sleep. Rolled right over and ended up with your head on his chest, your arm over his stomach, half on top of him. You woke to the sound of his heart, pounding hard and steady. He was awake, stiff under you, breathing careful. He didnât move until he realized you were awake, and then he gently eased you off with his jaw clenched.
You both pretended it never happened.
Another night, he brushed a strand of hair from your face while you sat on the floor between his knees, patching up his sweats. His touch was light, almost reverent. You held his gaze, daring him to say something. He didnât. Just swallowed hard, knuckles going white, and changed the subject.
You were both careful, always careful, always circling the line but never crossing it.
And somehow, every night, he ended up right beside you. Sometimes just sharing warmth, sometimes brushing fingers with yours on accident, sometimes sitting so close the air between you pulsed with things neither of you would name.
Every day, the air got heavier. Every night, the space between your bodies got smaller.
And every morning, you both woke up just on the safe side of the line.
But it was close. So close you could taste it.
-
The night before your birthday, the city felt like it was holding its breath. Rain slicked the streets in a thin, dirty sheen. The warehouse Vought had âdefinitelyâ cleared months ago loomed ahead. You adjusted the earpiece, the cool drizzle sneaking down the back of your neck. Your hip twinged under the straps of your vest, old pain, mostly healed. You were wired, jumpy like always, but not scared. Not with him out front.
âAlright, cuntsâ, Butcher muttered into coms. âIn, out, no souvenirs. We grab the drives, blow the toys, go homeâ.
âDefine âtoysââ, Frenchie whispered, fingers twitching at the explosive charges in his bag.
âThe sort that go boom without consentâ, Butcher said. âY/N, you ready?â.
You were perched on a rusted fire escape across the alley, tucked into shadow like you were born there. From here you could see the loading dock, the side door, and a slice of the street. âEyes up, finger on the panic buttonâ, you murmured back. âWeâre goodâ.
âSoldier Boyâ, MM said, âyouâre point. Try not to redecorate the blockâ.
âCanât make promisesâ, came his low reply.
He stepped into your line of sight then, out of the deeper dark of the alley. No henley tonight. Full suit, full Soldier Boy.
Whatever Ben was in the living room, whatever he was on the couch, dropped away when he moved like this.
His whole body changed. His stance widened. His shoulders squared. It was like someone had thrown a switch and all the softness, all the restraint, got stripped down to a single, ugly, effective core: the thing Vought built and the war never finished using.
âOn my mark", MM said.
You watched the two security goons at the loading bay pace their lazy little pattern, rifles slung, bored, hoods up against the drizzle. One lit a cigarette, cupping his hand.
âNowâ, you murmured.
âNowâ, MM echoed.
You didnât see Ben move so much as start, and then he was there at the edge of the dock. One smooth, heavy burst of motion you barely tracked.
The first guard had half a second to look surprised before the shield caught him center mass. Youâd seen him throw it before. Youâd never get used to it.
Whatever Vought had cooked up, caught the light as it left his hand in a blur. It hit the guy so hard his body left the ground, a sickening crunch accompanying the smear of blood as he went down.
The second guard shouted, fumbling for his gun. Ben stepped in, grabbed the guy by the vest, and slammed him into the metal shutter hard enough to dent it. His other fist crashed into the guyâs jaw.
You flinched. He didnât.
The body sagged. Ben let it slide down the door, hitting the dock with a lifeless thud.
âDockâs clearâ, you said into the com. âNo cameras turned this wayâ.
âCopyâ, MM replied. âMoveâ.
The side door burst open under Kimikoâs boot a heartbeat later. She flowed inside, Annie slipped in after her. Frenchie and MM followed.
You tracked the perimeter.
Outside, Ben stood over the two bodies for a second, breathing slow and easy, like heâd just taken out trash. He reached down, grabbed one of the guards by the collar, and dragged him to the edge of the dock so his boots didnât show from the street.
Your gut twisted in that familiar, bitter mix of horror and admiration.
âGround floorâs got three moreâ, MMâs voice came through, low. âTwo at the lab door, one roamingâ.
âSend the touristâ, Butcher said. âHe likes an audienceâ.
âOn my wayâ, Ben muttered. He headed inside. The second he disappeared, the world felt dimmer. Less anchored.
You scanned the alley again, fighting the urge to keep your eyes glued to the doorway just to know where he was.
âY/Nâ, Annieâs voice crackled softly in your ear, breath slightly winded. âAny outside movement?â.
You exhaled slowly. âAll quiet. Whole blockâs asleep or pretending to beâ.
âWish I couldâ, Hughie muttered from his station by the van.
There was shouting over the coms then, the muffled thud of conflict, Kimikoâs low growl, Butcherâs sharp curses, MMâs precise commands.
And underneath it all, you heard him. His shield connecting with something not built to handle it. A body slamming into a wall. The cracking of bone. A man yelling cut off in the middle, air knocked out of him.
Youâd learned to read fights by sound. What you heard now was ugly.
âShitâ, Frenchie breathed. âHe is enjoying this too much, oui?â.
âLong as the right people are on the receiving endâ, MM grunted, âhe can sing show tunes for all I careâ.
âShow tunes?â, Ben scoffed a little breathless. âI was fucking USO, not fucking Broadwayâ.
âAnd yet youâre so dramaticâ, you muttered under your breath.
âY/N, status?â, Butcher barked.
You scanned automatically.
âStill goodâ, you said. âClockâs ticking but no party guests yetâ.
âKeep it that wayâ, MM said.
You heard the lab door finally give, Kimikoâs satisfied grunt followed by a guardâs choked cry.
âGot your drivesâ, Frenchie called. âMon dieu, look at all thisââ.
âGrab what we came forâ, MM said. âBlow the restâ.
You adjusted your angle, peering down into the alley. The rain had picked up, turning into a fine curtain. Movement snagged the corner of your eye. Not from the street. From the roof. You almost missed a shadow detaching from the edge of the building across the alley, the faint gleam of metal under a dark tarp.
âHoldâ, you snapped. âWe got a friend up highâopposite roof, alley side, looks like a rifle nestâ.
âCopyâ, MM said immediately. âSoldier Boy?â.
âOn itâ, came the reply.
You shifted, climbing higher on the fire escape to get a cleaner line of sight. The sniper wasnât moving yet, focused on the loading bay. Waiting for someone to walk out into his crosshairs.
âCan you hit him from there?â, Hughie asked.
You sighted down the alley. Too far for a clean pistol shot. Too many angles. âNot without a miracleâ.
âLucky for youâ, Butcher drawled, âwe brought oneâ.
Ben stepped out of the warehouse just then, shield on his arm, rain beading on the metal. He moved with purpose, no ducking and sure no hesitation, straight into the open, exactly where the sniper wanted him.
âBenââ, you hissed.
âTrust meâ, he said.
You could almost feel the sniperâs delight from across the gap. The barrel shifted, tracking that big, obvious target. You saw the faint puff of his breath in the cold air as he settled in. You heard the crack of the shot a split second before it happened. Time stuttered. Ben turned with that preternatural awareness, shield snapping up in a blur. The bullet hit dead center with a sharp ping, ricocheting off into the night. In the same motion, he planted his foot, body twisting. His arm whipped forward.
You knew what was coming.
The shield left his hand and climbed. He didnât aim for the guy. Not directly. He aimed for the lip of the sniperâs perch. The edge of the shield caught it perfectly, metal on concrete, a brutal, ringing impact that knocked the rifle sideways and, more importantly, took the sniperâs support with it. The man on the roof flailed. The tarp slid. Then he vanished over the edge.
You winced as he hit the far side of the dumpster with a sickening crunch before rolling onto the pavement. He didnât move again.
âSniper downâ, you said, voice steady even as your stomach lurched. âHeâs not getting back upâ.
âAlright, kids, time to goâ, Butcher said. âFront team, out. Y/N, you see anyone coming, you scream in our earsâ.
âAlready on itâ, you said.
They filed out fast.
âEveryone clear?â, Frenchie called.
You swept the street one more time. âAll clear. Vanâs path is openâ.
âThen letâs make some fireworksâ, Butcher said.
They piled into the van, doors slamming. Frenchie hit the detonator with a little too much joy. The explosion punched the air out of your lungs even from your vantage point. The warehouse windows blew outward in a shower of glass and fire. Heat washed over the alley, the shockwave rattling the metal of the fire escape under your feet. You watched the building belch flame, orange against the wet night, and felt that familiar, twisted satisfaction. One less Vought hidey-hole. One more nest turned into ash.
As the van opened, Ben didnât get in. He stayed where he was in the street, watching the fire eat the insides of the building through shattered windows.
You saw him in profile from across the alley, his jaw set, eyes reflecting the blaze. He looked like he belonged there. War made flesh. A weapon basking in the ruin it helped create.
âSolider Boyâ, MMâs voice crackled. âYou riding with us or you gonna take the scenic route?â.
He lifted the com to his mouth, still watching the flames. âGo. Iâll meet you at the houseâ.
âCopyâ, MM said. âTry not to level any more city blocks on your strollâ. Ben just huffed.
You watched him one more second, silhouetted against chaos, then started down the fire escape to meet him. The metal rattled under your steps, rain spitting your face.
When you hit the ground, he was already there at the mouth of the alley, waiting for you.
âYou alright?â, he asked, scanning you quick. Up, down, hip, hands, eyes.
âYeahâ, you said. âYou?â.
He rolled his shoulder, the armor shifting with the motion. âDay at the officeâ.
You fell into step beside him, the two of you walking away from the burning building as sirens finally began to wail in the distance.
âYou didnât have to stayâ, you said.
âNot leaving you alone near a fresh crime sceneâ, he said. âCops show, you look like youâre twelve. Theyâd eat you aliveâ.
âIâm almost eighteenâ, you reminded him.
He shot you a look, half incredulous, half something else. âNot yet, youâre notâ.
The words landed heavy. Less than an hour now.
You walked in silence for a block, your shoulder brushing his arm whenever you drifted.
âYou liked thatâ, you said finally, nodding back the way youâd come.
âWhatâ, he said. âThe part where I didnât get fucking killed? Yeah. Big fanâ.
âThe sniperâ, you said. âThe way you threw the shield. The look on your face afterâ.
He was quiet a long moment. The rain softened to a mist, clinging to his hair, beading on the stubble at his jaw. âThat what you see?â, he asked low. âMe enjoying it?â.
You thought about it. The brutal efficiency. The lack of hesitation. The almost casual way heâd collapsed a manâs chest with a throw and not looked back. âYesâ, you said honestly. âBut not just thatâ.
His brows lifted a fraction. âYeah?â.
âYou looked like you knew exactly what you wereâ, you said. âAnd you werenât pretending otherwiseâ.
He made a noise in his chest, something between a scoff and a tired laugh. âLot of people got paid a lot of money to pretend I was something elseâ.
âMaybe thatâs why I believe you more nowâ, you said. âWhen youâre like thatâ.
He glanced down at you, sideways, with rain-dark lashes low over his eyes. âAnd youâre still not scaredâ.
You swallowed. âI didnât say thatâ.
He stopped walking. You did too, heart thumping.
âAre you?â, he asked.
You met his eyes. The streetlamp above you hummed faintly. âIâm scared of what you do to other peopleâ, you said. âIâm scared of what theyâll turn you loose on next. Iâm scared youâll blow and take half the city with youâ. He watched you. âBut you?â, you added quieter. âNo. Iâm not scared of youâ.
Something in his face broke at that. Just a crack. A line down the middle of the soldier, showing the man underneath.
âIdiotâ, he said softly.
âYeah, wellâ, you murmured, âtakes one to know oneâ.
He huffed. âCome on. Before the cops decide to ask why Captain America is walking away from a bonfireâ.
âSeriouslyâ, you said, falling into step again, âwe have got to get you a new reference point. Youâre a cultural blind spotâ.
âI donât speak TokTokâ, he said. âSue meâ.
You laughed, and his mouth twitched, just a little.
-
By the time you climbed the stairs to the safe house, the sirens were distant, and your adrenaline had gone from a roar to a buzz under your skin. You still felt keyed up, shaky in that post-mission way where you were too wired to sit and too tired to run. You fumbled with the keys, leading Ben took them gently from your hand, unlocking the door with an ease born of repetition.
Inside, everything was as youâd left it. Blankets a mess on the couch, your mug upside down in the drying rack, MMâs notes scattered on the table.
Home. The closest thing you had to it.
You kicked off your shoes, socks squelching faintly. âBathroom firstâ, you said.
âYeahâ, he said. âMake sure you didnât spring a fucking leakâ.
You rolled your eyes, but your hip did ache. You disappeared into the bathroom, this time locking the door until you heard him move away down the hall.
A few minutes later, changed into your sleep shirt, you stepped back into the living room.
Ben had shed the suit. It lay draped over a chair in heavy green pieces, straps and plates looking weirdly vulnerable off his body. He was back in the henley and sweatpants.
You checked the clock on the microwave.
23:41.
Your heart did a weird, clumsy skip.
You moved automatically toward the couch. He did too. You met in the narrow gap between coffee table and cushions, closer than usual. For a second, nobody stepped aside. You could feel his breath on your face, warm, laced with the ghost of smoke and rain.
His fingers brushed your hip as he shifted. Barely a touch.
âGo aheadâ, he said, voice low. âIâll grab waterâ.
You nodded, throat too tight for something smart. You sat. He brought you a glass first, then one for himself, and dropped into his usual spot beside you. The couch dipped. You tilted toward him, shoulders touching. On the TV, some late-night rerun flickered and neither of you looked at it.
âStill good?â, he asked after a minute. âHead, hip, all that?â.
âYeahâ, you said. âJust⌠loudâ.
âIn here?â, he asked, tapping two fingers lightly against your temple.
You nodded.
He made a thoughtful sound, then said, âDo me a favorâ.
âThat dependsâ, you said. âLast time you said that I ended up crawling through a vent full of spider corpsesâ.
âThis oneâs easierâ, he said.
âClose your eyesâ.
You hesitated. âYouâre not gonna, like, draw a dick on my forehead, are you?â.
He snorted. âWhere the hell would I get a marker?â.
âFrenchieâ, you said immediately.
âJust close your eyes, smartassâ.
You did, letting your head rest against the back of the couch. The inside of your eyelids was red from the TV glow. âNow what?â, you murmured.
âListenâ, he said.
âTo what?â.
âMeâ, he said. âFor onceâ.
You rolled your eyes under closed lids, but your mouth flickered up at one corner. âFine. Iâm listeningâ.
His voice came, low and steady, in that cadence youâd started to recognize when he wanted you calm without admitting he was trying. âCount your breathsâ, he said. âIn on one, out on two. Donât rush it. Just keep score in your headâ.
âOkay, grandpa meditationâ, you muttered. He ignored that and you focused anyway. Inhale, exhale. His shoulder was a solid line of heat against yours. His thigh was a steady presence along the outside of your leg.
âEvery time your brain starts re-running tonightâ, he said, âor last week, or whatever horror show it wants to throw at you, you drag it back to the numbers. Got it?â.
âIâm not a dogâ, you murmured.
âThen stop letting your head walk youâ, he said.
You snorted a laugh, breath catching, breaking the count. You started again. One. Two. One. Two. Your body slowly let go. Shoulders unlocking. Hands easing. The world shrinking to this: couch, blanket, his heat, the sound of his breathing just out of sync with yours.
You cracked an eye open at one point, curiosity getting the better of you.
The microwave clock glowed back at you across the room.
23:58.
Two minutes. You swallowed. You turned your head, just a little. He was watching the TV, or pretending to, jaw shadowed, eyes picks up flickers of light.
âBen?â, you said.
He hummed without looking over.
âWhat happensâ, you asked quietly, âwhen itâs not seventeen anymore?â.
He didnât answer right away. The clock monopolized the corner of your vision.
23:59.
He finally turned his head. In the weak light of the TV, his eyes looked darker, greener, something caught there you hadnât seen before, or maybe youâd just refused to name.
âDonât know yetâ, he said, voice low. âAsk me in a minuteâ.
Your heart hammered. You watched the red digits flick, slow and inevitable.
23:59.
Still not eighteen. Still not legal. Not yet.
The red digits blinked.
23:59.
23:59.
00:00.
The shift was so small it almost didnât feel real. Just two little numbers rolling over on a cheap microwave clock. No fanfare. No fireworks. But you felt it. Like a wire inside you snapped taut and then⌠eased. You exhaled without meaning to, a tiny breath you didnât know youâd been holding for weeks.
âBenâ, you said.
âYeahâ, he murmured.
âMinute´s up".
His jaw clenched. He didnât say anything right away. Just sat there, shoulders tense and eyes on the clock like it might change its mind and flip back.
You shifted, turning on the couch to face him fully, one knee folding up between you. The blanket slid with you, pooling around your hips, the soft fabric brushing his thigh. âSay itâ, you murmured.
His gaze snapped back to you. âSay what?â.
âHow old am I?â, you asked.
He stared another second, like he was waiting for some last-minute reprieve. When it didnât come, he swallowed. âEighteenâ, he said.
You felt it all the way down your spine. You smiled, small and a little nervous. âAgainâ.
He huffed, but it came out rough. âYouâre eighteenâ.
âOnce more, for the people in the backâ.
He rolled his eyes, but the tension in his face didnât ease. âYouâre eighteenâ.
The number hung between you, heavier than youâd expected. It wasnât magic. It didnât erase the mess or the blood or everything youâd done before you were âold enoughâ.
But it was a line. And youâd just stepped over it.
You could hear his breathing. You could hear your own, shallow and quick.
âOkayâ, you said softly. âSo⌠what happens now? You promised I could askâ.
He watched you, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring. One hand flexed on his knee, the tendons in his forearm standing out under the henley.
âCarefulâ, he said. âYou might not like the answerâ.
Your heart tripped. âThen give me a different oneâ.
He huffed something that wasnât quite a laugh. His eyes dropped to your mouth again, more deliberate this time. They stayed there a beat, then climbed back up, searching your face like he was looking for a way out and finding none. âYou sure you know what youâre doing?â, he asked quietly.
You leaned in just a little, close enough to smell him. Close enough that if either of you moved another inch, your noses might bump.
âNoâ, you admitted. âNot reallyâ. You saw the flicker in his eyes at that. Hurt and maybe fear, want, all tangled up. âBut I know who Iâm askingâ, you added. âAnd thatâs the part Iâm sure aboutâ.
His throat bobbed. Your fingers had curled in the blanket without you noticing. You forced them to unclench, let one hand creep out, resting on his forearm where his sleeve was pushed up. His skin was hot under your palm, the muscle there hard as steel. You felt him go very, very still.
âBenâ, you said softly. âLook at meâ.
He already was, but something in his gaze shifted when you said it. Like he stopped fighting that part, at least.
You held his eyes. âDo you want me?â.
There it was. No joke. No dodge. For a heartbeat, you thought he might lie. Then his mouth twisted, and the truth slipped out, wrecked and raw. âYou have no idea how muchâ.
Your pulse kicked.
âThen why are you still over there?â, you whispered.
His jaw clenched. âBecause wanting you and being good for you are not the same thingâ.
âNewsflashâ, you said, your voice shaking but steady enough, âI never asked you to be goodâ.
That pulled a hoarse sound out of him, halfway between a laugh and a curse. His hand lifted, like he was reaching for you, then stopped halfway, fingers hovering near your jaw. His fingers flexing once before he dragged them back through his hair instead, rough and frustrated. âIâm notâŚâ. He broke off, jaw working. âIâm not that man, alright?â.
You frowned. âWhat man?â.
âYour age, âboyfriendâ means⌠flowers, stupid ass dates, holding hands in public like pussys, all that soft shitâ. His mouth twisted, half disgust, half self-defense. âI donât do that. I donât do slow and gentle and taking care. I donât do âhow was your day, honey?â and white-picket-fence bullshitâ.
You snorted. âYeah. Obviouslyâ.
âDonâtâ, he said sharply. âIâm serious, Y/Nâ.
âSo am Iâ, you shot back. âYou think Iâm expecting, what, prom and a matching pyjamas?â.
He shook his head, looking away for a second like the words were hard to get out. âIâm mean. Iâm loud. Iâm⌠violent. I disappear. I break things. I donât know how to sit at a kitchen table and talk about feelings. I donât know how to beââ, he grimaced, ââsoft. Not for longâ.
You stared at him. Then you laughed. It cracked out of you before you could stop it. Not mocking, just disbelieving.
He blinked, offended. âThe fuck´s funny?â.
âYouâ, you said, still breathless. âYou sitting there telling me you donât do taking care and soft when youâve spent the last weeksââ. You started counting on your fingers. âChanging my bandage. Knocking instead of barging in, well mostly. Checking locks. Sitting up on that couch till I fall asleep. Waking me up from nightmares before I scream the whole building down. That ring any bells?â.
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
âYouâre not boyfriend material?â, you went on. âBen, youâve been full-time security, part-time therapist, and my very grumpy electric blanketâ.
His ears went a little pink. âThatâs differentâ.
âHow?â, you demanded.
âThatâsâŚâ. He gestured vaguely between you. âThat was beforeâ.
âBefore what?â.
âBefore it was allowed to feel like thisâ, he snapped, and then froze, like heâd said too much.
The room went very quiet.
Your heart hammered. âSo it does feel like somethingâ, you said softly.
He dragged a hand over his face, scrubbing hard like he could erase the last ten seconds. âYouâre a kidââ.
âIâm notâ, you said.
ââwho just turned eighteenââ.
âExactlyâ, you cut in. âJust turned. Not âmagically mature and ready for taxesâ. I know. But that doesnât mean I donât know what I wantâ.
He stared at you, breathing a little harder than before.
âI canât give you normalâ, he said, voice roughening. âI canât give you a house and⌠birthdays with candles and little girls in ribbons. I burn everything I touch. Thatâs not a metaphor. Itâs literally my power setâ.
Your chest squeezed at that last part, at the edge of something you knew he almost never talked about. You swallowed. âWho says I want a house?â.
âEverybodyâ, he said. âSooner or later. They want a safe life. Something better than⌠thisâ.
You thought of your âhomeâ before the safe house. The way youâd flinch at every door slam. The way nobody ever checked your locks or your bleeding or your nightmares.
âThisâ, you said quietly, âis already better than anything I had before you sat on that couch. You get that, right?â.
His eyes flicked to yours, sharp, like he wasnât sure heâd heard you right.
You pushed on. âI donât need the fence. I donât need flowers. I donât need you to turn into some guy you saw in a movie. I justâŚâ, you swallowed, fingers tightening on his forearm, âI want you. The one who shows up. The one who stayed. The one I actually sleep next toâ.
He was very, very still.
âYouâve already been taking care of meâ, you said. âSo if this is you ânot doing softâââ. You gestured between you. ââthen I think I can live with thatâ.
His mouth pressed into a thin line, fighting a losing battle against something.
âYouâre gonna regret thisâ, he muttered.
âMaybeâ, you said. âBut at least itâll be my regretâ.
A huff of unwilling amusement escaped him at that. He looked at your hand on his arm, at the way your thumb had started brushing absent circles over his skin without you noticing. The muscle jumped under your touch.
âYou know what scares me?â, he said suddenly.
âThe internet?â, you offered.
âYouâ, he said simply.
Your breath caught. âMe?â.
âYou and that look you give me when you think I did something goodâ, he said. âYou and that couch. You and the way you say my name when you want me to stop glowing. Youâre⌠trusting the one weapon in the room not to go offâ.
âI did that beforeâ, you reminded him. âAnd you didnâtâ.
âNot because Iâm safeâ, he said. âBecause you are. Thatâs the differenceâ.
You didnât know what to do with that sentence except hold it tight inside your chest.
He sighed, shoulders finally dropping a fraction. The fight in his posture didnât disappear, but it shifted. Turned inward, like heâd accepted he was arguing with himself now more than with you. âAlrightâ, he said. âHereâs the dealâ.
You straightened instinctively.
âIâm not promising white fucking fencesâ, he said. âIâm not promising I wonât screw up. Hell, I probably will. But I can promise you this: I wonât lie to you about who I am. I wonât pretend to be something I canât keep up. And I wonâtâŚâ, he hesitated, knuckles going white on his knee, âI wonât take more than youâre givingâ.
Your throat felt too tight. âWhat does thatââ.
âIt meansâ, he cut in gently, âwe go at your pace. You call it. You want to keep thisââhe gestured between your facesââright here? We do that. You want to stop, we stop. You want to walk away in a week, you walk. No killing. No guilt trip. Just⌠say itâ.
You stared at him. âYou really think Iâm walking away in a week?â, you asked.
âI think you donât know yetâ, he said. âAnd Iâm not gonna chain you to a bad decision just because you liked the way I touch you when you canât sleepâ.
Heat crawled up your neck. âYou make it sound soâŚâ.
âAccurate?â, he offered.
You glared. âInfuriatingâ.
âThat tooâ.
There was a beat of silence, the air thick and electric.
âOkayâ, you said finally. âMy paceâ.
âYour paceâ, he repeated.
You sat with that for half a second, heart in your throat, his forearm solid and hot under your hand. Then you narrowed your eyes. âSoâ, you said, âat my paceâ.
âYeahâ, he said slowly. âThatâs what I justââ.
âThenâ, you cut in, âIâm telling you to kiss me already before I lose my goddamn mindâ.
His brows shot up. âThat a threat?â.
âYesâ, you said. âI will make your life so annoying, Ben. I will whine. I will sulk. I will bring this up every ten minutes until you wish Vought had left you on iceâ.
He huffed, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. âChrist, you are a fucking bratâ.
âYeah, well, some of us know what we wantâ, you shot back. âYou said my pace. Iâm pacing. Catch upâ.
He stared at you, disbelief shading into something hotter.
âYou always this demanding with men twice your age?â, he asked. âOr am I just special?â.
âOh, pleaseâ, you scoffed. âYou think Iâve had this conversation with a whole line of geriatrics?â.
âCarefulâ, he said, eyes narrowing. âYou keep calling me old, I might forget this whole chivalry kick and throw you over my shoulder insteadâ.
You felt that somewhere low and dangerous.
âPromises, promisesâ, you muttered.
He let out a rough laugh and shook his head.
âYou really want this?â, he said. âMe?â.
A beat passed.
âYou sure you donât wanna find some nice kid your age? Some clean-cut asshole with a college degree and a future?â.
You rolled your eyes. âYeah, because thatâs exactly what I dream about at night. Boys who say âfemaleâ unironically and ask me my body count on the first dateâ.
He gave you a long, unamused look that didnât hide the way his gaze kept dropping to your mouth. âThis is a bad ideaâ, he muttered.
âProbablyâ, you agreed. âStill waitingâ.
âYouâre gonna be the death of meâ, he muttered.
âYouâre bulletproofâ, you said. âYouâll liveâ.
âNot from thisâ, he said under his breath, almost like he hadnât meant you to hear. You did. And you didnât give him a chance to pretend he hadnât said it.
You slid your hand up his arm, over the solid curve of his bicep, to his shoulder. You felt him tense under your palm, then deliberately relax, like heâd decided if this was happening, he wasnât gonna meet it halfway.
âLast chanceâ, you said softly. âYou say no, I drop itâ,
He searched your face one last time, like he was looking for any sign you were playing at something you didnât understand. Whatever he saw there made his mouth twist. Half fond, half doomed.
âYeahâ, he said hoarsely. âThatâs the problem. Youâre not dropping itâ.
âBenââ.
He moved. His hand came up to your jaw again, this time landing and staying, fingers spreading along the hinge of your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.
âBossy little thingâ, he murmured.
Before you could say anything else, he shut you up with his mouth.
You made a tiny, involuntary sound, more surprise than anything, as his lips settled over yours. They were warm and firm, just rough enough at the edges to remind you who you were dealing with.
He didnât devour you. Not like youâd imagined. He kissed you slow. Testing and learning. The hand on your jaw gentled, his thumb tracing your cheekbone in a stroke so careful it almost hurt.
You melted so fast it was embarrassing.
Your free hand fisted in his shirt, right over his chest, clutching at the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you upright. You felt the steady thud-thud of his heart under your palm, a little faster than it had any right to be. His other hand found your hip, fingers splayed there.
You chased his mouth when he pulled back a fraction, eyes still closed, breath coming a little quick. âSee?â, you whispered, lips brushing his. âSoft. You liarâ.
He huffed a breath that couldâve been a laugh. âOne kiss and youâre doing performance reviews?â.
âYouâre getting an Aâ, you said. âDonât ruin itâ.
âWatch your mouthâ, he warned.
âMake meâ, you shot back automatic.
His fingers tightened just a hair on your jaw.
âYou really want me to answer that?â, he asked, voice gone rough around the edges.
Your pulse jumped. âYesâ.
He swore softly, something that sounded a lot like surrender.
Then he leaned back in, and this time when he kissed you, he stopped pretending he didnât want to. He kissed you like he meant it now, no more testing the waters. His mouth moved against yours with a controlled hunger, tongue sweeping in to taste you. You arched into him, heat pooling low in your belly as his hand on your jaw slid down to your neck, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point. He could probably feel it racing, hell, you could hear it in your ears.
âBenâ, you gasped when he broke away, trailing his lips along your jaw, down to the sensitive spot just under your ear. His breath was hot and it sent shivers racing across your skin.
âEasyâ, he murmured, voice low like he was talking himself down as much as you. His free hand, the one on your hip, tightened and before you could process it, he was shifting you, pulling you fully onto his lap. You straddled him now, knees bracketing his thighs, the solid heat of him pressing up against you through your clothes. It made your head spin, the sheer power coiled in his body, the way he could crush you without trying but was holding back so carefully.
You were still untouched in that way, your experiences limited to clumsy makeouts and your own fumbling explorations at night. And here he was: Ben, Soldier Boy, Americaâs first supe, a walking legend whoâd probably bedded half the starlets in Hollywood back in the day.
He hadnât been with a virgin. Never. He liked his women experienced, knowing, the kind who could match his pace without breaking. But you? You were fragile, breakable and he knew it. It made him hesitate, even as his hands roamed.
âYouâre gonna kill me, you know that?â, he muttered against your collarbone, his fingers hooking under the hem of your shirt. He lifted the fabric slowly, peeling it up over your head. You raised your arms to help, heart hammering as the cool air hit you, leaving you in just your bra. His eyes darkened, raking over you like he was committing every curve to memory. âSo goddamn softâ.
He tossed your shirt aside, hands returning to your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the lace.
Ben was taking his time, damn him. Proper foreplay, like he was determined to do this right.
His mouth found your neck again, sucking lightly, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. One hand slid up your back, unhooking your bra with a single flick. The straps slipped down your shoulders and he pulled back to look at you as he tugged it off, exposing you completely.
His hands cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peaked under his touch. You moaned, arching into him, your hips rocking instinctively against his lap. He groaned, but he didnât push further, not yet. Instead, he leaned in, mouth closing over one nipple, tongue swirling hot and wet while his hand worked the other. It was torture.
He switched sides, giving the same attention to your other breast, while his fingers teased the first, rolling it gently between thumb and forefinger.
You were a mess already, squirming in his lap, the friction of your hips against his only stoking the fire higher.
âBenâ, you pleaded again, voice breathy and desperate, your hand finding his wrist.
He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes, his green gaze hazy with want and lips shiny. You didnât wait for permission, you guided his hand down, past the waistband of your pants, under the elastic of your panties, until his fingers met the slick, heated evidence of just how ready you were.
He stilled, a sharp inhale escaping him as his fingertips slid through your folds, coated instantly in you. You were dripping, absolutely drenched, your body betraying every ounce of need youâd been holding back. âFuckâ, he rasped, his voice cracking on the word, eyes fluttering half-shut like the feel of you was too much.
His fingers explored tentatively at first, parting you gently, circling your entrance without pushing in, thumb brushing over your clit in a way that made your hips buck involuntarily.
He groaned, forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder for a second, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. âDamn it⌠I forgot how warm humans are. So fucking hot inside, like a furnaceâ.
He pressed a finger inside you slowly, just the tip at first, testing, curling it gently as your walls clenched around him. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, the intrusion foreign but so welcome.
âThatâs itâ, he murmured. He added a second finger when you relaxed, scissoring them carefully, stretching you while his thumb worked your clit in steady circles. The wet sounds filled the air between you and he watched your face the whole time, gauging every hitch in your breath, every flutter of your eyelids.
âYouâre tightâ, he muttered, almost to himself, pumping his fingers deeper now, building a rhythm that had you rocking against his hand. âGonna feel so good around meâ.
He leaned in to capture your mouth again, swallowing your moans as he crooked his fingers just right, hitting that spot inside that made stars burst behind your eyes. You were close already, the coil in your belly tightening fast. He might have been out of practice with virgins, but he knew bodies, knew how to unravel them.
âBen, Iâoh shitâ, you whimpered into his kiss, your hands fumbling to pants, desperate to feel more of him, to push this further before you shattered completely. He didnât stop you, just growled low in approval, his free hand helping you as his fingers kept working you open, prepping you for what was coming.
Your hands shook as you worked his pants down. Ben didnât rush you. Hell, he seemed to enjoy the way your fingers fumbled, his lips curving into a smirk against yours as he kept up the relentless rhythm of his fingers inside you. But patience had its limits, and when you finally shoved the fabric down his hips, he pulled back just enough to help, kicking his pants off along with his boxers in one impatient motion.
He was bare now, every inch of him exposed. Broad shoulders, sculpted chest dusted with hair, the V of his hips leading down to⌠shit. He was huge. Thick and long, veins standing out, the head already glistening. Your mouth went dry at the sight, a mix of awe and nerves twisting in your gut. How the hell was that going to fit?
Ben caught your stare, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. âEyes up here, sweetheart,â he teased, but his voice was strained, rough with the same hunger you felt. His fingers slowed inside you, withdrawing gently, leaving you clenching around nothing, aching for more.
You werenât far behind. With his help you shimmied out of your pants and panties, the fabric sliding down your legs until you were as naked as he was.
He shifted then, one hand bracing on the back of the couch as he guided you down, easing you onto your back with surprising gentleness. The cushions dipped under your weight, and he followed, hovering above you, his body a wall of muscle and heat. His arms caged you in, elbows planted on either side of your head, but he kept his full weight off you.
No thoughts of protection crossed his mind. Supes like him didnât knock up humansâor anyone, for that matter. The serum had seen to that.
So he settled between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your core, sliding through your wetness as he rocked his hips once, teasing.
âI got youâ, he murmured, dipping his head to kiss you deep, distracting you as he lined himself up. His tongue tangled with yours, tasting of mint and salt. The broad head of his cock nudged your entrance, so warm, and he paused there. âBreathe for me. Gonna go slowâ.
He pushed in, just the tip and you gasped sharply, a high, involuntary sound. The stretch was immediate and burning. He was huge, thicker than his fingers had prepared you for, and the girth was forcing you open in a way that teetered between pleasure and pain. No way you could have taken him just like that; it was impossible, your body clenching instinctively, trying to push him out even as you craved more.
âFuckâ, he hissed through clenched teeth, forehead pressing to yours. His arms trembled slightly where they caged you in. âSo tight⌠shitâ. He stilled after that first shallow thrust, barely more than the head inside, giving you time to adjust. Your nails dug into his back and scraping red lines over his skin.
âBreatheâ, he repeated, his voice strained, one hand sliding down to your hip, thumb rubbing soothing circles over the bone. You could feel him pulsing inside you.
He pulled back a fraction, just enough to ease the pressure, then pressed forward again, slower this time, working himself deeper.
You arched up instinctively, seeking relief or more, you werenât sure, but it only drove him a little deeper, drawing a choked moan from your throat.
He groaned in response, his free hand tangling in your hair, tugging just enough to ground you as he kissed your neck.
âGonna make it goodâ, he promised roughly, his hips circling now, grinding rather than thrusting.
Inch by inch, he claimed more ground, until finally, after what felt like an eternity of that torturous advance, he was seated as deep as you could take, not quite all of him, but enough that the pressure bordered on too full, your body trembling around him.
He stilled completely then, buried deep, his breath coming in harsh pants against your ear. âThere⌠fuck, youâre doing so good".
You whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist, heels pressing into his ass as the initial discomfort began to fade, morphing into a needy ache that begged for motion.
âMoveâ, you whispered finally, hips lifting experimentally, the slide of him inside you now slicker, easier. âPlease, Ben⌠I needââ.
He pulled back slowly, before thrusting in again.
Each stroke built on the last, the stretch lessening as your body adapted, but never fully gone.
Within seconds of him starting to move, the pressure and heat overwhelming your already primed body.
The grind of his hips against your clit with every deep thrust, the way he filled you so completely, sent you spiraling. Your walls clenched around him, rippling in waves that made your toes curl and your back arch off the couch. âBenâoh fuckâ, you cried out, tears spilling hot down your cheeks as the orgasm crashed through you.
It was messy, your arousal gushing around him, slicking his thighs and the couch beneath you.
He didnât stop. Sure as shit, Ben didnât stop there. No, he just slowed, drawing it out with lazy rolls of his hips, like he had all the time in the world. His mouth found yours again, kissing you sloppy and deep.
âThatâs oneâ, he murmured against your skin, voice rough and smug, his hand sliding between you to circle your oversensitive clit with callused fingers. The touch was light, teasing, but in your post-climax haze, it was⌠electric, rebuilding the fire before the embers had even cooled.
You whimpered, oversensitive and quivering, but he kept going, fucking you through the aftershocks with those same languid thrusts.
His free hand roamed your body lazily, palming your breast, pinching a nipple just hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.
You could feel him everywhere: the coarse hair at his base rubbing against your clit, the heat of his balls slapping softly against you, the faint tremor in his thighs from holding back his own release.
He shifted angles slightly, hitting that spot inside you with every drag, his fingers on your clit speeding up just a fraction. Messy circles that smeared your slickness. âCome on, sweetheartâ, he growled in your ear. âGive me anotherâ.
The words sent you higher, the coil snapping again with a shuddering cry. This time it was even messier.
But he wasnât done. âOne moreâ, he rasped, flipping you effortlessly so you were on top now, straddling him, his cock still buried deep.
His hands gripped your hips loosely, guiding you in lazy rocks rather than bounces, his eyes half-lidded as he watched you through the strands of his hair. Kisses turned sloppier, open-mouthed and breathless, his tongue tracing your lips, your jaw, down to suck a mark on your neck that throbbed with your pulse.
You rode him like that, messy and unhurried, your hands braced on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart under sweat-slick skin. His fingers dipped between you again, lazy swirls on your clit that had you grinding down harder.
For what felt like forever, it built in waves, your body exhausted but helpless against it. The drag of him inside you, still so warm, so impossibly present, kept pushing you higher.
âBenâpleaseâ, you sobbed.
He answered with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, and the sensation shattered through you, sending you over the edge for the third time.
Only then did he let go. His hips bucked lazy, before he spilled deep inside you, filling you until it leaked out around him in a messy trickle. He held you there, buried to the hilt, his arms wrapping around you tight as he panted into your hair.
A while later, exhaustion settled over you, leaving you limp against him. Ben shifted carefully, keeping you close as he pulled back.
The sudden emptiness made you wince, a dull ache lingering between your legs. You buried your face against his shoulder, letting the warmth of him ground you as the room fell quiet.
âOh shitâ, you breathed, voice hoarse, your head lolling back against the couch as you tried to catch your breath. Every muscle felt like jelly.
Ben propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with that lazy smirk. His hair was tousled, sweat still glistening on his chest, and his green eyes sparkled with mischief as he took in your wrecked state. âWhat, already tapping out?â, he teased. He brushed a strand of damp hair from your forehead, his thumb lingering to trace your cheekbone. âThought you were tougher than that. Three times and youâre done?â.
You managed a weak glare, though it lacked any real heat, your body too boneless to even swat at him. âShut upâ, you muttered, wincing again as you shifted slightly, the soreness flaring like a bruise. âYouâre⌠huge. And a dickâ.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating against you where your skin still touched. âYeah? Well, you took it like a champ. Mostlyâ. His hand trailed down your side, fingers ghosting over your hip in a way that made you twitch. âLook at youâcanât even move. What happened to all that bossy attitude? âMove, Ben, please Benâ?â. He mimicked your earlier pleas in a high-pitched whine, grinning wider when you groaned in embarrassment.
âAssholeâ, you muttered, though the smile tugging at your lips took most of the sting out of it.
The room was warm and quiet, carrying the lingering scent of him and the aftermath of the last few hours. The couch beneath you was a complete mess.
Benâs expression softened just a little, the teasing fading into something gentler.
âYeah, yeahâ, he said, pushing himself upright. âStay put, princess. Not like youâre going anywhere anytime soonâ.
He got to his feet, completely unbothered by his lack of clothing, and headed for the bathroom without another word.
You heard the faucet run, the soft splash of water, and he returned a minute later with a wet towel in hand. âHereâ, he said, voice gruff but gentle as he knelt beside the couch. He pressed it carefully between your legs, cleaning you up, wiping away the mess. The warmth seeped into your skin, easing the throb, and you sighed in relief, your eyes fluttering shut.
âSee? Not a total dickâ, he murmured, one corner of his mouth quirking up as he finished and tossed the towel aside. He slid back onto the couch, pulling you into his side. âGet some rest. Youâre gonna feel that tomorrowâ.
Summary: Working with the Boys was already dangerous enough before you met Soldier Boy. But somewhere between gunfights, safe houses and near-death missions, the line between protecting each other and wanting each other starts getting dangerously blurred.
-requested-
(prequel to "Fucking Brats") But you can totally read both stories on their own)
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language, Underage Reader
Word Count: 7020
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
Youâd started thinking of the safe house as âhomeâ by accident. It happened slowly, in little pieces. Your toothbrush migrated from your bag to the bathroom cup. Your extra hoodie stayed slung over the back of a chair instead of rolled up under your head in the van. An old red mug became your mug because no one else reached for it.
It was just easier. Easier than trying to explain why you always âwent homeâ but never wanted to say where that was.
Today, there wasnât a mission. No calls, no scrambled drills. Just gray light through the dirty window and the steady hiss of the radiator trying its best. You were sprawled on the sagging couch with a book youâd found abandoned in the stairwell a few days ago. Somebody had underlined random lines in blue pen. You kept wondering who theyâd been and if theyâd finished it.
You had your feet up on the coffee table, socks mismatched, your t-shirt soft from too many washes and sweatpants hanging loose on your hips just above the bandage. The place was quiet. Not the tense, waiting kind of quiet. Just⌠quiet. You almost didnât recognize it.
You were halfway through a paragraph youâd already reread three times when the front door handle rattled. You jolted upright so fast the book slipped off your lap and thumped to the floor. Your heart leaped into your throat. For a heartbeat, your brain jumped straight to Vought and run and not again. You were already reaching for the pistol tucked between the couch cushions when the door gave a stubborn squeal and somebody swore on the other side. âGoddamn⌠who designed this piece of shitââ.
You exhaled, the tension draining out of your shoulders so quickly it left you a little dizzy. Only one person you knew swore like that in a hallway.
You dropped the pistol back into its hiding spot and kicked the book under the coffee table on instinct, like youâd been caught doing something embarrassing instead of the most boring thing in the world.
The door finally jerked open with a screech. Soldier Boy shouldered his way in, squinting against the dim light. Heâd ditched the suit today. No green armor, no star. Just jeans, boots, and an old army-green henley that had seen better days. His jacket was half-zipped. He stopped dead when he saw you.
You stared back, halfway off the couch, one hand still hovering over the cushion like you needed to look like youâd been in the middle of doing⌠something. For a second, neither of you said anything.
ââŚheyâ, you managed.
He took you in with one quick sweep: Hair mussed, cheeks a little flushed, the throw blanket pooled at your feet like youâd just dropped it in a hurry. His mouth curled at one corner. âWell shitâ, he said, that rough, lazy drawl thick with innuendo. âYou look guilty as sin. What, I catch you with your hand down your panties or something?â.
Heat climbed your neck so fast you thought you might combust. âNo!â, you shot back, maybe a little too loud. âI was⌠readingâ.
He raised his brows, completely unbothered, shutting the door with his hip and letting his eyes drift down to your mismatched socks and the open waistband of your sweats. âThat what the kids are calling it now?â,
You groaned, scrubbing a hand over your face. âYou are such an assholeâ.
He just smirked, tossing his keys on the counter and making a show of glancing around. âHey, itâs your life. You want to spend a quiet afternoon double-clicking your mouse, I ainât gonna judge. Just thought I was the only one getting a little alone time hereâ.
You sank back into the couch, tucking your legs under you, trying to ignore how warm your cheeks felt. âIf youâre looking for privacy, try not barging in like youâre SWATâ.
He snorted, leaning against the doorframe and watching you. âTrust me, if I was SWAT, youâd be flat on your stomach in zip ties alreadyâ.
You glared. âThatâs supposed to be a threat?â.
His mouth curved, sharp and almost appreciative. âDepends how you take it, sweetheartâ.
You felt your stomach do that annoying little drop again. âPretty sure thatâs called a threat in courtâ.
He huffed. âWouldnât be my firstâ.
You shifted on the couch, tugging your sweatshirt over the bandage by reflex. His eyes ticked down, catching the motion; the teasing faded just a hair. âYou still bleeding through that thing?â, he asked.
You frowned. âHello, nice to see you tooâ.
He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, slower this time, less like a predator and more like someone doing an inspection.
âStand upâ. he said.
You blinked. âWhy?â.
âBecause I said soâ.
You stayed seated. âIâm not a dog, Benâ.
His jaw flexed at the name. You hadnât meant to use it, it just slipped out now sometimes.
âDid you change the dressing since MM patched you up?â, he asked, ignoring that.
You hesitated.
He snorted. âThatâs a noâ.
âI was going toâ, you said quickly. âI justâthere wasnât any point wasting supplies if it wasnâtââ.
He hooked a thumb at your hip. âLet me see itâ.
Heat crawled up your neck. âIâm fineâ.
âDidnât ask if you were fineâ, he said. âAsked to see itâ.
You glared up at him. âYou know how creepy that sounds?â.
His expression didnât change. âYou know how stupid it is to sit here leaking because youâre scared of a little gauze?â.
You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your hip did throb. Every time you shifted, the fabric dragged.
He jerked his chin toward the edge of the couch. âSit up straightâ.
You did, moving slowly. He crouched in front of you, close enough that you could see the tiny pale scar along chin youâd never noticed before.
âLiftâ, he said, tapping two fingers lightly against the hem of your shirt, just above the bandage. âJust enough to see the tapeâ.
You swallowed and peeled the fabric up an inch. His gaze stayed strictly on the white strip at your hip, nowhere else. The tape was grimy at the edges, a faint bloom of red seeping through near the top. He clicked his tongue. âKnew itâ.
âItâs not that badâ, you muttered.
âCould be betterâ, he said. âYou sit tightâ.
He pushed to his feet and strode over to the battered cabinet where MM kept the medical crap. You watched him yank it open, paw through the shelves with more familiarity than you felt comfortable with.
âYou know where everything is now?â, you asked. âPlanning on starting a side gig as a nurse?â.
âBeen patching up idiots since before you were a bad ideaâ, he said. âBandages havenât changedâ. He came back with alcohol wipes, fresh gauze, and tape, dropping them onto the coffee table with a soft clatter. âAlrightâ, he said. âScoot forwardâ.
You made a face. âI can do it myself.â
âYou had all dayâ, he said. âYou didnât. So now Iâm doing itâ.
âI was readingâ, you protested.
âYou were procrastinatingâ, he corrected.
You grumbled something under your breath but slid forward anyway, fingers curling into the couch cushion. His hand landed careful and steady on your side, just above the bandage, warm through the thin cotton of your shirt.
âIt alreadyâshitââ, You hissed as he peeled the old tape up, the dried blood pulling your skin with it.
âBreatheâ, he said quietly.
You did, shakily, focusing on the pattern of his boots on the worn rug instead of the burn at your hip.
He cleaned the cut with efficient, impersonal movements. His fingers brushed bare skin once, then immediately shifted back to the gauze. You hated that your brain noticed the difference.
He slapped fresh tape down with a final firm press. âThereâ.
You exhaled, not realizing youâd been holding your breath. âThanksâ, you muttered.
He shifted back a little, still crouched, still close. From this angle, he was looking slightly up at you. âHowâs it feel?â, he asked.
You shrugged one shoulder. âLike someone took a cheese grater to my hip and then wrapped it in duct tapeâ.
âThatâs the medical term, yeahâ, he said. âBut youâll liveâ.
âWowâ, you muttered. âTry not to sound too disappointedâ.
His mouth twitched. âIf you died, Iâd have to tell it happened on my watch. That´s not happening".
He stayed there a second longer than he had to, like heâd forgotten to move. His hand was still on your side, thumb resting just above the fresh tape.
You were suddenly very aware of every place your bodies lined up in space. Him between your knees, you perched on the edge of the cushion, his hand right there, your shirt hitched up an inch higher than you meant it to be.
His gaze flicked up, met yours. For a beat, neither of you breathed.
You watched something change in his face. Some small, dangerous softening, like he was seeing you and not just the bandage anymore. His eyes dropped, quick, to your mouth. Your pulse jumped so hard you were sure he could feel it under his palm.
Then his jaw clenched. The warmth in his expression iced over, fast and clean. His hand left your side like heâd been burned, fingers flexing once before he curled them into a fist. âAlrightâ, he said abruptly, straightening up. âYouâre goodâ.
The spell broke. The room snapped back into focus.
You swallowed. âI couldâve done that myself, you knowâ.
âYeahâ, he said. âThatâs why you didnâtâ.
You rolled your eyes, trying to get your heartbeat under control. âYou have a very annoying pointâ.
âGot a whole collection of thoseâ, he said, turning away to toss the old bandage in the trash. âYou wanna see âem all, youâre gonna need a stronger stomachâ. He grabbed the alcohol wipe wrapper from where it had stuck to your thigh and flicked it into the bin too. When he turned back, his eyes did that quick sweep again.
âHow long you been crashing here?â, he asked.
You blinked at the sudden change of subject. âWhat?â.
He nodded at the hoodie on the chair, the shoes by the door, your bag half-unpacked in the corner. âThis isnât âIâm visiting for an afternoonâ mess. This is âI live hereâ messâ.
Your throat went tight. âBetween jobsâ, you said, too fast. âItâs just easier than going⌠somewhere elseâ.
âSomewhere that doesnât existâ, he said. You stared at him. âYou flinch when anyone says âgo homeââ, he added. âYou never talk about it. Your crapâs been migrating from the van to here piece by piece. Took me a minute, but Iâm not blindâ.
You bristled, defensive instinct flaring. âSo what? Itâs a safe house. Iâm part of the team. Iâm not exactly squatting in a strangerâs placeâ.
He studied you for a long moment. âDo they know?â.
âWho, Butcher?â. You snorted. âYeah, because heâs so big on heart-to-heartsâ.
âThatâs not an answerâ, he said.
You picked at a loose thread in the couch. âHe knows I crash here sometimesâ.
âSometimesâ, Ben repeated. âNot âalwaysââ.
You didnât say anything. He huffed, rubbing a hand over his face. âChrist. Youâre a kid sleeping in a hideout and none of these assholes noticedâ.
âIâm not a kidâ, you snapped, sharper than you meant to. âI pull my weight, same as everyoneâ.
âNever said you didnâtâ, he shot back. âBut you´re a woman. And youâre still seventeenâ.
The word landed like a slap. You looked away, jaw tight. âThere it is againâ.
âThere what is?â.
âThe numberâ, you said. âLike itâs a bomb you have to keep defusing every five minutesâ.
âYeahâ, he said shortly. âBecause it isâ.
Silence settled, heavy and awkward.
âYou shouldnât be here aloneâ, he said, quieter now. âNot all the timeâ.
You shrugged, looking at your knees. âItâs fine. Nobody bothers me. And if they do, Iâve got a gun and a chair under the doorâ.
âYeah. Real goodâ.
âIt worksâ, you muttered.
âTill it doesnâtâ.
You rolled your eyes. âWhat, you gonna stay and braid hair with me so Iâm not alone? Itâs likeââ, you glanced at the dark window ââeleven. Past your bedtime, old manâ.
He snorted. âYou donât strike me as a slumber-party type, kidâ.
âYeah, wellâ, you muttered, ânever really had the chanceâ.
Something in his face shifted at that, just a flicker, gone as quick as it came. He looked around the room again like it personally offended him. âSo you really lock up at night?â.
You made a face. âNo, I leave the door wide open with a neon sign that says âfree organs insideâ. Yes, I lock upâ.
He ignored the sarcasm. âShow meâ.
You stared. âWhat, you want a demonstration? Very exciting evening plans youâve gotâ.
âJust fucking do as youâre toldâ, he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
You groaned but pushed yourself off the couch, padding to the door in socked feet. You flipped the deadbolt, then bent to nudge the chair tighter under the knob with your shoulder.
He watched. âThat it?â, he asked.
âYes, dadâ, you said. âThatâs itâ.
âWindow?â, he asked.
You threw a hand toward it. âSecond floor. Unless Voughtâs sending Spider-Man, I think Iâm goodâ.
He stepped over anyway, fingers testing the warped frame, the rusted latch. It creaked, but didnât give. âStillâ, he said. âDonât sleep under itâ.
You huffed. âDo you want me to survive the night or suffocate on your paranoia?â.
He glanced back at you, mouth curving. âBit of bothâ.
You moved back to the couch and flopped down, dragging the blanket over your legs.
He checked his watch out of habit, even though there was a digital clock glowing on the microwave. âYou out on your own at eleven when you were my age?â, you asked, mostly to fill the silence.
His eyes drifted for a second.
âWhen I was your age, I was in basicâ, he said. âGetting my ass chewed out by guys who thought sleep was a privilege and pain was a teacher. Nobody gave a shit if you were tiredâ.
âSo, yesâ, you said. âJust, with more yellingâ.
He huffed. âYou got plenty of yelling now. Butcher more than fills that quotaâ.
You smiled despite yourself, then caught the way he was still standing there, like he hadnât decided whether he was staying or going. âIf youâre waiting for a bedtime story, itâs not happeningâ, you said. âIâm fresh out of fairy talesâ.
âNever liked fairy talesâ, he said. âEverybody lives. Boring as fuckâ.
âOkay, thatâs darkâ, you said.
His gaze flicked to you again, lingering this time. You knew what he saw: kid in a sweatshirt with a face still too young for the stuff youâd seen.
âYou gonna be able to sleep?â, he asked.
âDo you ever?â, you shot back.
His mouth twisted. âThat was a ânoââ.
âIâll manageâ, you said. âItâs just noise. Iâve had worse roommates than my brainâ.
He studied you for a beat, then sighed, the sound edged with resignation. âSlide overâ, he said.
You blinked. âWhat?â
âIâm not braiding your fucking hairâ, he said. âBut Iâll sit for a bit. Make sure nobody comes through that door youâre so proud ofâ.
Your chest did a stupid little skip. âYou donât have toââ.
âI knowâ, he said. âNow fucking scootâ.
You did, making room. The couch springs protested as he dropped down on the other end, big frame swallowing the space. The whole thing dipped toward him, you rolled half an inch in his direction and had to plant your hand to keep from bumping his leg. âComfortable?â, you asked.
âLike sitting on a bag of rocksâ, he said.
You snorted. âCouch has characterâ.
âCouch has mileageâ, he muttered, shifting his weight. The springs groaned. The motion sent you rolling a fraction closer, your knee bumping his thigh. You jerked back on reflex. âSorryâ.
He didnât move. âRelax. Iâm not made of glassâ.
Yeah. No kidding.
Up this close, you felt all of him. You felt the solid heat at your side, the quiet weight he brought into a room even when he wasnât trying. The blanket stretched between you, your bare shin almost but not quite grazing his jeans.
âYou always sleep on this thing?â, he asked after a moment, nodding at the couch.
âUnless I wanna fight Frenchie for itâ, you said. âHe kicksâ.
âHe kicks in his sleep?â, Ben asked.
âHe kicks awakeâ, you said. âIn his sleep, he just tries to cuddleâ.
Ben huffed a laugh.
You shifted again, ostensibly to get comfortable, actually just⌠letting your calf rest against his leg this time. Warmth bled through the denim into your skin. He didnât pull away.
âSo what, you on perimeter duty now?â, you asked. âGonna sit there and glower at the door till I pass out?â.
âSomething like thatâ, he said. You heard the faint creak of leather as he slung one arm along the back of the couch, fingers curling around the top. The move dragged the fabric of his shirt tight across his chest, seams pulling over thick muscle. You swallowed, eyes snapping back to the coffee table.
You tugged the blanket a little higher, letting the edge âaccidentallyâ fall over his thigh. Your knuckles brushed his knee in the process.
He glanced down at the contact, then up at you. You kept your face neutral, eyes on the far wall like you hadnât noticed.
Silence stretched, but it wasnât empty. The apartment felt smaller than usual, the air thick with city smell.
His voice came again, softer. âYouâre not scared of meâ. It wasnât a question.
You shrugged under the blanket. âShould I be?â.
Most people wouldâve taken that as an invitation to brag. He didnât. His jaw worked once, like there were words he didnât feel like unpacking. âWouldnât blame you if you wereâ, he said finally.
âYeah, wellâ, you murmured, âif you were gonna kill me, youâve had plenty of chances. At this point itâd just be rudeâ.
That pulled a real, quiet huff out of him. âYouâre a pain in the ass, you know that?â.
âSo Iâve been toldâ.
You let your head tip back against the couch, turning just enough that your temple brushed the meat of his upper arm where it lay along the backrest. You didnât mean to stay there. Just a touch, just to feelâ He went still.
You half expected him to jerk away. Instead, after a heartbeat, you felt his arm soften, muscles unknotting under your skin. He adjusted minutely, giving you a better spot to rest without actually drawing attention to it.
The henley was soft under your cheek, stretched thin over something that absolutely wasnât. His bicep was like a damn ledge. Solid and wide, wrapped in heat. Youâd seen him throw people across rooms with that arm. Right now, it was just⌠steady.
âComfortable?â, he asked, rough.
âMmâ. It came out more like a hum than a word.
The digital clock on the microwave clicked over another minute. The red glow painted the kitchen and part of his jaw in dull light.
âTell me something boringâ, you mumbled. âMight knock me out fasterâ.
âSomething boringâ, he repeated. âAbout me?â.
âAbout anythingâ, you said. Your voice had gone softer without your permission. âWorld. 'You. Old-guy wisdom. Whateverâ.
He was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.
âUsed to hate the rainâ, he said finally. âOut in the field, it meant mud up to your knees, gear twice as heavy, and never being dryâ.
His arm shifted beneath your head.
âFunny thing is, when I got back, I couldn't sleep without itâ. He huffed out a laugh. âHad this shitty house with a busted window. Every time it stormed, I'd sit there listening to it hit the glass until I passed outâ.
He kept talking, slowly, quietly.
You let your eyes fall shut. His voice wrapped around the images: wet earth and a younger version of him in a uniform.
âNew York sounds different nowâ, he said. âBack then it was mostly cars and yelling. Now itâs sirens and those bullshit electric scootersâ. You huffed a sleepy laugh. âYou versus a scooter. Iâd pay to see thatâ.
âPut it on pay-per-viewâ, he muttered. âFund your college fundâ.
âLittle late for thatâ, you murmured, words slurring at the edges.
You shifted again, turning more fully toward him. The movement slid your cheek off his arm and onto the side of his chest, just below his shoulder. The blanket shifted with you, pooling over both your legs now. His body tensed on instinct. Again. Then, slowly, it eased. Again
You ended up half curled toward him, knees drawn up, your shoulder tucked against his ribs. From here you could hear his heart, slow and heavy, a measured thud-thud under layers of muscle and fabric.
He smelled like smoke, but underneath it there was something steady and distinctly male. Warm skin, sweat. All the things youâd only ever gotten the barest hint of from anyone before, now amplified by sheer proximity.
Your hand, trapped between your torso and his side, brushed the seam of his jeans. You could feel the density of his thigh under your fingertips whenever you inhaled too deep. âBen?â, you asked, not even sure what you were going to say.
âYeah?â, he rumbled.
The sound went through your cheekbone straight into your skull. Your bones hummed with it. You forgot whatever had been on your tongue. âNothingâ, you mumbled, suddenly bone-tired. âJust⌠making sure youâre real, I guessâ.
He was quiet a moment. His chest rose, fell, brushing the side of your face each time. âReal enoughâ, he said. âUnfortunatelyâ.
You smiled against his shirt, eyes too heavy to open again. Your body finally started to believe it could stop, that nothing was going to jump out at you from the shadows. Not with him there, big and solid and humming with leashed violence that, for once, wasnât aimed at you.
Your breaths evened out without you noticing. The noise in your head, the echo of gunshots and concrete and the screams from the lab, those faded under the steady drum of his heartbeat.
At some point, your fingers uncurled against his side, fingertips resting light over the denim. You didnât feel him glance down at that touch, didnât feel the way his hand twitched like he wanted to move it and didnât.
You were already gone.
Sleep dragged you under all at once, a long, slow slide. The last thing you were properly aware of was the warmth soaking into your front, the way his shirt smelled like smoke and something almost like cedar, and the faint vibration in his chest when he muttered something you didnât quite catch.
He didnât push you off. Didnât shake you awake or shove a pillow between you or make a joke.
Instead, after a long minute, he shifted just enough to get more comfortable without dislodging you. His arm along the back of the couch dropped, hovering for a second over your shoulders before settling very lightly, fingers brushing the worn fabric near your collarbone.
Anyone looking in wouldâve said youâd just tipped over by accident. That it was logistics, small couch, two people, no space. He knew better.
You wouldâve died before admitting you did it on purpose. Heâd die before admitting he let you.
So you slept there, tucked against a man built for war, wrapped in warmth that had no business feeling as safe as it did. And Ben sat there, eyes open in the dim room, listening to the tiny snore youâd never believe you made.
-
You were squeezed around the rickety table in the safe house kitchen with maps, printouts and half-eaten takeout scattered in overlapping layers. MM had his notepad, Frenchie had explosives diagrams mixing with noodle sauce stains, Hughie clutched a coffee like a life raft and Annie and Kimiko were against the counter.
And you were pressed into the only chair that didnât wobble because Ben had shoved it under you before anyone else sat down. âSit", heâd said, hand on the backrest, tone brooking exactly zero argument, as if you werenât about to argue anyway. Youâd still been half turned when he added, just for you, quieter, âYour hip. Donât stand what you donât have toâ.
So you sat. And he didnât move far.
He took the spot behind you, one hand braced on the chair, the other resting on the table edge near your shoulder, leaning over to see the map. He couldâve gone to the other side. He didnât. Every time he shifted, you felt the faint brush of his knuckles against your upper back through the sweatshirt.
You didnât lean into it. Not on purpose. But you didnât lean away either.
âTheyâve got patrol here, here, and probably hereâ, MM said, tapping three red Xs on the printout of a Vought-owned warehouse. âY/N, you still remember that side alley you spotted beside the bus stop last time?â.
You frowned, tracing the streets with your eyes. âYeah. Thereâs a blind spot where the cameras canât see the back door".
âGoodâ, MM said. âThatâs our exit. Soldier Boy?â.
âFrontâ, Ben said immediately. âIâm going through the main door. Every dumb motherfucker in that building starts shooting at me instead of you".
âBig talkâ, Butcher said, chewing something unidentifiable. âYou sure your ticker can handle another lightshow if it comes to it?â.
âDonât plan on glowingâ, Ben said. âPlan on smashingâ.
You were studying the scribbled arrows when you felt him shift again behind you. A second later his fingers tapped lightly twice on the back of your chair, a silent look here. You followed the motion of his hand as he pointed at a corner of the map MM hadnât marked yet. âVent accessâ, he murmured to you. âSee that?â.
You squinted. âThat tiny square?â.
âMmâ, He leaned a little closer, his chest brushing the back of your shoulder as he reached over you. âYouâre the only one small enough to use it if we need eyes inside. You up for that?â.
You grinned before you could stop yourself. âCrawl through a dark metal coffin full of dust and spiders? Sounds like my ideal Saturdayâ.
Butcher snorted. âSee? She loves it. You two can start a fan clubâ.
âWhat, âMunchkin & Grandpaâs Duct Cleaning Serviceâ?â, you said.
Benâs fingers drummed once on the table near your hand, a wordless watch it.
âWhat?â, you said innocently. âWe already specialize in taking out the trashâ.
Frenchie wheezed. Hughie tried not to smile and failed. Even Kimikoâs mouth twitched. Annie watched you and Ben with a look you couldnât quite parse. Like she was comparing something now to something sheâd seen before and wasnât sure she liked the math.
You found out how different things were when MM started assigning positions.
âAlrightâ, he said. âAnnie, front withââ.
âPut her with meâ, you cut in, surprising yourself as much as everyone else. You tapped the side alley marked on the map. âShe and I take the vent and side entrance. Ben creates noise. Kimiko with him. Hughie and Frenchie cover the van. Butcher floatsâ.
Butcherâs head snapped up. âExcuse me, I donât âfloatâ, I orchestrateâ. âSame thingâ, you said.
MM raised a brow at you. You almost shrank back out of habit. Almost. Benâs hand landed lightly on the back of your chair again.
âSheâs not wrongâ, Ben said. âSparkles with a lookout makes more fucking sense. I make noise, draw every trigger-happy asshole in the building, and she goes where theyâre not lookingâ.
He jerked his chin in your direction.
âGive the kid the high ground. Let her tell us where to goâ.
You felt that all the way down to your toes. The kid. He still called you that. But it sounded different now. Less like he was brushing you off and more like heâd decided you were one of his people.
âYou gonna follow her calls?â, Butcher asked, eyes narrowing. âSince when do you take orders from anybody?â.
Ben didnât blink. âWhen theyâre not fucking stupidâ, he said. âDonât worry, if she tells me to walk into a meat grinder Iâll improviseâ.
âWowâ, you said. âThatâs, like, almost supportiveâ.
âDonât make it weirdâ, he muttered.
Butcherâs gaze flicked between the two of you, suspicion sharpening. âAnd whatâs with you two then? Youâve been glued together for a week. You grow from the same bloody petri dish or what?â.
You opened your mouth, absolutely ready to say something that would make this worse.
Ben beat you to it.
âSheâs the only one in this room who listens when I say âmoveââ, Ben said. âThe rest of you assholes gotta get knocked on your ass before the message sinks inâ.
MM sighed. âFine. We try it her way. But if it goes sidewaysââ.
âIf it goes sidewaysâ, Ben cut in, âyou yell at me later, and she stays breathing. Thatâs the order of operationsâ.
You didnât have to look at him to know he meant it. You felt it in the way he shifted his stance, unconsciously angling himself between your chair and the door even though nobody was shooting at you right now.
Hughie caught your eye, brows raising like, You seeing this? You pretended not to notice, busy scribbling notes on the map.
Only a few days left.
The thought threaded through everything like static. A countdown you hadnât set, but he kept marking anyway.
Three nights after the couch, heâd shown up again. Same knock. Same gruff, âSlide overâ. Youâd pretended you werenât already waiting with the blanket half ready for two.
Heâd stayed every night since.
He never made a big deal out of it. Just sat there while you faded out with the tv buzzing on low volume in the background and his warmth a steady anchor. Youâd wake up sore-necked and alone, with the blanket tucked around you and the chair still under the door.
You never mentioned it in daylight.
He definitely didnât.
But it lived in the space between you now, this unspoken, stupidly important thing. You felt it every time his hand brushed your shoulder to get your attention, every time he adjusted his voice automatically to match yours.
Annie saw it too. You caught her watching you both now as the meeting wrapped, teeth worrying her bottom lip. âJust⌠be carefulâ, she murmured when you passed her on the way to the sink, under the cover of everyone else arguing about whoâd left an empty carton in the fridge.
âAlways amâ, you said.
âI donât mean in the fieldâ, she said quietly.
You looked up at her. Her gaze flicked past you, to where Ben was arguing with Butcher about entry points, his jaw stubborn like always.
âItâs not like thatâ, you said automatically. Annieâs eyebrow went up.
You hated how hot your face felt. âItâs notâ, you insisted.
She hummed, clearly unconvinced but letting it go. âJust remember his damage isnât like ours. And heâs not used to being told noâ.
You glanced over again. He was mid-sentence, gesturing sharply at the map, annoyance etched in his features. But when he caught you looking, just for a heartbeat, the irritation softened. He tilted his head in a you good? that no one else noticed. Your chest squeezed.
âI know what Iâm doingâ, you said to Annie.
âIâm not worried about you knowingâ, she said. âIâm worried about him pretending he doesnâtâ.
You didnât have an answer for that.
By the time everyone cleared out, Butcher was still barking orders, MM was still checking the timeline and Frenchie and Hughie were still arguing about snacks.
It was late. Rain had started, a soft patter against the crooked window.
âLock upâ, MM said as he headed for the door.
âAlways doâ, you replied.
Ben was the last to leave the table, lingering long enough to scroll through something on his phone. When he finally slipped it into his pocket, he nodded toward the door.
âGo. Iâll make sure nobodyâs lurking outsideâ.
You did as told, checking the deadbolt, the windows, and the chair under the handle like he'd drilled into you a dozen times before.
When you turned around, he was standing by the sink, filling a glass. He held it out to you.
âTake your pillsâ.
You frowned. âWhat pills?â.
âThe antibioticsâ, he said flatly. âDonât give me that look. I saw MM leave âem with youâ.
You made a face but dug the little orange bottle out of your hoodie pocket. You hadnât meant for anyone to know youâd been stalling on those. He noticed everything.
You swallowed one with the water under his watchful, irritatingly satisfied eye. âHappy?â, you asked.
âEcstaticâ, he said. âGo change. You smell like fried food and stressâ.
âWowâ, you said. âCharmingâ.
He just snorted and moved to the couch, dropping down into his now usual spot like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You grabbed your sleep clothes and headed for the bathroom. The light buzzed to life overhead, harsh and unforgiving.
As you pulled your sweatshirt over your head, your gaze caught on the mirror.
The bruise beneath the bandage had started turning yellow at the edges. Dark circles shadowed your eyes. And there was a faint line between your brows that you were almost certain hadn't been there a year ago.
For a moment, you just stared. You looked tired.
You peeled the shirt the rest of the way off, tossing it over the towel rack. The air was cool on your bare chest, goosebumps prickling in its wake. You popped the button on your jeans, tugged them halfway down your hips, angling sideways to check the edge of the bandage in the mirror. It looked clean. No new bleed. MM would be smug.
You braced one hand on the sink, the other hovering over the tape, debating whether to mess with it tonight or leave it for morning.
Just then, the door swung inward with a creak. You startled so hard you nearly ripped the bandage off. âHey!ââ.
Ben froze in the doorway. For a second, all three of youâhim, you, your reflectionâjust stared at each other.
You saw the way his gaze hit you in the mirror: bare shoulders, bare chest, jeans half open, bandage at your hip.
Then shock snapped across his face. His eyes jerked up so fast you almost heard it. âJesusââ. He slapped a hand over his eyes and half turned away, smacking his shoulder into the doorframe. âYou gotta lock the fucking doorâ.
Your heart was doing its best hummingbird impression. You folded your arms across your chest on instinct, pulse pounding in your ears.
âI thought you were in the living room!â, you blurted. âI didnâtâ You didnât knock!â.
âItâs a bathroomâ, he shot back, voice strained. âI figured if you were in here Iâd hear you pissing, notâ notââ. He cut himself off with a low curse, turning his back fully, hand still plastered over his face even though he couldnât see anything now anyway.
Mortification flooded you so hard you felt lightheaded. âWell, congratsâ, you said, too loud. âYouâve seen my boobs. Happy early birthday to meâ. Even to your own ears, the joke sounded shaky.
He swore under his breath again. âThatâs notâ I didnâtâ Shitâ.
You watched the muscles in his back bunch and release under the thin shirt, tension coiled from neck to shoulders. He looked⌠rattled. In a way youâd never seen, not even when bullets were flying.
âI didnât meanââ, you started, then stopped, because you werenât sure what you were apologizing for. Existing? Not locking the door? Being seventeen and not fully dressed in the same twenty square feet as a man whoâd built his last remaining ethics around that number?
âJustâŚâ. He took a breath, dropped his hand to his side, fingers flexing. He still didnât turn around. âFinish changing. Tell me when youâre⌠decentâ.
You stared at his back a second longer, then jolted into motion, jerking your shirt on so fast you nearly put your head through the armhole. You yanked your jeans the rest of the way off and stepped into your shorts, fumbling with the waistband.
âIâm goodâ, you said after a moment, voice smaller than you meant it to be. âYou canâ itâs fineâ.
He turned back slowly, eyes fixed firmly on your face. No dip. No flicker down. Like heâd nailed his gaze in place.
âDoorâ, he said tightly. âNext time. Lock. Itâ.
You nodded, throat dry. âYeah. I will. I swear, that wasâ I wasnât trying toââ.
âI know you werenâtâ, he said, cutting in. Something about the way he said it, too fast, too emphatic, made your chest twist.
When he walked out a beat later, he leaned against the wall opposite, arms crossed, gaze still pinned somewhere safely above your eyebrows.
You forced out a shaky laugh. âSo. That was awkwardâ.
There was a beat of silence. You shifted your weight, the floor cold under your bare feet.
âLookâ, you said finally. âYou didnât do anything wrong. It was an accident. And itâs not like Iâve got⌠I mean, itâs just skinâ.
His jaw worked. He finally dragged his eyes down to meet yours, expression tight. âThat âjust skinâ is exactly why I gotta be carefulâ.
You swallowed. âBecause Iâmââ.
âBecause youâre seventeenâ, he bit out. âBecause Iâve already done more shit in my life than I can ever walk back, and I am not adding âcanât keep his eyes off the fucking kidâ to the listâ.
The word hit harder than it had in⌠ever. You flinched.
His shoulders dropped a fraction, like he regretted it as soon as it left his mouth.
âY/Nâ, he said, voice roughening. âIâm not⌠disgusted, alright? Thatâs not what this is. I justââ. He scrubbed a hand over his face again, dragging it down to his beard. âYou trust me. More than you should. I know what that feels like and I know what happens when men like me start thinking theyâre entitled to it. So weâre not doing that. Not now. Not like thisâ.
Your chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with the bandage.
âSo whatâ, you said quietly. âYou gonna stop coming over now? Because you saw more than you wanted to?â.
His eyes softened, just a little. âNo. Iâm gonna start knocking. And youâre gonna start locking. And weâre both gonna get through the next few days without doing something stupid we canât take backâ.
You chewed the inside of your cheek. âYou already think itâd be stupidâ.
He breathed out slowly. âI think youâre seventeenâ, he said. âAnd Iâmââ.
âOld, yeah, I knowâ, you said.
âFucking responsibleâ, he corrected. âFor once in my goddamn life, Iâm gonna stay on the right fucking side of a line. You got that?â.
You looked at him for a long moment. Broad shoulders tense. Hands restless. Eyes worried and stubborn and just a little haunted.
You couldâve pushed. You knew that. Couldâve joked your way around it, made light, baited him back into that charged space youâd been tiptoeing around for days. Instead, you nodded. âYeahâ, you said. âGot itâ.
Some of the tension leaked out of his posture. Not all, but enough.
âGoodâ, he said. âNow go lay down before you fall overâ.
You managed an eye-roll. âBossyâ.
He snorted. âBratâ.
You padded back to the couch and dropped onto it, grabbing the blanket. When you looked up, he was still in the hallway. âYou coming?â, you asked. âFor the very non-weird, fully clothed, door-locked sleep watch?â.
He huffed out a real laugh this time. âYeahâ, he said quietly. âIâm comingâ.
When he sat down next to you, he left a sliver more space than usual between you on the cushions. You closed it slowly, inch by inch, until your shoulder brushed his bicep through the fabric of his shirt. He didnât move away.
âHey, Ben?â, you murmured, eyes already heavy.
âYeah?â.
You hesitated. âThanks. For⌠not being a creep about itâ.
He snorted. âCongratulations. Youâve identified the lowest bar in the worldâ.
You smiled into the blanket. âStill countsâ.
âGo to sleepâ, he said.
You did.
And if, later, in that hazy space between dreaming and waking, you felt his fingers briefly brush your arm when you stirred, or heard a gruff, half-asleep, âCouple more daysâ, from somewhere beside you.
Well.
You knew better than to mention it the next morning.
Hey my lovely JF, I wanted to know if you're going to be doing book 2 of Taking Her In soon because I loved this story đđ
Hello Love đ
Thank you so so so much!!
I really, really tried to continue the story. For months, actually. But I just canât get back into it.
The past few days, I even went back and reread all the chapters, hoping it would spark something, but I just donât feel it anymore. And if Iâm being honest, Iâve never been fully satisfied with the story itself. Compared to some of my other projects, it feels pretty weak to me.
If what you loved most was the forbidden aspect of it, then I can tell you that I do have another unfinished project that explores a similar dynamic. But unfortunately, Iâve decided that I wonât be continuing Taking Her In after all. đ
Summary: Working with the Boys was already dangerous enough before you met Soldier Boy. But somewhere between gunfights, safe houses and near-death missions, the line between protecting each other and wanting each other starts getting dangerously blurred.
-requested-
(prequel to "Fucking Brats") But you can totally read both stories on their own)
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language, Underage Reader
Word Count: 5107
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The next morning started with Butcherâs boot hitting the side of the van. Youâd just managed to drift into that fragile layer of sleep where your brain stopped replaying warehouse gunfire. The impact jolted you awake so hard your teeth clicked. âRise and shine, sunshineâ, his muffled voice came through the metal. âField trip dayâ.
You groaned into the rolled-up hoodie youâd been using as a pillow, then untangled yourself from the back bench. The van smelled like coffee, sweat and too many people breathing the same air. Kimiko sat cross-legged on the floor, elbows on her knees and eyes half-lidded. You couldnât tell if sheâd slept at all. Her expression didn't change when you stirred, but she slid a thermos over with one foot.
You smiled. âMorning to you tooâ. She dipped her chin in a tiny nod.
Annie sat opposite you with her back against the van wall. âYou look like death warmed overâ, she said softly.
âCompliment takenâ, you muttered, rubbing at your eyes. âYou okay?â.
She blew out a humorless little puff. âJust love starting my day with the words âVought labâ and âunregulated experimentsâ. Really puts the pep in my stepâ.
Hughieâs head popped into view from the open side door. âHey, uh, Butcher says five minutes. So⌠you know. Donât⌠take tenâ. He smiled at you. Awkward but sincere, the way he always did, like he was checking you were still alive and intact.
You liked Hughie. It was hard not to. He was one of the only people in this whole mess who ever asked how you were and actually wanted an answer.
âHow many coffees have you had?â, you asked, squinting at him.
He glanced down at the cup in his hand. âDefine âhadââ.
Kimiko held up three fingers without looking. Hughie made a face. âOkayâ, he muttered. âItâs fine. Iâm fine. This is fineâ.
âIt would be more convincing if your eye wasnât twitchingâ, you said.
He slapped a hand over his face. âItâs notâokay, you know what, Iâm gonna go⌠exist somewhere else before Butcher starts inâ. He disappeared again.
You tugged your vest into place, feeling the familiar pinch under your arms. Annieâs gaze flicked to your hands. âYou sure youâre good with this?â, she asked quietly.
âWindow duty?â, You shrugged one shoulder. âIâve had worse gigsâ.
âI know what he saidâ, she murmured. âI also know what âwindow dutyâ turned into the last time Vought got jumpyâ.
You swallowed. âIâll be fine. Iâve got a great view and, you know⌠an emotional support war criminal down the hallâ.
Her mouth twitched. âThatâs⌠one way to put itâ. You didnât miss the way her eyes hardened when you said âwar criminalâ. She never bothered to hide how she felt about Soldier Boy. About what heâd done. About what he represented.
You couldnât really blame her. You just also couldnât stop the way your pulse jumped a fraction when his voice drifted in from outside, low and rough through the metal. ââŚtell your tech guy if he puts one more app on this thing, Iâm throwing it in the riverâ.
Frenchieâs laughter followed, high and delighted. âBut how will you play Candy Crush, mon capitaine?â.
Annie stood, brushing dust off her pants. âCome onâ, she said, reaching a hand down to haul you up. âLetâs go before Butcher decides âplanâ is optionalâ.
You stepped out into the gray morning. The building sat across the street like an apology. Vought had gone for bland this time. Glass, concrete and clean lines, no big flashy logo. Just another anonymous office block in a city full of them. That was how you knew it was bad.
MM stood by the hood of the van, Hughie hovered nearby, bouncing on his toes.
Soldier Boy leaned against a lamppost a few yards away, suit fully on today and his shield strapped in place. The misting rain left tiny dark spots on the faded green. He looked like youâd pulled a movie poster into the real world and then left it outside for a few months. His eyes cut to you as you joined the group. A quick up-down, checking vest, jacket, gear. When he reached your face, his gaze held for half a heartbeat before flicking away.
âAlright, listen upâ, MM said, bringing everyone in with a jerk of his chin. âWe go in teams. Me, Annie, Kimiko, Frenchie on main floor. Butcher and Hughie take the basement. Soldier Boy plays point, clears whatever barricades theyâve got. Y/Nââ.
âFifth floor, stairwell windowâ, you recited. âEyes on the front and side street. I see anything that doesnât look right, I call itâ.
âGoodâ, MM said. âWe keep coms light. No chatter. Just calls if something changesâ.
âIf you see Vought securityâ, Annie added, âdonât try to count them. Just say âpartyâ so we know to expect troubleâ.
âCuteâ, Butcher said. âIf our girl says âpartyâ, we leave the hors dâoeuvres and get the hell outâ.
You nodded, fingers worrying the little earpiece before slipping it into place. It crackled faintly in your ear as Frenchie tested channels. Kimiko signed something. Hughie translated without looking, eyes still on the building. âShe said if you see anything and your gut says ânopeâ, listen to itâ, he murmured. âDonât wait for us to say itâs badâ.
You glanced at Kimiko. She was watching you with that steady dark gaze. You lifted your hand, mimicking her earlier sign as best you could: okay. She huffed a tiny breath that mightâve been approval.
âAllons-yâ, Frenchie said cheerfully. âBefore I die of boredom instead of bulletsâ.
They broke, crossing the street in staggered pairs.
You stayed close to Soldier Boy without really meaning to, your steps syncing with his longer stride as you approached the side entrance MM had scoped out.
âStay behind meâ, he said, low enough only you could hear.
âWasnât planning on using you as a human shieldâ, you muttered.
He glanced down at you. âYou think youâd make a better one?â.
âDepends whoâs shootingâ.
One corner of his mouth twitched.
The side door looked locked. It was, for normal people. For Kimiko, it took three seconds and a twist of her wrist to convince it otherwise.
You followed the others into the dim hallway. It smelled like cleaning fluid and something chemical.
Fifth floor, you reminded yourself as they peeled off in different directions at MMâs hand signals. Stairs. Window. Quiet.
Your boots rang on the concrete steps as you climbed, breath puffing and vest shifting against your ribs. You could hear the murmur of voices in your earpiece, MM counting doors, Frenchie humming under his breath, Hughieâs nervous chuckle cut short by Butcherâs sharp âfocusâ.
At the third-floor landing, another set of footsteps joined yours. You glanced back. Soldier Boy was a few steps behind, taking the stairs like they were an afterthought. He barely seemed out of breath.
âI thought you were going to clear the wayâ, you whispered.
âI amâ, he said. âTop down. Youâre on the wayâ.
âDonât you usually, I donât know, blow through walls or something?â.
âYou want me to blow through walls in a building youâre in?â, he asked.
You opened your mouth, shut it again. Point to him.
The fifth-floor hallway looked like any office corridor. It had gray carpet, off-white walls and doors with numbers and little plastic nameplates that probably used to matter to someone. MM had marked your window office on the map. Third door on the right. You slipped inside, Soldier Boy following, and shut the door gently behind you.
The room was small. A desk, two chairs, a dead plant in the corner that had given up so hard it was basically dust. The blinds were half-drawn over the long window that overlooked the street. You went straight to the glass, fingers parting the blinds just enough to give you a narrow view of the road below.
âComs checkâ, MMâs voice came through your ear. âGround team in positionâ.
âBasement, tooâ, Hughie added. âItâs, uh⌠dark down hereâ.
You watched a delivery truck crawl past. A woman with a red umbrella paused to check her phone. âFifth floor, windowâ, you said quietly. âStreetâs normalâ.
âGood. Keep it that wayâ. The line crackled back to a murmur.
Behind you, Soldier Boy tested the door, turning the knob, checking the lock. âYou expecting someone to knock?â, you asked without turning.
âAlways expect someone to knockâ, he said. âThen youâre not surprised when they kick it in insteadâ.
You let the blinds settle a little more, leaving just enough gap to see without anyone catching your silhouette too clearly from the street.
Meanwhile Soldier Boy moved around the room like heâd done this a thousand times, because he had.
âYou usually babysit lookouts?â, you asked after a minute.
âUsually my lookouts donât need babysittingâ, he said.
You made a face at the glass. âYou know, thereâs this thing called a compliment. You might not have heard of it, old people sometimes struggle with new conceptsââ. He cut you off by stepping up beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. You jumped, more from surprise than the actual contact.
âGuy across the street at the bus stopâ, he said. âGray coat. What do you see?â.
You blinked, refocusing.
A man stood under the bus shelter, hands in his pockets. He looked like any salaryman in the city.
âMiddle-agedâ, you murmured. âWhite. Shoes too nice for this neighborhood. Keeps checking the same spot on his wrist but heâs not wearing a watchâ.
âGoodâ, Soldier Boy said. âWhat else?â.
You watched. The man shifted his weight, tapping his foot. When a bus rolled up, he didnât move toward it. Didnât even glance at the route number. âHeâs not waiting for the busâ, you said slowly. âHeâs waiting for something else to pull upâ.
âYeahâ, Soldier Boy said. âPerson? Car? Doesnât matter. Point is, heâs not background. Your brain tagged him already. Donât ignore that next timeâ. The praise was mild. Offhand. You felt it everywhere anyway.
âNext time?â, you asked. âPlanning on making this, like, a regular thing?â.
âNot if you get shot todayâ, he said.
You snorted. Down below, the bus pulled away. The man in the gray coat checked his wrist again. Then he turned and walked out of your line of sight. âI lost himâ, you reported quietly.
âClock itâ, Soldier Boy said. âYou see him again, tell themâ.
You nodded, forcing details into your memory like you were pinning them to a board.
Behind your ribcage, your heart found a steadier rhythm that wasnât just fear anymore. Some of it was focus. Some of it was knowing he was right there, close enough that if the door burst open, someone would have to go through him to get to you. It was stupid to find that comforting. You did anyway.
Minutes stretched. You watched the street, the people, the cars. Soldier Boy stayed mostly silent, leaning against the wall near the door. But you could feel his attention. It wasnât just on the hallway. Every time you shifted, every time your voice changed even a little, his gaze flicked over.
At one point, Annieâs voice cut in, tighter than before. âWe found the lab. Kidsâ stuffâ.
âGet your samples and get outâ, MM said. âWeâre not here to play heroâ.
âWe literally areââ. Hughie started. âI will smack youâ, MM warned.
You swallowed hard. Your fingers dug into the window frame.
âY/N?â, Annieâs voice came again. âAny movement out there?â.
You scanned the street. âStill normal. Your creepy normal, but⌠normalâ. You almost relaxed.
Then a black SUV turned onto the street. It wasnât special. You saw a hundred like it every day. But your gut went sharp and cold the second you clocked it. Tinted windows. No plates. The way it slowed as it passed the building, then circled the block instead of pulling over. Your breath shortened. âContactâ, you said quietly. âBlack SUV with no plate. Just circled. Didnât stopâ.
âCould be nothingâ, Butcher said.
âCouldâ, Soldier Boy said, voice low behind you. âProbably isnâtâ.
âGive us a heads up if it comes round againâ, MM said. âWeâre almost doneâ.
It came around again less than a minute later. Same speed. Same slow crawl past the front. This time, it didnât keep going. It pulled into a spot down the block. Two men got out.
You didnât need powers to feel the shift. The way they moved, the cut of their coats, the bulge at their waists. They screamed security in a way plainclothes never fully hid.
âPartyâ, you said, pulse spiking. âTwo out of the SUV. Theyâre armed. Heading for your entranceâ.
âCopyâ, MM said. You could hear his steps pick up. âWeâre movingâ.
You tracked the men down the street, following the dark shapes until they passed directly under your window and out of view.
âMore?â, Soldier Boy asked.
âNot yetâ, you whispered. âJust the twoâ.
âThen thereâs moreâ, he said. âVought doesnât send a pair to check on their illegal science project. Theyâll send a squad once these two donât call inâ.
âSo we⌠what, tell them to run?â, you asked.
He studied you for a beat. âWhatâs your gut say?â.
Your gut screamed.
âRunâ, you said. âNowâ. You didnât wait for permission. âEveryone, bailââ, you started into the com.
Just then, the building shook. It wasnât a big shake. Not at first. Just a low, heavy thump that rattled the glass and sent a fine dusting of plaster from the ceiling.
âReportâ, MM snapped. âWhat was that?â.
âNot usâ, Frenchie said. âWe didnât touch anything yet, I swear on all that explodesââ. A second impact hit, higher up this time. You staggered, hand slapping against the window to steady yourself.
âUpstairsâ, Annie said, breathing harder now. âTheyâve got someone on the roofââ.
âWeâre leavingâ, Butcher cut in. âNow. Everyone to theââ. The com exploded with static, a high-pitched squeal that made you flinch, ripping the earpiece out on instinct.
âShitâ, you hissed, rubbing at your ear. âShit, shitââ.
âComs are jammedâ, Soldier Boy said. He pushed off the wall, all of the lazy slouch gone in an instant. âThey know weâre hereâ.
Your heart hammered so hard it felt like it was trying to punch through your ribs. âThey donât know Iâm hereâ, you blurted. âI could maybe get down the stairs and around andââ. He was at your side in two strides, fingers closing around your forearm. Not hard. Firm. âHeyâ, he snapped. âStairs, remember?â.
You stared at his hand on your arm, then up at his face. His eyes were sharp, clear, no confusion at all about what he was about to do.
âYou move when it feels wrongâ, he said. âYou said it feels wrongâ.
Your throat bobbed. âYeahâ.
âThen we moveâ.
The building shuddered again, this time with a rising hum beneath it that made the hairs on your arms stand up. For a heartbeat, your panic wasnât about guns or labs or Vought. It was about the man in front of you and the glow building somewhere deep in his chest.
His grip loosened for a fraction of a second as he sucked in a breath, jaw clenching. The air went hot. Not enough to burn, just enough that you felt sweat prick your spine.
âHeyâ, you said quickly, without thinking. Your free hand came up, fingers brushing his wrist. âBenâ. The name slipped out before you could drag it back.
His eyes snapped to yours. The humming stuttered. The heat ebbed, just a little.
âYou good?â, you asked, voice low, words trembling but steady enough to hold.
He stared at you like he was trying to figure out how youâd just pulled a pin out of a grenade and not blown your hand off. âYeahâ, he said finally. âYeah. Letâs go, kidâ.
-
You stumbled inside with the others, the world narrowed to the ringing in your ears and the weird, floaty feeling that came after adrenaline dipped but before the pain caught up.
âShoes off the couchâ, MM said automatically, even though the couch in question looked like tetanus on springs.
Frenchie collapsed onto it anyway, boots and all, one hand clamped to the side of his head where a cut oozed slowly through his fingers. âMon Dieu, I have seen deathâ, he groaned. âHe was very ugly and wearing a suitâ.
Kimiko climbed up onto the back of the couch instead, balancing there like a cat, eyes scanning everyone.
Hughie hovered by the door, one eye already purpling, hair sticking up in ten different directions. âWellâ, he said, voice too high. âThat was⌠that was somethingâ.
âThat was Voughtâ, Annie said flatly, shrugging out of her jacket. Her hoodie underneath had scorch marks and one sleeve ripped open, but her skin beneath it was mostly untouched. âThey knew we were comingâ.
âNo shitâ, Butcher grunted, tossing his gun onto the table with a clatter. âQuestion is, howâ.
You heard them. You understood the words. But they floated around you instead of landing, like you were underwater and everyone else was on the other side of the glass. Your side hurt. It had been a distant ache on the way out of the building, shoved to the back of the line behind donât get shot, donât fall, donât lose sight of him, keep moving.
Now that youâd stopped, it moved up.
You felt the sticky warmth first, the way your t-shirt clung to your skin on the right side, just above your hip. Every step pulled at it, a wet, gluey drag. You kept your jacket tucked close, fingers gripping the hem like you could hold the bleeding in.
âY/Nâ. Annieâs voice cut through the ringing a little. âYou okay?â.
You nodded too fast. âYeah. Iâmâyeahâ.
She gave you the kind of look people gave toddlers who said they didnât need a nap while yawning. But she didnât push.
MM dropped the med kit onto the table with a thump. âAlrightâ, he said. âLine up. Worst bleeding gets first dibsâ.
âThat would be meâ, Frenchie announced, holding up his bloody hand like a student with the right answer. âI am a fountain of the red, it is very dramaticââ. Kimiko reached down from her perch and smacked the back of his head lightly. Then she pointed at you.
You froze.
âIâm goodâ, you said quickly. âItâs just bruises. You shouldâFrenchieâs actually leaking, and Hughie looks like he got in a fight with a raccoonââ.
Kimikoâs gaze dropped pointedly to your side. You followed it. The dark patch on your jacket had bloomed while you werenât paying attention, creeping down toward your thigh. It wasnât a lot. Not that much. But it was enough to make your stomach drop. âShitâ, you muttered.
âWowâ, you said weakly. âLove the observational skills, thank you, very helpfulââ. Butcherâs head snapped up. âWhat?â.
âIâm fineâ, you said automatically.
Soldier Boy had been standing by the window, looking out through the grimy glass like he expected Vought to send a welcoming committee. At the word âbleedingâ, his shoulders tensed. He turned. His eyes dropped to the stain on your jacket. The air in the room went weirdly still for you, everyone else blurring at the edges.
âJacket offâ, MM said, already snapping on gloves.
You hesitated. It wasnât modesty, not really. Youâd never had the luxury. Getting patched up in front of people was normal in this life. Skin was skin; everybody had it. But the cut was right along the curve of your hip bone where your jeans sat low and your shirt rode up when you lifted your arms. You knew, with that horrible premonition your brain liked to give you, that whatever clothing was between the wound and the world was about to get pulled out of the way.
And there was a supe in the room with eyes like a spotlight and a jaw that clenched when you said âseventeenâ. You swallowed.
âYou heard the manâ, Butcher said, too sharp. âDonât bleed all over the carpet, the landlordâll have my depositâ.
âThere is no depositâ, Frenchie mumbled into the couch cushion.
âFigure of speechâ, Butcher snapped.
âY/Nâ, Annie said softer. âLet him look. Pleaseâ.
You shrugged your jacket off, fingers clumsy. The t-shirt underneath had gone from gray to almost black on one side. The fabric clung when you tried to lift it, the dried edge of the blood sticking to your skin. MM hissed. âThatâs more than âjust bruisesâ. Sitâ.
The nearest seat was the rickety chair by the table. You went for it, but someone moved faster. Soldier Boy pulled the chair out with his boot, turning it so the back faced the room instead of the window. He jerked his chin at it. âSitâ, he echoed. You sat. He stepped back immediately, giving MM room. You saw the conscious choice in it, the way he put himself on the other side of the table, hands on the back of the spare chair, grip white-knuckled on wood instead of you.
MM knelt, peeling your shirt up carefully to expose the wound. The cut wasnât huge. Maybe five inches, jagged, like something sharp had skimmed across rather than gone in. You remembered, distantly, clipped by the edge of broken metal as youâd thrown yourself through a doorway. It looked worse than it was. Most things did when they were painted red.
âClean sliceâ, MM muttered. âCouldâve been a lot uglierâ.
âStory of my lifeâ, you said through your teeth.
He cleaned it with something that burned like liquid fire, then pressed gauze down. You hissed, fingers digging into the edge of the seat.
âDonât be a babyâ, Butcher said.
âYou want to trade?â, you shot back, sweat prickling your neck. He didnât answer.
Annie hovered behind MM, watching his hands like she wanted to help but knew better than to interfere with his system. Kimiko had gone back to scanning the room, but her eyes kept sliding back to you every few seconds, as if to check you were still upright.
Across the table, Soldier Boy watched.
He was careful about where he looked, you noticed that, even through the pain. His gaze stayed on MMâs hands, on the wound itself, never dropping lower, never lingering on the strip of skin exposed at your waist.
When MM shifted, tugging your waistband down half an inch to check the bottom edge of the cut, Soldier Boyâs jaw clenched. His eyes snapped up, fixing on your face instead. âDeep?â, he asked.
âNot deepâ, MM said. âMissed anything important. Just⌠messyâ.
âHeyâ, you protested weakly. âMy hip is very important to meâ.
âWeâll get you a new oneâ, Butcher said. âPut it on Voughtâs tabâ.
MM taped the last bit of bandage in place, the white already blooming through with pink. He sat back on his heels with a sigh. âYouâre gonna be soreâ, he said. âNo running marathons. No lifts. No bending if you can help itâ.
You saluted halfheartedly. âYes, dadâ.
âDonât call me thatâ, he said automatically, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Then he stood with a small groan. âAlright, Hughie, youâre next". The roomâs attention shifted. The pressure eased off you a little.
Your side throbbed in time with your heartbeat. You let your shirt fall back down carefully over the bandage. When you looked up, Soldier Boy was still watching you.
The others had moved on. MM poking at Hughieâs face, Frenchie whining as Kimiko disinfected his cut with a little too much enthusiasm and Annie rummaging in the kit.
He hadnât.
You swallowed, suddenly very aware of the sweat plastering your hair to your forehead, the smudge of something.. soot? blood? on your wrist, the way your legs trembled just a little every time you shifted. âWhat?â, you asked, defensive out of habit more than anything. âYouâve never seen someone spring a leak before?â.
His eyes flicked to the side of your shirt, then back up. âYou shouldâve said something soonerâ.
You snorted. âWe were kind of busy not dyingâ.
âDoesnât take long to say âIâm hitââ, he said. âLess breath than half the crap you were mouthing offâ.
Heat rose in your cheeks. âSorry I didnât prioritize my commentary to your standardsâ.
âYou donât have to impress anyoneâ, he said flat. âLeast of all these idiotsâ.
Butcher made an offended noise from the couch. âOiâ. Soldier Boy didnât look at him. Didnât look away from you.
You clenched your jaw. âI wasnât trying to impress anyoneâ. He raised a brow, like he didnât believe you but wasnât going to argue it now. Your fingers picked at the frayed edge of the bandage under your shirt. âBesidesâ, you muttered quieter. âItâs not like I couldâve done anything about it in there. I get shot, I keep moving. Thatâs the rule, right?â.
âThatâs a ruleâ, he said. âDoesnât mean itâs a smart oneâ.
You rolled your eyes. âRight. And youâre the poster boy for smart choicesâ.
He huffed. âNo. Iâm the poster boy for still being alive after making a lot of dumb onesâ. You didnât have an answer for that so you shut up until: âYou didnât get hit at all?â, you asked, half accusation, half genuine curiosity.
âBenefits packageâ, he said. âYou get one if you sign up in the â40sâ.
âWowâ, you murmured. âWay to flex your senior discountâ.
That almost-smile ghosted across his face again, there and gone.
âBenâ, Annie said suddenly. You and he both looked over. She stood by the table, a hand braced on the wood. Her eyes were on him, narrowed and her jaw tight.
âYou were glowingâ, she said. âBack thereâ. She had felt it, even through layers of concrete and steel.
The room shifted. Kimikoâs gaze snapped to his chest. Hughieâs mouth pressed into a thin line and MM stilled.
You remembered the hum under your skin, the heat in the air, the way his fingers had clenched around your arm. You also remembered the way it had stopped when youâd said his name.
He rolled his shoulders, as if shaking off the memory. âWe were under attack. That tends to happenâ.
âYou almost went nuclear in a building with all of us in itâ, Annie said. âAgainâ.
âDidnât, thoughâ, he said.
âBecause she stopped youâ, she snapped, pointing at you with the gauze.
All eyes swung your way. You wanted to sink through the chair and become part of the questionable carpet. âI didnâtââ, you started. âI just⌠spoke to him. Thatâs notââ.
âIt workedâ, Hughie said quietly.
âDoesnât matterâ, Annie said. âIt shouldnât have to work. We shouldnât have to worry if youâre going to fry us along with them every time things get hotâ.
Benâs jaw clenched. The air got heavier, not from power this time, just from the way his presence filled the room when he pulled in on himself like that. âI kept your asses aliveâ, he said. No brag, just fact. âYou want to pick a fight about what mightâve happened, go ahead. But you do it after you admit youâd be in that fucking labâs basement right now without meâ.
âWeâve survived plenty without youâ.
âYeah?â, he said. âHowâs that been working out for you?â.
âEnoughâ, Butcher cut in sharply. âWeâre all in one piece. Thatâs a win today. We take it, we figure out the rest laterâ.
Silence hung heavy for a few seconds. Kimiko dropped lightly to the floor from the back of the couch. She tapped Annieâs arm once, then signed something.
Annieâs shoulders eased a fraction. She huffed out a breath and turned away, muttering, âFine. Laterâ.
The moment stretched. Then it broke, conversation splintering off into new arguments and gallows humor.
Ben looked at you one more time. Just a brief, measured glance, like checking an old injury. âYou should change that dressinâ in a couple hoursâ, he said. âDonât wait till it soaks throughâ.
âI knowâ, you muttered.
âDo you?â.
You met his eyes, irritation sparking through the dull ache. âYes".
Ben pushed off the chair and headed back toward the window, toward the shitty view of the alley and the brick wall across from it.
You watched his back for a second. The curve of his shoulders. The way he checked the street again, out of habit, like he couldnât stand having his eyes off potential threats for more than a few minutes.
âHeyâ, you called softly.
He paused, half-turned.
ââŚthanksâ, you said. The word tasted weird on your tongue, like something you hadnât practiced enough. âFor⌠you know. For helping me and for not⌠explodingâ.
His gaze flicked over your face, searching for sarcasm. Finding none. âDonât thank me for doing the bare minimumâ, he said. âYouâre not dead. Iâm not dead. Thatâs just Tuesdayâ.
âWednesdayâ, you corrected automatically.
He huffed. Then, softer, so soft you almost missed it under the hum of the room: âThree weeks, huh?â.
Your stomach did that stupid little flip again. âYeahâ.
His eyes darkened a shade. âTry not to get yourself killed before thenâ, he said.
You tried to make a joke. Tried to say something like, Wow, you must really be looking forward to not worrying about child labor laws, or What, you got me a cake or something? But the words died on your tongue. âYeahâ, you said instead, quiet. âIâll tryâ.
â¨Okay guys, this time Iâm letting you decide the ending again â¨
Iâm about to finish a fic. I donât want to spoil too much, but while it can be read as a standalone, itâs actually more of a prequel/companion story to another fic of mine.
Right now, I could end it on a happy note. The continuation doesnât exactly start out happy, but this story could still get a proper happy ending.
OrâŚ
I could add another chapter or two and take it closer to where the continuation begins. If I do that, though, this story definitely wonât end happily đ
So what would you prefer? A happy ending for this one, or a more bittersweet ending that ties directly into the next story? đđ
Summary: Working with the Boys was already dangerous enough before you met Soldier Boy. But somewhere between gunfights, safe houses and near-death missions, the line between protecting each other and wanting each other starts getting dangerously blurred.
-requested-
(prequel to "Fucking Brats") But you can totally read both stories on their own)
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language, Underage Reader
Word Count: 5154
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You heard him before you saw him. He was the kind of noise that didnât fit the shitty dockside warehouse you were crouched in.
âStay down, munchkinâ, Butcher barked over his shoulder, voice rough with impatience.
You were already down, pressed behind a stack of damp cardboard boxes that smelled like mold and old fish. Bullets chewed through the metal shipping container opposite you, sparks spitting off like fireworks. Your heart hammered in your ears, a too-fast drum that almost drowned out everything else. Almost.
Because then came the second sound. Not a gunshot. Not an explosion. Something heavier.
A man screamed, then cut off halfway through like someone had hit a mute button, followed by the wet crunch of bone and the screech of twisting metal.
Frenchie swore in French from somewhere to your left. MMâs voice came controlled, calling positions and counting heads. You only caught pieces of it because your brain was too busy cataloguing how your hands were shaking and how the gun in your grip suddenly felt like a toy. You hadnât signed up for this level of chaos.
Okay, technically you had. But you thought âsimple handoffâ meant⌠less bullets. More walking away alive.
âOi!â, Butcher shouted, loud enough to slice through the chaos. âTook your sweet fuckinâ time, didnât ya?â.
Another clank, closer now, and something big moved just out of your line of sight.
You risked a quick peek around the edge of the boxes and the first thing you saw was the shield.
It wasnât shiny like in the old footage, the propaganda reels youâd grown up seeing on cheap cable reruns. It used to gleam, back when they color-corrected everything to make America look golden. Now, under the warehouseâs stuttering lights, the thing looked battered. Dented at the rim. Scratched to hell.
The second thing you saw was the man carrying it.
He wore green, thick fabric and armor plates, the kind of suit designed by someone who didnât care if you could breathe as long as you looked like a poster. Broad shoulders, heavy boots, the star on his chest dulled and scuffed but still unmistakable.
Soldier Boy.
For half a second your brain refused to believe it. He was a history meme. An old Vought relic. That one guy your generation used as a joke whenever someone said âreal men donât complainâ.
And yet there he was, in the middle of the warehouse, standing like the gunfire was background noise and the dead guy at his feet was an inconvenience.
The corpse twitched once, arm bent the wrong way around a metal support pole. The pole itself was bent too, like it had been hit by something very fast and very heavy.
Soldier Boy rolled his shoulder, adjusting his grip on the shield. âThought you said this was a quick in-and-outâ, he called to Butcher without turning around.
âWas, till these tossers brought party favorsâ, Butcher called back. âYouâre welcomeâ.
Another burst of bullets crackled from the catwalk above. You flinched instinctively. Soldier Boy didnât. The rounds pinged off the shield and the metal pillar behind him, dropping uselessly to the floor.
He sighed. Actually sighed. Like someone had made him get up during the best part of a movie.
Then he moved.
Youâd watched supes fight before, mostly through screens, the curated Vought clips and shaky phone footage. It never felt real. Too edited and too clean. Even the messy stuff had jump cuts. This was not clean.
He launched himself forward with that shield up, boots pounding concrete and suddenly the guy on the catwalk was flailing, firing wildly. Soldier Boy flicked his arm, not even a full throw, just a lazy snap of his wrist. The shield flew. It hit the railing first, snapping it like a twig, then rebounded into the gunmanâs chest with a sickening crack. The guyâs body folded over the edge, half his weight dangling. You heard him choking on his own breath as Soldier Boy caught the returning shield one-handed without looking, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
You realized your mouth was a little open. You closed it quickly. âAre we just gonna let him do all the work?â, you muttered, more to yourself than anyone.
MM answered anyway from behind a stack of pallets. âIf he wants it, he can have it. Less paperwork for usâ.
Another gunman popped up from behind a crate, aiming not at Soldier Boy but at where you knew Butcher was pinned down. Before you could think, your body moved. You leaned out, bringing your pistol up with both hands, thumb brushing the safety youâd triple-checked a dozen times before leaving the van. One breath in. You squeezed the trigger.
The recoil jumped up your arms, familiar and still jarring. The guy dropped, bullet catching his shoulder and spinning him sideways. He slammed into the crate and didnât get back up.
â(Y/N)!â, MM snapped. âCover!â.
You yanked yourself back behind the boxes, shoulders colliding with soggy cardboard, adrenaline fizzing in your veins. Your palms were slick, your fingers tingling.
âNice shot, ma petiteâ, Frenchie called over. âBut maybe we do not stick our heads out like⌠how do you say⌠whack-a-mole, yes?â.
âCouldnât see you doing anything from hereâ, you shot back, because your mouth always worked fine when you were scared.
Butcherâs laugh came from somewhere across the floor, sharp and vicious. âSheâs pulling more weight than you, Frenchie. Try not to let the kid show you upâ.
âDo not call herââ.
The word âkidâ hung in the air, unfinished and oddly heavy, because Soldier Boy had turned.
He was closer now, maybe twenty feet away, chest heaving just a little, hair a mess of sweat and dust. Up close, he didnât look like the airbrushed posters. His beard was a day or two past âintentionalâ and there were deep lines around his eyes that hadnât been there in the vintage footage.
His gaze slid across the warehouse, taking in bodies, the Boysâ positions, exits, the still-open loading bay where the weapons deal had gone to shit. Then, for the first time, his eyes landed on you.
You had been looked at by dangerous people before. Dealers, mid-level supes, creeps in alleys who measured your wallet against the chance of witnesses. You recognized that weight. The evaluation. The quick, cold math.
This was different. Not softer. Not kinder. Just⌠different.
His gaze dragged over your too-large jacket, your scuffed boots, the gun in your hands. It flicked to the stack of boxes you were using as cover, the terrible choice of it, really, and you saw his jaw tighten by a fraction. âChristâ, he muttered. âThis what passes for a crew now?â.
âNice to see you too, grandpaâ, Butcher said as he stepped out from behind a forklift, shotgun resting on his shoulder. Blood spatter dotted his coat. None of it looked like his. âDealâs buggered, but we got what we came for. Mostlyâ.
You did a quick mental inventory, fingers patting down the inside of your jacket. The flash drive was still there, tucked against your ribs, warm from your skin.
âOi, short stackâ, Butcher called to you without looking. âYou still got our little present?â.
You nodded before remembering he couldnât see that from his angle. âYeahâ, you said, voice steadier than you felt. âSafe and unperforatedâ.
Soldier Boyâs brows ticked up, just a little. âYou brought a kid as your courier?â.
âSheâs cheapâ, Butcher said with a shrug. âAnd she bitesâ.
His eyes stayed on you a beat too long. You felt your shoulders square up on instinct. You hated that the word âkidâ still stung, even when you knew, objectively, thatâs what you were to people like them. You were the errand runner. The one who fit through ventilation shafts. The one nobody really noticed until you made them.
âIâm right here, you knowâ, you said. âAnd I can hear you. Old age hitting the ears already orâŚ?â.
Frenchie made a soft choking noise. MM muttered something that sounded suspiciously like âoh, hell noâ. Butcher grinned, wide and wolfish. âTold you. Bitesâ.
Soldier Boyâs gaze sharpened. Not angry, exactly. More⌠curious. Like youâd just done something unexpected in a game where he already thought he knew all the moves.
He took a few steps closer, boots echoing in the sudden quiet. Most of the gunfire had died out, either the remaining goons had run, or they were in pieces on the floor somewhere behind him.
Up close, you could see scrapes along the side of his face, a smear of someone elseâs blood just beneath his ear. His eyes were greener than they looked on screen. Youâd always thought they were blue.
He stopped a few feet from your makeshift cardboard bunker, looking down at you. You resisted the urge to stand up just so you werenât craning your neck. Pride and survival had always fought a stupid little war inside you. âName?â, he asked.
You opened your mouth, paused, and then gave him your name. âY/Nâ.
He hummed, like he was filing that away somewhere he might need later. âHow old are you, Y/N?â. The question had teeth. You felt them.
Butcher stepped in before you could answer. âOld enough to hold a gun and not piss herself, thatâs all you need to knowâ. Soldier Boy didnât look at him. Didnât move his eyes from you. âDidnât ask youâ.
The air around you seemed to shrink, like the whole warehouse had taken a breath and was waiting to see what youâd do. You swallowed. âSeventeenâ, you said. You didnât add the âand three-quartersâ, because that sounded pathetic even in your own head. âFor nowâ.
His eyes cooled a degree. Not in a way anyone else wouldâve caught, maybe. But you were close enough, watching close enough, that you saw it.
âFuckinâ hellâ, he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone. He straightened, rolling his shoulder again, shield shifting on his arm. âYou drag me out here, tell me itâs a clean job, and youâve got a teenager running point?â.
âRelax, grandpaâ, you snapped before you could stop yourself. âIâm not made of glassâ.
âCouldâve fooled me, hiding behind fucking cardboardâ, he shot back.
Heat crawled up your neck. You glanced at the boxes, at the pathetic damp corners, and forced yourself not to squirm. "It worked, didnât it? Iâm not deadâ.
âYetâ, he said. âGive it time. Stupid gets you there faster than bulletsâ.
âAlright, you twoâ, MM cut in, voice carrying that tired edge he got when everyone around him was being especially stupid. âSave the bonding for later. We need to move before more of these idiots show up, or Vought decides to send someone who can actually shootâ.
Butcher jerked his chin toward the far exit. âFrenchie, clear the way. Shortstack, youâre glued to my hip. If you wander off, Iâm not wasting gas money coming back for youâ.
You rolled your eyes but pushed yourself to your feet, legs shaky but functional. The room tilted for a second, then settled. You holstered your pistol with fingers that finally started to remember what not shaking felt like.
As the group moved, you found yourself falling in beside Soldier Boy without meaning to. It was just where the path naturally funneled you, the space between pallets and overturned crates narrowing into a corridor.
He was taller than youâd thought from the old videos. Or maybe you were just shorter than you liked to imagine. Up close, you could hear the faint jangle of gear on his belt, the creak of worn leather under the armor.
âHe always bring children to gunfights?â, he asked, voice low enough that Butcher up ahead probably wouldnât catch it.
You stared straight ahead, boots crunching over broken glass. âYou always show up late enough that the âchildrenâ have to do all the work?â.
His mouth twitched in something close to a smile for a man who probably didnât remember how to do the real thing without cameras on him. âYou get that mouth from him or is that original material?â, he asked.
âWho, Butcher?â, you snorted. âPlease. He wishes he was this funnyâ.
Soldier Boy huffed out something that mightâve been a laugh. It sounded rusty, like it hadnât been used in a while.
You didnât know then that youâd remember that sound years later, in kitchens and warm living rooms and hospital corridors, in spaces where there were no gunshots and no moldy cardboard boxes, just worn-out blankets and girls with his eyes.
Right then, it was just a strange, short noise from a stranger whoâd stepped out of your childhood TV and into your very fucked up night.
As you reached the side door, Butcher threw it open and the thick warehouse air gave way to the cold bite of the docks. Rain misted down from a heavy sky, turning everything slick and reflective.
âYouâ, Butcher jerked his chin at you, âvan. Now. Donât touch anything that looks importantâ. You rolled your eyes again for good measure and started toward the parked vehicle, the drive in your pocket feeling heavier with every step.
Behind you, Soldier Boy said, âYou got her running jobs regular?â.
âWhy, you planning on filing a complaint with child services?â, Butcher sneered. âWhatâs it to you?â.
You didnât hear his answer. The wind swallowed it as you jogged across the cracked asphalt, jacket flapping, rain needling your face.
You didnât know what heâd said later either, back in the warehouse after you were shut away in the van, fingers worrying at the drive in your pocket while Frenchie argued about playlists and MM grumbled about gas.
You only knew this: When the side door slid open again and they all climbed in, Soldier Boy paused for half a second before stepping up. His eyes flicked to you, one quick, assessing glance. And whatever heâd decided in that moment, you felt it like a line being drawn somewhere you couldnât quite see yet.
You were seventeen.
Youâd just watched a man bend steel with his shoulder and kill three people with a shield like it was nothing.
You told yourself the way your chest felt tight, the way your skin buzzed, was just adrenaline.
You were wrong. But you wouldnât realize that for a well, a while.
-
Two weeks later, you were late.
Not âthe missionâs blown, weâre all going to dieâ late. More âButcherâs going to call you something creative and youâre going to have to pretend it doesnât get under your skinâ late.
The stairwell reeked of piss and cheap cleaner as you took the steps two at a time, breath puffing in short bursts. Your boots slapped concrete, the sound echoing up the narrow shaft, too loud in your own ears.
Fourth floor, left, end of the hallway. Thatâs what Frenchie had texted back then⌠after eight spelling errors and one picture of a cat for no reason.
The door at the end of the hall looked like all the others: flaking paint, crooked numbers, someoneâs attempt at graffiti half scrubbed off. If you didnât know better, youâd think it was just another apartment where someone yelled at reality TV at three in the morning. You knew better.
You didnât bother knocking. Butcher hated knocking. Said it made people feel like they had a choice about seeing you. The door stuck at first, swollen from humidity, then jerked open with a protesting creak. The smell of stale cigarette smoke, burned coffee and the lingering tang of⌠frenchies creepy chemicals hit you instantly.
The room used to be someoneâs living room. The landlord had probably rented it out as âcozyâ and âfull of characterâ. Now the only character it had was bullet holes in the plaster and a spiderweb of cracks near the boarded-up window.
Frenchie was perched on the arm of a stained sofa, disassembling a handgun with the kind of care most people reserved for fine jewelry. MM sat at the rickety table with a notebook, pen tapping in a slow, irritated rhythm.
And at the far corner of the room, in the only chair that wasnât falling apart, sat Soldier Boy.
You stopped just inside the doorway, momentum dying all at once.
He had his boots propped on an overturned coke crate, leaning back like a king on a very shitty throne. The green suit was half there. Chest armor off, gloves off, sleeves shoved up forearms corded with muscle and scattered scars. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, ash long and fragile.
There was a phone in his other hand. A modern one, sleek and black, looking wrong in fingers that had once wrapped around rotary dials. He held it like it might bite, thumb poking at the screen with exaggerated suspicion.
âYou broke it yet?â, MM asked without looking up from his notes.
âFeels brokenâ, Soldier Boy muttered. âDamn thing doesnât even have buttons. Howâs that an improvement?â.
âThatâs what I been telling the kidsâ, Butcher said dryly. âAll this swiping. No respect for a good dial toneâ.
You closed the door a little too loudly. A few heads turned. Soldier Boyâs eyes went to you, quick and precise, like theyâd been waiting for something to do that wasnât losing a fight with touchscreens.
âYouâre lateâ, MM said, giving you the dad stare over the top of his notebook.
âBus broke downâ, you lied easily, shrugging out of your jacket. âAlso there was a grandma crossing the street with, like, twelve dogs andââ. Butcher snorted. âSave the stand-up routine for open mic night. Get in. Door, shutâ.
âIt is shutâ, you said, then realized it had bounced back open a crack from the warped frame. You kicked it gently with your heel until it clicked.
Soldier Boy watched the whole thing, eyes tracking your movements like he was cataloguing them. Not in a hungry way tho. None of the gross, lingering attention you were used to from men who thought your age was an invitation. Just⌠taking stock. âWhereâs your vest?â, he asked.
You blinked. âMy.. what?â.
âVestâ, he repeated. âBulletproof? Looks like shit? Smells worse? That oneâ.
You glanced at the back of the chair near the table, where your vest hung in a sad, crumpled heap. âThereâ.
âNot on youâ, he said. âWhich was the fucking point of itâ.
âI walked hereâ, you argued. âLast I checked, buses donât usually open fire on passengersâ.
âYou live in this cityâ, MM said without looking up. âGive it timeâ.
Frenchie giggled softly. âMaybe next month we do a field test, eh? See how many rounds it takes to improve the public transit systemâ.
You rolled your eyes and went to grab the vest, shrugging it on. It was too big in the shoulders, the straps double-folded and taped down so it wouldnât slide off. It made you feel smaller every time you put it on, like you were playing dress-up in someone elseâs apocalypse. âHappy now?â, you asked.
âMarginallyâ, Soldier Boy said.
âButcherâ, you said, turning to him. âYou didnât say he was going to be hereâ.
âI didnât say he wasnâtâ, Butcher answered. âThatâs how surprises workâ.
âYou got a problem?â, Soldier Boy asked, flicking ash into an overflowing tray on the crate. âI can wait outside if your playdate rules donât allow R-rated guestsâ.
The retort was right there, sharp and stupid, perched on the tip of your tongue. You swallowed it.
âI just like to know when historyâs going to be in the roomâ, you said instead. âCouldâve worn something more patrioticâ. Frenchie made a soft oooo sound under his breath, like a kid at a playground fight. MM sighed.
Soldier Boy looked at you for a beat, then huffed out that not-quite-laugh again. âYeah, well. History doesnât dress up for you, sweetheartâ.
You hated the way your stomach did a little flip at the endearment. It wasnât special. He probably called everyone that. Waitresses. Enemies. The mirror.
But he hadnât called you âkidâ today, soâŚ
You took the chair nearest the door, a cheap plastic thing that wobbled if you breathed too hard. You hooked your foot around one of its legs to keep it steady and leaned forward on your elbows, eyes flicking to the map spread out on the table. âYou dragged me across townâ, you said. âWhatâs the crisis?â.
Butcher tapped a spot on the map with the end of a pen. âVoughtâs running a little side project outta this building. Lab rats, Compound V knockoffs, you know the drill. Weâre going for a look-see. Frenchieâs bringing the toys, MMâs babysitting the exits, and our guest star hereââ, he jerked his chin at Soldier Boy ââplays battering ramâ.
âTypecastingâ, Soldier Boy muttered, but he didnât argue.
âAnd me?â, you asked.
âYouâ, Butcher said, âare going to sit your arse in the van, keep the engine running, and be ready to drive like hell if this all goes tits-upâ.
You opened your mouth to protest immediately. âI can do recon, you saidââ.
âI said you could learn to do reconâ, he cut in. âToday, you learn how to keep a vehicle warm and your head down. We clear?â.
It stung more than you wanted it to. Two weeks ago youâd taken a shot in a warehouse and heâd bragged about you showing up Frenchie. Now suddenly you were relegated to car warmer. You forced your voice to stay even. âClearâ.
Soldier Boy watched that whole exchange, smoke curling from his cigarette in lazy spirals. âShe got eyesâ, he said after a moment. âUse themâ.
Butcherâs head snapped toward him. âPardon?â.
He nodded at you. âKid saw that gunman at the docks before you did. Took him out. Sheâs jumpy, but sheâs not blindâ.
You stared at him. The room went a little quieter around the edges. Even Frenchie paused in his weapon surgery. Butcher squinted. âWasnât aware youâd developed a mentoring programâ.
âI didnâtâ. Soldier Boy shrugged. âJust saying. You want her to stay alive, donât treat her like luggage. Shit goes sideways, sheâs gonna need more than a driverâs ed certificateâ.
You should have been insulted. The words âkidâ and âjumpyâ werenât exactly compliments. But for some stupid, traitorous reason, warmth fizzed in your chest.
Heâd noticed you. Heâd remembered.
âSheâs seventeenâ, Butcher said flatly. âNot keen on taking parenting tips from a man whose idea of child care is giving âem a grenade and a pat on the backâ.
Did they just switched roles??
âRelaxâ, Soldier Boy said, flicking his ash again. âIâm not asking you to give her a gunâ.
âI already have oneâ, you pointed out.
He gave you a once-over. âYeah. I noticedâ.
The air in your lungs suddenly felt too thin. You looked down at the map to avoid that green gaze, tracing the black lines of streets you half recognized.
âSo what do you suggest?â, MM asked, like he was indulging a bad idea. âSince you suddenly care so muchâ.
âWindow dutyâ, Soldier Boy said. âShe stays upstairs, outta the main mess. She spots anything weird, cops, extra muscle, capes, we hear about it before itâs too lateâ.
Butcher stared at him for a long second, jaw grinding like there was something he wanted to say and was swallowing instead.
âFineâ, he said eventually. âShe stays high, no heroics, no wandering. You see her anywhere near the main entrance, you drag her back by the scruff. Clear?â. He said it to Soldier Boy, but his eyes were on you.
âClearâ, you echoed.
Soldier Boy leaned back, the cheap chair creaking under his weight. âYou hear that, kid? Congratulations. You get to be a security cameraâ.
You rolled your eyes. âWow. My dreams. My ambitionsâ.
His lips quirked. âDonât say we never gave you anythingâ.
The meeting dissolved then into the usual noise. Frenchie listing explosives like he was reciting a love poem, MM going over exit strategies, Butcher poking holes in everything just to see what held. You listened, chin propped on your hand, trying to ink the plan into your brain. The building was an old office block repurposed into something uglier: lab floors, security stations, a basement they didnât have blueprints for. Your perch would be on the fifth floor, in an empty office facing the street.
âGets you line of sight on both roadsâ, MM said, tapping the window icon with his pen. âAnd one staircase down if we have to boltâ. You nodded. âGot itâ.
Across the room, Soldier Boy had gone back to his phone. He frowned at it like it had personally insulted him, thumb smearing across the glass.
âWhat are you even trying to do?â, you asked finally, unable to help yourself.
âCall somebodyâ, he said. âWhat the hell else do you do with a phone?â.
âPlentyâ, you muttered. You pushed your chair back and crossed the room before you could decide against it.
Standing next to him, you saw what the problem was immediately. The phone was open on the home screen, icons scattered across it. Heâd managed to swipe to the second page somehow and looked personally betrayed by the presence of an app labeled âSettingsâ.
You held out your hand. âHereâ.
He arched a brow. âI know how to make a callâ.
âSureâ, you said. âAnd thatâs why youâve been glaring at the calculator for ten minutesâ.
Frenchie snorted behind you. âShe got you there, mon amiâ.
Soldier Boy looked down at the little calculator icon, then back at you. For a heartbeat, stubbornness warred with something else in his expression.
But eventually, he put the phone in your palm. It was warm from his hand, the case slightly tacky with wear. You swiped back to the main page, tapped the green phone symbol, and brought up the contacts list. âThereâ, you said. âNow you just tap the nameâ.
He leaned in a little, shoulder brushing your arm. His cologne, if you could call it that, was faint under layers of smoke and sweat and boring soap. Something woodsy. Something that tried very hard to cover up the fact that heâd probably been fighting in that outfit for twelve hours at a time.
âYou got, like, four contactsâ, you said, scrolling. âMM, French bitch, and⌠âFuckfaceâ. Which one is that supposed to be?â. He grunted. âButcher".
You blinked, then laughed before you could stop yourself. It slipped out, quick and bright. His mouth twitched like heâd just scored a point.
âYou never had a smartphone before?â, you asked.
He gave you a look. âLast time I checked, phones were attached to walls and had cords you could strangle a man with. This thing feels like it oughta be illegalâ.
âSo you were there when people used pigeonsâ, you said. âThat explains a lotâ.
He snorted. âYouâre not old enough to be this mouthyâ.
âYouâre not young enough to be this bad at technologyâ.
His eyes met yours, direct and unflinching. âHow old are you now?â.
The question dropped between you like a stone.
Nothing in his tone had changed. It was almost casual. But you remembered the warehouse, the way his face had gone still when youâd said âseventeenâ, the way his gaze had cooled off like someone had turned down a dimmer switch.
You swallowed. âStill seventeenâ, you said. âBirthdayâs in⌠three weeksâ.
His jaw flexed. That was all. No lecture, no comment, no âJesus Christâ this time. But you felt something shift. Just a small tightening of the distance he kept coiled around himself like a second skin.
He took the phone back gently, his fingers brushing yours for a fraction of a second. Your pulse jumped stupidly.
âThree weeksâ, he said. âWhole lifetime at that ageâ.
You forced a shrug. âDepends how many gunfights youâre inâ.
He huffed under his breath and leaned back, tucking the phone away in a pocket as if the conversation was over.
Later, when the planning was done and Butcher sent everyone home with instructions to âsleep like youâre not all on Voughtâs shit listâ, you were pulling your jacket on. Your fingers were fumbling with the zipper, when you heard your name.
âY/Nâ.
You looked up. Soldier Boy stood by the door, one hand on the knob, the other gripping his shield strap.
âYeah?â, you asked.
He studied you for a second, eyes flicking from your face to the too-big vest under your jacket, to the scuffed toes of your boots. âTomorrowâ, he said slowly, âyou stay near the door. You see anything, and I mean anything, that feels off, you move. You do not wait for orders. You do not wait for us to confirm. You moveâ.
You frowned. âThatâs the plan, isnât it? MM already saidââ.
âIâm not MMâ, he cut in. âIâm telling you myselfâ.
There was something in his voice you hadnât heard before. Not mockery. Not impatience. Just experience, worn down to something hard and heavy.
You shifted your weight, fingers curling into your sleeves. âOkayâ, you said quietly. âI willâ.
He held your gaze another second, then nodded once. âGoodâ.
Butcher whistled from the hallway. âYou two done having your little heart-to-heart? Some of usâve got an early day of mayhem tomorrowâ.
âYeah, yeahâ, Soldier Boy muttered, pulling the door open. Cold, wet air washed in. He stepped out first, his bulk filling the doorway for a moment, blocking the weak white light from the hall. You followed, pulling the door shut behind you until it clicked.
It was only then, in that dim hallway that smelled like boiled cabbage and dust, that you realized something simple and stupid and terrifying.
Two weeks ago, heâd been a living piece of propaganda on a cracked TV in your head. Tonight, he knew your name. And tomorrow, heâd be the one between you and whatever waited in that Vought building.
You told yourself that tightness in your chest was just nerves. You were good at lying to yourself. Youâd have plenty of practice.
Summary: Four years after Dean disappeared, he comes back to find the life he left behind⌠waiting for him in the shape of a little girl with his eyes. Now itâs ghosts in the walls, love that never died and a second chance that might heal everythingâor break it for good.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 5353
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The door clicked open softly, the smell of greasy fries sneaking in ahead of Sam. He was balancing a tray of drinks in one hand, a crinkled bag of burgers in the other, looking like the worldâs most overqualified delivery guy.
Behind him, Lilah burst in like a firework and her arms full of a bouquet so big she could barely see over the top. âDaddy!â, she whisper-shouted, which defeated the purpose, but at least she tried.
Dean was in the armchair by the window, Henry cradled against his chest in a bee-print onesie you hadnât even known existed. He looked tiny. Three weeks early had left him all delicate wrists and scrunched-up nose, but his little fists were pumping like he already had demands.
âHey, Buzzâ, Dean whispered back, his grin blooming despite the dark circles under his eyes. He nodded toward your sleeping form on the bed. âShhh. Mommyâs outâ.
Lilah tiptoed in dramatically. She stopped dead when she saw Henry. Her bouquet slipped dangerously sideways until Sam caught it, rolling his eyes fondly.
âHeâs so smallâ, Lilah breathed, climbing up onto Deanâs knee without asking. Her little hand reached out, hovering, not quite daring to touch. âAnd heâs got bees!â. She giggled, pointing at the onesie.
Dean huffed, pressing a kiss to her curls. âYeah, figured it was only rightâ. He shifted Henry carefully, angling him so Lilah could peek without squishing him. Henry squawked, tiny and impatient. Dean sighed, already reaching for the bottle heâd half-prepped on the side table. âYeah, yeah, I hear you, kid. Give your old man a secondâ.
The baby squawked louder. Lilah gasped. âDaddy! Heâs mad!â.
Sam set the flowers down on the counter with the food, shaking his head with a smile. âGuess impatience runs in the familyâ.
Dean muttered under his breath as he jiggled Henry gently, âManâs three hours old and already yellinâ at me for beinâ too slowâ.
Henry hiccupped, let out a high little cry, then latched onto the bottle the second Dean got it in place, still frowning even in his sleepiness.
Dean smirked, rocking him gently. âAttitude. Just like his uncleâ.
Sam leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a faint grin. But the longer he watched, the more his brows crept up.
âYouâre⌠actually feeding himâ, Sam said, surprised.
Dean shot him a look, adjusting the bottle with care as Henry suckled noisily. âNo, genius, Iâm playinâ poker with himâ.
Sam chuckled, shaking his head. âI mean⌠youâve got him swaddled right, youâre holding his head, the angle, hell, you look like youâve done this beforeâ.
Dean rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didnât stick. âThe nurse showed me three times, Sammy. Three. I wasnât about to screw it up in front of her and get that lookâ. He shifted Henry slightly, his palm cradling the tiny back of his sonâs head, softer now. âBesides⌠not exactly rocket scienceâ.
Henry let out a greedy little grunt, his eyes squeezed shut, fingers twitching like he was still arguing.
Sam grinned, unable to resist. âStill. Didnât think Iâd walk in and see my big brother like thisâ.
Dean glared at him, cheeks pinking as he instinctively slowed his rocking motion. âShut upâ.
Lilah giggled, leaning into Deanâs side and petting Henryâs blanket like it was a puppy. âUncle Sam, Daddyâs the best bee daddy everâ.
Sam raised his hands in mock surrender, smile softening. âYeah, Buzz. Looks like he isâ.
Eventually you woke up slowly.
Dean caught your movement instantly. His eyes snapped up, that protective instinct kicking in before anything else, and when he saw you awake, his whole face softened. âHeyâ, he murmured.
Lilah bounced once, careful not to jostle Henry. âMommy! Daddyâs feeding him all by himself! And Uncle Sam brought fries!â. She beamed like it was the best news in the world.
Your lips curved, even through the heaviness weighing down your limbs. âI see thatâ.
Lilah tugged on Dean´s sleeve. âDaddyâ, she whispered. âCan I hold him now? Please? Please? Iâm big enough. Iâm fiveâ.
Dean glanced at you, the kind of look that said you hearing this? before sighing like a man already defeated. âBuzz⌠you gotta sit real still, alright? No wiggling. No spinning. Heâs not a dollâ.
Lilah gasped. âI know that! Heâs Henry!â.
Dean chuckled under his breath, shaking his head like he couldnât quite believe his life these days. âAlright, Buzz. Câmere. Sit right thereââ, he nodded toward the foot of your bed, tone all mock-sergeantââand grab that pillowâ.
Lilah scampered over and plopped herself down exactly where he told her, dragging the hospital pillow onto her lap like she was preparing for a mission. She looked up at Dean with the wide, serious eyes of someone about to be knighted.
âReadyâ, she whispered.
Deanâs mouth tugged into a grin he couldnât fight. âAlright, big sis. Letâs do thisâ. He angled Henry carefully, cradling his tiny head with one big hand, and lowered him slowly onto the pillow in Lilahâs lap.
At the same time, you leaned back against the bedrail with your burger in one hand, fries in the other, and moaned around a mouthful. âOhhh, Sammy, youâre a saint. Actual angel. Fries and a double cheeseburger? This is the real post-birth medicineâ.
Sam smirked, flipping the top of the bag closed. âGlad to be usefulâ.
You swallowed down another bite and reached for a fry, your voice softer now, shy under the hum of machines and the quiet little family gathered around. âAnd⌠thanks for the flowers too, Samâ, you said, lifting your gaze to him with a small smile. âTheyâre beautifulâ.
Sam ducked his head, ears tinged pink. âYou deserve itâ.
It hit you then how different this was. Lilahâs birth had been quiet and lonely, no one waiting outside, no warm food smuggled in, no laughter filling the air. Just you and a baby, scared. This time⌠this time you werenât alone. And it felt like a weight had lifted you hadnât even realized you were still carrying.
At the foot of the bed, Lilah leaned so close over Henry you were surprised her curls didnât tickle his face. Her little hands stayed folded in her lap just like Dean had shown her, but her eyes were huge, drinking in every inch of her baby brother.
âHeâs moving!â, she squeaked suddenly, looking up at Dean. âDaddy, lookâhis hand, it moved!â.
Dean chuckled low, crouched beside her, one steady hand still hovering under the pillow. âHeâs sayinâ hiâ.
Lilahâs mouth dropped open in awe. âHeâs sooooo smallâ, she whispered, her whole voice reverent. âI can be careful. Iâll always be carefulâ.
-
Four weeks later, the rhythms of your life had shifted into something you never quite believed youâd have: messy and loud, freaking exhausting, but steady.
Dean was thriving.
Daycare drop-offs? He handled them like a bro. Heâd walk into Lilahâs classroom with her bee backpack slung over one broad shoulder, her little hand swinging from his, and somehow leave with half the staff giggling like teenagers. Lilah loved it. âDaddyâs the coolestâ, sheâd declare when you picked her up later, already covered in paint and glitter.
At home, Dean had claimed the laundry like it was a hunt. Sorting loads with military precision, even if he still occasionally shrank a sweater or dyed the socks pink. Dishes? Done. Counters? Wiped. Floors? Well, floors were negotiable, but damn it, he tried.
Cooking, though? That was another story. The first two times heâd attempted a ârealâ dinner, anything beyond pancakes or scrambled eggs, the smoke alarm went off so loud Henry startled awake and Lilah declared, very seriously, âDaddyâs banned from dinner foreverâ. Dean took it on the chin, grumbling about âungrateful criticsâ while you rescued the kitchen. After that, he stuck to breakfast duty and left the rest to you.
But where he wasnât perfect, he more than made up for it with the kids. Henry, barely a month old, was already used to Deanâs arms. Heâd settle faster against his chest than anywhere else. Youâd find them in the recliner, Dean humming under his breath, Henryâs tiny hand clutching his shirt in sleep. Lilah, meanwhile, had her dad wrapped around her finger. Swing pushes, coloring sessions, elaborate Lego castles, he was there for all of it.
And watching him? Watching Dean Winchester turn fatherhood into second nature? It was enough to make your chest ache.
-
Today, Henry had been fussing all morning, the kind of colicky cry that made your nerves hum. Dean had scooped him up, one arm cradling the tiny bundle against his shoulder, bouncing gently while muttering under his breath about âhow come I can take down a nest of vamps but one ten-pounderâs got me sweatinââ.
Meanwhile, Lilah had turned the kitchen table into a war zone of glitter, glue and construction paper. She was determined to make âwelcome home bannersâ for Henryânever mind that Henry had been home for five weeks already. When the glue bottle clogged, she squeezed harder until the lid popped clean off. A geyser of sticky paste shot across the table. âDaddy!â, she wailed, throwing her hands up, now sparkly to the elbows. âIt exploded!â.
Dean adjusted Henry with one practiced motion, the baby tucked into the crook of his elbow, bottle balanced in the same hand, while reaching for paper towels with the other. âAlright, Buzz, donât panic. Nobody move. This is a Code Glitterâ.
Henry suckled noisily, oblivious. Dean dabbed at the glue, grabbed the glitter jar before it tipped further, and tossed a fresh towel across the table toward Lilah. âWipe what you can, and for the love of God, donât sneezeâ.
She giggled at his mock-serious tone, smearing glue across her cheek in the process.
By the time you walked in from swapping laundry, Dean looked like heâd been through a small war. Dean glanced up at you, hair mussed, chest rising like heâd just finished a hunt. âDonât. Say. A wordâ.
-
Lilah stood in front of the mirror with her brand-new backpack. Bee-yellow with black stripes and almost as big as she was. Her curls were neatly braided (Deanâs work, of course; he was faster at it than you. Way faster), and she clutched Henryâs soft bee rattle like it was battle gear.
Henry babbled from his play mat, hands slapping at the toys, drool soaking his onesie. At eight months, he was sturdy and curious, already trying to pull himself upright on anything in reach, including Deanâs jeans when Dean crouched to tie Lilahâs sneakers.
âYou sure about this, Buzz?â, Dean asked, his voice caught somewhere between proud and worried. âWe donât have to rush. Schoolâll still be there next year.â
Lilah rolled her eyes, the exact same way you did when Dean was being dramatic. âDaddy, Iâm six soon. I have to go. Iâm gonna learn to read big books and paint, and I already know my numbersâ.
Deanâs mouth pulled into a smile that cracked at the edges. He tied the last knot and pressed a kiss to her forehead. âAlright. But you better not forget about us little people when youâre famousâ.
You swallowed around the lump in your throat as you helped her into her jacket. âYouâre gonna do amazing, baby girlâ.
The drive to school was quiet and heavy with anticipation. Lilah sat shotgun like always, her backpack buckled beside her, Henry gurgling in his car seat, kicking his feet.
When you pulled up to the school, the sidewalk buzzed with other kids and other parents. Lilah bounced in her seat, suddenly shy but determined.
âCâmon, Buzzâ, Dean said gently, lifting her out. He crouched, adjusting her straps, brushing a curl out of her face. His voice cracked just slightly when he added, âGo show âem what a Winchester can doâ.
She threw her arms around his neck, squeezing hard. âI love you, Daddyâ. Then she hugged you too, carefully kissed Henryâs forehead, and marched up the steps.
You and Dean stood there long after she vanished inside. He slid an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. His eyes were damp, but his grin was boyish and so damn proud.
âSheâs really growing upâ, Dean murmured, forehead resting against your temple. âAnd we⌠we made it here. All of usâ.
And for the first time in years, you believed it.
-
It was late-August. Your hallway smelled like coffee and pancake syrup.
âShoes!â, you called, tying your own laces by the door.
âI have shoes!â, Henry declared, skidding in socked feet around the corner. Six now, all big opinions, he wore a tiny flannel over a animal tee, his backpack already sticker-bombed with cars and a single, stubborn bee. He held up his sneakers triumphantly and then, because he was Henry, tried to put them on without sitting down.
Dean caught him mid-wobble by the back of the shirt. âEasy there, Hot Rod. Park itâ. He dropped to a knee and laced Henryâs shoes. âYou gonna show first grade whoâs boss?â.
Henry grinned, missing-tooth wide. âAlready amâ.
âAttitudeâ, Dean muttered, but he was smiling so hard it softened the whole line of his jaw. He flicked a glance over his shoulder. âBuzz? You almost ready?â.
Lilah stepped out of the hallway. Eleven: taller, wearing ripped jeans and bee pendant on her neck. Dean had braided her hair in two neat plaits that made her look like the exact midpoint between little-kid and almost-teen. She posed, deadpan. âVoted least likely to cry todayâ.
Dean pressed a hand to his heart. âLeast likely to cry? You wound me, Buzz. After all Iâve done for you. Braids, rides, endless glue refillsâŚâ.
Lilah smirked, tugging her jacket straight. âYeah, yeah. Youâre slipping, old manâ.
Deanâs eyebrows shot up. âOld man?â. He shot you a quick glance. âDid you hear that? She called me oldâ.
You bit down on a grin. âWell⌠you did make that dad noise when you sat down last nightâ.
âTraitorâ, Dean muttered, then turned back to his daughter, squinting in exaggerated menace. âSlipping, huh? You think just âcause youâre all middle-school fancy now, I canât stillââ.
Before Lilah could react, Dean swooped forward, scooping her up around the waist. She squealed, kicking her sneakers in the air, but he had her hoisted effortlessly. With one practiced flip, he had her upside down, legs dangling, hair flying like a curtain of curls.
ââdo this?â, Dean finished, grinning ear to ear.
âDad!â, she shrieked, laughing so hard her voice cracked. âPut me down! My jeans!â.
âYou sure about that?â, Dean teased, walking in a slow circle. ââCause I can keep this up all day. Gotta prove to you Iâm not that oldâ.
âMom!â, Lilah tried to appeal, upside-down face red with laughter. âHeâs embarrassing me!â.
You leaned on the doorframe. âFirst day of school and already upside down. Pretty sure thatâs a recordâ.
Dean patted her calf with mock solemnity. âSay âDadâs not oldâ, and maybe Iâll let you downâ.
âNever!â, Lilah yelled, still laughing, trying to twist herself right side up.
Dean just chuckled, tightening his arm around her middle like it was the easiest thing in the world to carry an almost-teenager. âStubborn. Definitely my kidâ.
He held her upside down a few more beats, her laughter shaking his shoulder. He grinned, but in his chest it twisted, because her laughter wasnât the same high-pitched squeal it used to be. It was older now. Not the sound of a toddler or a four-year-old climbing into his lap with sticky fingers and curling up like a kitten.
âYouâre heavy, you know that?â, he teased, spinning her carefully until her sneakers tapped the floor again.
Lilah staggered upright, cheeks flushed, hair half out of its braids. She swatted at his chest with one skinny arm. âYouâre just weakâ.
Dean caught her wrist, tugged her in, and kissed the top of her head before she could wriggle away. âNah. Iâm strong as hell. Justââ. He paused, swallowing something thick. âYouâre not little anymore, Buzzâ.
Her grin softened, just for a second, before she rolled her eyes in the way only an eleven-year-old could. âDuh, Dad. Thatâs how time worksâ.
Dean huffed a laugh, ruffling her hair even though heâd just braided it. âSmartassâ.
But when she turned toward the mirror to fix her jacket, Deanâs smile slipped. He remembered nights on your couch, her tiny body stretched across his chest, her fists tucked under her chin, legs no longer than his forearm. He remembered her head fitting under his jaw, her weight a feather compared to the heaviness in his heart back then.
And now? Now she was almost as tall as his chest. Quick wit, her own world beginning to spin separate from his. He loved it, loved watching her grow into herself, but God, it pinched too.
âHeyâ, Lilah said suddenly, catching his reflection in the mirror. âDonât look all sad. Iâm still your favorite bee, right?â.
Dean cleared his throat, his voice rough. âAlways, Buzzâ.
She smiled, satisfied, before starting to bounce toward Henry.
Dean reached out, hooked two fingers through the strap of Lilahâs backpack, and reeled her back in before she could escape down the hall.
âDad!â, she squeaked, half-laughing, half-exasperated.
He ignored her protest, wrapping both arms around her in one of those bear hugs that pinned her arms. He buried his face in the crown of her hair, breathing her in like he had when she was tiny, when her curls still smelled like baby shampoo and syrup.
âDaaadâ, she complained again, though there was no real fight in it. âYouâre crushing me!â.
âGoodâ, he muttered into her hair. âKeeps you from growing too fastâ.
She rolled her eyes, but after a beat, she softened in his arms. She let her head tip against his chest, her hands tugging lightly at his shirt instead of wriggling free. Sassy, yes, but still sweet. Still his little girl.
âIâm not little anymoreâ, she reminded him gently, like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Dean pulled back just enough to look at her. âDonât matter, Buzz. Youâll always be my kid. My first beeâ.
That earned him a small, real smile. She squeezed him once, quick but strong, before stepping back and shrugging her straps into place.
Deanâs hand lingered in the air a second after Lilah slipped out of his grasp, the absence of her weight hitting harder than heâd admit. He cleared his throat, blinking once, and turned toward Henry.
The kid was already standing with his backpack zipped. There was no hesitation in his stance, no glance back for reassurance.
Where Lilah had always curled into Deanâs lap, Henry had been different from the start. Heâd cry when he needed to, Dean had made damn sure both kids knew tears werenât weakness, but even then, Henry cried like he had a point to prove. Quick, fiery bursts, then jaw set, fists balled, moving on before anyone could coddle him.
Dean saw so much of himself in the kid it hurt sometimes. That stubborn tilt of his mouth, the way his eyes flicked over a room like he was cataloguing exits, the quiet determination that made him seem older than six. It wasnât that Henry wasnât soft, he could be, especially with you, and sometimes when Lilah coaxed him into her games, but his softness was earned, deliberate. He didnât give it away easily.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck, watching Henry check his jacket pockets. âYou good, Champ?â.
Henry gave him a thumbs-up, no hesitation. âYeah. Iâm gonna sit in the front row so the teacher knows Iâm seriousâ.
Dean huffed a laugh. âThatâs my boyâ.
Lilah snorted, rolling her eyes but hiding her smile. âOf course youâre sitting in the frontâ.
âWhere else am I supposed to sit?â, Henry shot back, all righteous indignation. âThe backâs too far from the boardâ.
Dean grinned despite himself, heart squeezing tight. Lilah: soft edges, open heart, always reaching out. Henry: all Winchester grit, jaw set even when nobody asked it of him. Dean loved them both so fiercely it scared him, but in different ways.
One reminded him what heâd almost lost. The other reminded him who heâd been and who he wanted to be better for.
A few minutes later, Dean pulled onto the road.
After a while, Dean drummed his fingers on the wheel, glanced at the rearview, then at you. His grin tugged up slow, dangerous.
âYou knowâ, he drawled, âBuzzâs got middle school now. Champâs already takinâ over first grade. Feels like I blinked and they stopped beinâ little. Might be time weââ. He lifted his brows, eyes twinkling. ââmade ourselves another oneâ.
You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. âDeanâ.
Lilah snapped her head around, horrified. âOh my God, Dad, ew! Donât even say that! Youâre ancientâ.
Dean barked a laugh, one hand thumping the wheel. âAncient? Thatâs cold, Buzzâ.
Henry, without looking up from tracing the stitching on his lunchbox, chimed in matter-of-factly: âBabies cry too much. Donât do itâ.
You bit your lip to keep from laughing, shaking your head. âSee? Even your sonâs voting against youâ.
Dean flicked a look at Henry in the mirror, mock-offended. âTraitorâ. Then, softer, his hand reached over to squeeze your knee where it rested between the seats. âDonât care how big they get, though. Always gonna be oursâ.
Lilah slumped deeper into her seat with a dramatic groan. âCan you not be gross before school?â.
Dean chuckled while his gaze flicked to the mirror and caught your eyes and⌠winkedâslow, deliberate and freaking shameless. Heat crawled up your neck instantly, and you had to look out the window before Lilah caught you turning red. Of course, she caught enough.
âEw! Mom, are you blushing?!â, Lilah groaned, burying her face in her hands. âNo. Nope. I donât wanna know. I know how babies are made now andâughâIâm never forgiving health classâ.
Dean nearly choked on his own laugh, coughing into his fist. âHealth class beat me to it, huh?â.
Lilah shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. âDonât. Donât say another word. If you even think about talking about it, Iâll walk to schoolâ.
Henry perked up in the backseat, curiosity written all over his little face. âWhatâs health class?â.
âNothing!â, Lilah yelped, spinning back around so fast her braids slapped her shoulders. âItâs nothing, Henry. Donât ask. Everâ.
Dean snorted so hard the wheel wobbled in his grip for a second but he recovered quickly with that boyish grin.
âRelax, Buzz. Iâm not gonnaââ, He leaned back more. âIâm just sayinâ, me and your mom⌠â.
âDAD!â, Lilah shrieked, smacking the dash with her palm. âStop! Oh my God, stop! Iâm getting out right now!â.
Henry cackled from beside you, no clue what he was laughing at but thrilled by the chaos. âBuzz is madâ, he sing-songed.
Dean chuckled, but his smirk softened as he peeked back at Lilah, who had now yanked her jacket over her head like a makeshift shield. âAlright, alright. Iâll cool itâ. He paused just long enough to make it suspicious. âBut, you know, youâre gettinâ older. Sooner or later, weâre gonna have to have that talkâ.
Lilah groaned dramatically, muffled by denim. âNo. No talks. Everâ.
-
Two weeks later, the house felt too quiet.
Lilah was at Miaâs for a Friday-night sleepover with movies and nail polish, and the kind of giggle-storm that always ended with Sam texting you both âsend help (kidding) (maybe)â. Henry had finally fallen asleep upstairs, warm and heavy with a little flu, the humidifier purring and the baby monitor whispering white noise through its tinny speaker on your dresser.
You were already in bed, propped on pillows, scrolling just to keep your eyes open. The bathroom door opened and Dean padded out in nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips.
He let himself plop onto the mattress beside you with an exaggerated groan, like heâd just hauled salt bags across three states. Then he flopped onto his back with all the theatrics of a man begging for attention. The mattress dipped, bouncing you a little.
You didnât look up from your phone. Not once.
Dean cracked one eye at you, then huffed. âSeriously? My wife canât even appreciate the effort? I showeredâ. He sniffed his shoulder pointedly. âSmell pretty damn good, if I say so myselfâ.
Still nothing.
âUnbelievableâ, he went on, rolling onto his side to face you, towel gaping a little too conveniently. âI even shavedâ.
That made you flick a glance up. His jaw was exactly as scruffy as it had been this morning. Your brows arched. âUh-huhâ.
Dean grinned. âNot hereâ.
Your phone slipped a little in your grip as you bit down hard on a laugh. He looked so goddamn pleased with himself, with his green eyes gleaming, waiting for you to take the bait.
When he saw you fighting that laugh, he smirked and propped himself up on one elbow. The towel slid a dangerous inch lower, his voice dropping into that husky, drawling tone you remembered from years ago. The one that used to make your knees weak back when you were too young to know what the hell to do with it.
âYâknowâŚâ, he murmured, tracing one finger lazily up your shin, under the blanket, âall those years ago, you couldnât keep your eyes off me either. Donât think I didnât noticeâ.
You tried to scoff, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.
Dean leaned in, close enough for his breath to brush your ear. âHell, I remember you lookinâ at me like I was already in your bedââ, his grin widenedââand we both know what happened when I finally got you thereâ.
Your breath hitched despite yourself.
He chuckled, low and satisfied, nipping at your earlobe before dragging his lips down your throat. âYou were so sweet, so easy to ruin⌠And damn if you didnât make me work to keep up after. I swear, you were tryinâ to kill meâ. His hand slid higher up your thigh, warm and.. so heavy. âStill areâ.
âDeanââ.
He pulled back just enough to catch your gaze. âDon´t Dean me like that. I put two kids in you, and Iâm not done yetâ.
Your pulse jumped.
He grinned and kissed the corner of your mouth before whispering against your lips, âNow, tell me again you donât wanna find out how smooth I shavedâ.
You tipped your head back against the pillow, glaring at him even as your lips twitched. âYouâre insufferableâ.
Dean grinned wider, his hand inching higher under the blanket. âInsufferable? Please. You were climbing me like a tree when you were barely legal. Iâve still got the scratch marksâ.
You smacked his chest lightly, but he just caught your wrist, pressing your palm flat against his warm skin. His heart thundered beneath your hand.
âCâmonâ, he drawled, his lips brushing down your throat again. âDonât tell me you donât remember the way I used to make you cry for it. Begginâ me. Neighbors probably thought I was killinâ youâ. He chuckled. âTurns out I was just teachinâ you how good it could feelâ.
You sucked in a sharp breath, and he smiled like heâd won. âStill teachinâ you, baby. And you still canât keep quietâ.
Aaand⌠you broke. You always did with him. Your phone slid to the side, forgotten, as you grabbed the knot of his towel and yanked. It fell open and Deanâs smug laugh turned into a groan as you wrapped your hand around him.
âGeez, sweetheartââ. His hips bucked into your palm before he caught himself, biting back a curse. âFuck, I missed your hands on meâ.
You smirked, kissing down his chest, and he tangled a hand in your hair, guiding you, half desperate, half reverent. âYeahâyeah, thatâs it. Damn, youâre gonna kill me tonightâ.
The towel hit the floor. Dean hauled you under him, mouth hot and messy against yours, grinding into you through your thin sleep shorts. His cock pressed hard and insistent against you, making you gasp into his kiss.
âTell me you want itâ, he rasped. âTell me you want me to put another one in youâ.
Your answer was a broken moan, your hips arching into him, and that was all the permission Dean Winchester ever needed.
But when he hovered over you, one arm braced on the mattress, the other tracing down your side, from your ribs to your hip, his grin softened. His eyes roaming your face like he couldnât quite believe he still got to be here, with you, after everything.
âYou knowâ, he murmured, brushing his lips along your jaw, âI couldâve had a lot of lives. None of âem wouldâve been worth a damn if I didnât end up right hereâ.
You swallowed, your fingers curling in his wet hair. âYouâre only saying that âcause I let you in my bedâ.
He chuckled before pressing his mouth to your collarbone. âYou were way too good for me back then. Still areâ. His lips trailed lower, lingering at the top of your breasts. âGuess I just got luckyâ.
You shook your head at him, shy smile tugging at your mouth. âShut upâ, you whispered, and leaned up to catch his lips before he could say something else that would make your heart ache in that helpless way.
Dean kissed you back without hurry, like he had all the time in the world. His palm slid up to cradle the back of your head, thumb brushing behind your ear. When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his grin faded into something softer, something that lived only in the lines around his eyes.
âNot gonna shut upâ, he said quietly. âNot about thisâ. He shifted so his forehead rested against yours. âI ainât ever been good at the whole âbig speechâ thingâ, he murmured. âBut Iâve spent most of my life running head-first into stuff that didnât matter near as much as I thought it did. Thisââ, he gave a small, crooked nod toward you, the bed, the closed door, the whole life the two of you had builtââthis is the best damn thing Iâve ever been part of. You. The kids. I love you, and Iâm not gonna stop sayinâ it just âcause I sound like a sapâ.
Your eyes stung, but you laughed anyway, brushing your nose against his. âYou really do talk too muchâ.
âYeahâ, he said with a huff of a laugh, kissing the corner of your mouth. âLucky for you, I mean every wordâ.
"I know", you whispered, the sound catching against his mouth as you kissed him again. âBut stop talking for nowâ, you whispered, âand help me make another oneâ.
Deanâs laugh rumbled deep in his chest, warm against your skin. He brushed another kiss to your forehead, softer this time. âYes, maâamâ.
Summary: Eighty-five years after Soldier Boy left you behind, he finds you frozen, kept as leverage, and drags you back into a world you never got to live. Far from Voughtâs spotlight, you and Ben try to stitch a marriage back together from ash.
(sequel to "the softest thing")
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language, angst
Word Count: 6657
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
Seven months later, the quiet still felt borrowed. But it had held.
You and Ben lived in a small town outside Oklahoma where the roads ran flat and long under a wide white sky, where people still waved from pickups and left pies cooling on windowsills and minded their own business with the kind of stubborn politeness that passed for mercy. Vought barely existed there except as a name some folks had maybe heard once on a television they didnât trust much anyway. Supes were city nonsense. News was what happened to other people.
So you got your quiet.
A rented little house with a porch. A kitchen with too much morning light. A bedroom where the dresser drawers stuck in damp weather. A church three streets over with white clapboard siding and a bell that sounded thinner than the one you remembered from home, but near enough.
You and Ben had built a routine because routine was safer than promises.
Coffee. Groceries. Laundry. He fixed things badly at first and better after you made him do them twice. You learned which modern food brands were edible and which ones tasted like punishment. He drove into town for hardware and came back with tools, soap, canned peaches, and onceâabsurdlyâa bouquet of grocery-store carnations he shoved at you like he was handing over ammunition.
You had not let him kiss you much. Not really. A few quiet ones. Careful ones. Mostly when emotion got too large for words and both of you were tired enough not to fight it.
Touch had been slower still. A hand at your back crossing a street. His palm hovering at your elbow when the steps iced over. Fingers brushing yours over a grocery list.
Sex was nowhere near the table. He knew better than to push, though that didnât stop him from trying his luck now and then in that shameless, infuriating way of his.
He was trying, though. God, he was trying.
With all the charm heâd still somehow kept. With all the rough-edged patience heâd had to teach himself. With all the, "But Iâm your husband", he could pack into one glance, one muttered comment, one hand lingering a second too long at the small of your back before he made himself step away.
And every Saturday for the past seven months, Soldier Boy had gone to church.
Because you had insisted.
âYou need to wash yourself cleanâ, you had told him the first week, standing in the kitchen with your arms folded while he stared at you like youâd announced he was joining a convent.
He had barked out a laugh. âSweetheart, I donât think a Baptist church in Oklahoma has enough holy water for meâ.
âIt isnât funnyâ.
âNo Babyâ, heâd said, still grinning a little. âNo, it really isnâtâ.
Then he went anyway.
The first time, half the congregation had turned to look because even in a town that didnât care much about the outside world, Ben looked like trouble in a dress shirt . Broad shoulders, hard face and too much confidence even when he was trying to sit still. He had looked personally offended by the hymnal and deeply suspicious of the potluck sign-up sheet. But he went. Sat beside you in polished shoes he hated and listened to the pastor talk about repentance while his jaw worked like he wanted to argue with God directly.
Now it was habit.
This morning, sunlight striped the bedroom floor through the curtains while you got dressed. The air already held the dry warmth of early day. You slipped into your long soft satin skirt, the pale cream one that moved quietly around your legs when you walked. Then you buttoned your blouse and tucked it in with careful fingers, smoothing the fabric at your waist the way you always did. Old school, Ben had called it once, half-teasing and half-awed, watching you pin your hair back at the vanity like the whole century ought to slow down and take notes.
Now he sat on the edge of the bed in dark slacks, bare-chested still, because he had not yet bothered to pull on his shirt. One elbow rested on his knee. He had been pretending to lace one shoe for the last minute and a half, but his hands had gone still.
He was just watching you.
You caught his gaze in the vanity mirror. âWhatâ.
Ben blinked once, as if remembering his own face. âNothingâ.
âBenjaminâ.
That made one corner of his mouth twitch.
âYou want the truth?â.
âI assume Iâll regret itâ.
His eyes moved over you again, slower this time. Not vulgar for once, not even really hungry, though that lived under his skin often enough. Something softer and fuller. The kind of look that made you feel seen in places you werenât sure you wanted seen.
âYou look beautifulâ, he said.
The words came plain. No clever line. No grin built around them. Just the truth, and somehow that made them land harder.
You looked back at yourself in the mirror instead of at him. The blouse was modest. The skirt fell nearly to your ankles. Your hair was pinned simply, the way the older women in town wore theirs, though yours always came out a little softer around the face no matter how neat you tried to make it.
âItâs for churchâ, you said.
âAs if that changes anythingâ.
You almost smiled.
From the bed, he exhaled and finally bent to finish with his shoe. âYou knowâ, he muttered, âthis has gotta be some kind of crazy ass jokeâ.
You reached for your earrings. âWhat isâ.
âMeâ. He tugged the lace tighter than necessary. âSitting in a bedroom in Oklahoma on a Sunday morningââ.
âSaturdayâ.
He pointed at you without looking up. âThat too. Getting ready for church while my wife looks likeâŚâ. He stopped, then glanced up with that familiar rough heat in his eyes. âLike thatâ.
You put one earring in and gave him a warning look through the mirror. âBehaveâ.
âI am behavingâ.
âThat was not behavingâ.
âThat was admirationâ.
âThat was troubleâ.
His mouth twitched again. âYeah. Maybeâ.
You turned from the vanity to reach for your cardigan, and the movement made the satin shift around your legs with a soft brush. Benâs eyes dropped to the sound. He looked for one second like a man remembering far too much all at once. Then he checked himself.
That part still struck you sometimes. The stopping. The fact that he could now. The visible act of reining himself in not because he feared your anger, but because he had learned, finally learned, that wanting something did not entitle him to reach.
He stood to pull on his shirt. White, clean, sleeves rolled once before he shoved his arms through. On anyone else the motion would have been ordinary. On Ben, even dressing looked faintly combative. Buttons did not deserve that much force, but he gave it to them anyway.
When he was halfway done, he looked at you again and said, quieter now, âYou sure Iâm not gonna burn alive in there one of these days?â.
You slid on your cardigan and picked a speck of lint from the cuff. âOne can hopeâ.
That got a real laugh out of him.
Then, because he was still Ben and because every so often sincerity came out of him before he could catch it, he added, âI go because you askâ.
You looked up. He was standing at the foot of the bed with his shirt open at the collar.
âI knowâ, you said.
His expression shifted a little. âAnd because I like sitting next to you while you singâ.
The room went still for a beat. You hadnât expected that. Maybe he hadnât either.
âYou sing loudâ, he added, with a shrug that tried and failed to make it casual. âNot good. Just loudâ.
You stared at him. Then you picked up the nearest hairbrush and threatened to throw it.
He held both hands up at once, laughing properly now. âAll right, all right. Beautiful and loudâ.
âAwful manâ.
âYour husbandâ.
That could have irritated you. Some days it still did. But this morning the words landed softer than they once would have.
You adjusted his tie when he couldnât get the knot right.
Neither of you commented on the intimacy of that.
Your fingers worked at the silk while he stood very still above you, looking not at the tie but at your face. You could feel his gaze there.
âDonâtâ, you murmured without looking up.
âCanât help itâ.
âYes, you canâ.
âNot this oneâ.
You tightened the knot a touch more than strictly necessary.
He made a face. âCruelâ.
You smoothed the tie flat against his shirtfront. âClean enough for churchâ.
Ben looked down at where your hands rested for the briefest second against his chest, then back to your face. Something warm and almost wondering moved through his expression.
You stepped back before it could become too much. He let you. Then he reached for your coat from the chair and held it open for you without a word.
Small things like that had become the shape of this new life. Not declarations. Not grand speeches. Just a thousand ordinary gestures done a little more carefully than before.
You slid your arms into the coat. He settled it over your shoulders without touching more than he had to. When you turned toward the door, he caught your wrist lightly and you looked up.
His fingers loosened at once, giving you every chance to pull away. His eyes searched yours in that old restless way of his, hope and apology and want all mixed together.
âCan I kiss you before churchâ, he asked, âor is that sacrilegious?â.
You shouldnât have laughed. You did anyway. And it surprised both of you.
Then, because he had earned at least this much, you tipped your face up. Ben kissed you softly. Just once. Brief and careful. His hand never left your wrist. His mouth was warm and familiar and still capable of stirring old grief and newer tenderness in the same breath. When he pulled back, he looked steadier somehow. Less haunted for the moment.
âThereâ, he said quietly.
You smoothed your skirt once, though it didnât need smoothing. âTry not to fight with the pastor todayâ.
âNo promisesâ.
âBenjaminâ.
He sighed like the burden of righteousness had once again fallen unfairly upon him. âFine. Iâll behaveâ.
You gave him a look. He reached for the front door before you could say anything else, opened it, and stood aside for you to step out into the Oklahoma morning first.
-
Over the next few weeks, you started fitting into the town a little better.
Not into the century. That still felt unlikely. But the town, yes.
You learned which grocery store carried decent flour, which older lady at church made a pie crust worth respecting, and which roads Ben should avoid if he didnât want to get trapped behind tractors for twenty minutes and come home muttering about âagricultural tyrannyâ.
You also learned, unfortunately, that the world had invented something called smart TVs.
Which was how, on a Tuesday afternoon, you walked back into the living room carrying folded laundry and found Ben sprawled on the sofa, one arm slung over the back, watching the sort of thing that made you drop a dishtowel in pure outrage.
âBenjaminâ.
He jerked like heâd been shot. Not because he was ashamed, exactly. More because your voice had hit that sharp note he had learned to fear. He grabbed for the remote. The television went black.
You stood there with a pillowcase over one arm and stared at him.
His expression shifted through guilt, annoyance, and the faintest trace of a grin he was trying very hard not to let happen.
âWhat", he said, too casually.
You pointed at the television. âIn my living room?â.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. âItâs our living roomâ.
âThat makes it worseâ.
Ben rubbed a hand over his mouth. âSweetheart, I was aloneâ.
âYou were not alone. The Lord was hereâ.
That finished him. He bent forward with a laugh he tried and failed to hide in his fist, and you marched across the room and smacked the back of his shoulder with the pillowcase.
âThis is not funnyâ.
âIt is a little funnyâ.
âYou need helpâ.
âIâm awareâ.
You stood over him in full offended-wife splendor, cardigan buttoned, hair pinned up, and gave him a lecture so pointed that by the time you were done he had actually muttered, âYes, maâamâ, just to get you to stop.
You did not stop.
But later that night, when you found the television parental controls mysteriously switched on and Ben acting like it had happened by divine intervention, you had to bite the inside of your cheek not to smile.
Another day, you discovered TikTok. This happened by accident, which somehow made it worse.
A woman from church had said, âOh, honey, you should look up recipes on thereâ and you had nodded politely, only to discover three hours later that modern people apparently took cooking instructions from dancing girls, shirtless men, and women narrating casseroles in voices too cheerful to trust.
You were scandalized.
You were also fascinated.
So the next morning you announced, with great dignity, that you were making âthat baked feta pasta everybody seems possessed byâ.
Ben looked up from the newspaper. âThe whatâ.
âDonât mock. It has millions of viewsâ.
He lowered the paper slowly. âYou know what, that sentence alone tells me this century was a mistakeâ.
Still, he hovered in the kitchen doorway while you worked, arms crossed, watching you treat the whole absurd thing with way too much seriousness. Cherry tomatoes. Olive oil. A block of feta you regarded with suspicion. Pasta boiled properly because no internet person was going to tell you how to salt water.
When it came out of the oven and you stirred it all together, Ben leaned over the pot, sniffed once, and said, âThat actually smells pretty goodâ.
You gave him a smug look. âI knowâ.
He took one bite that evening, chewed, and pointed his fork at you.
âDonât get cockyâ.
âYou ate half the panâ.
Also, your mouth had grown back. Just in little flashes. A comment under your breath. A look. A soft answer with enough edge tucked into it to make him blink, then grin despite himself. Ben had started to live for those moments in a way he would never have admitted plainly. You could tell. Especially when you caught him off guard.
One Saturday after church, while he was trying and failing to fix the porch step without swearing in front of Mrs. Tallou next door, you stood in the doorway and said, âYou know, for a man who spent years being called a hero, you are surprisingly bad with a hammerâ.
Ben looked up from where he was crouched with the toolbox at his feet.
Mrs. Tallou covered a laugh with one gloved hand.
âYou trying to embarrass me in front of the neighbors?â.
You folded your arms. âNo. I think you managed that on your ownâ.
He stared at you for one beat, then laughed hard enough he had to sit back on his heels.
That night, he kissed you in the kitchen while the dishwater cooled in the sink and murmured against your mouth, âYouâre getting braveâ.
You had looked up at him and answered, very softly, âMaybe Iâm just remembering myselfâ.
That had shut him up in the best possible way.
You baked more too. Partly because it calmed you. Partly because baking still made the house smell like something stable and decent and yours. Partly because in a world that had become almost too strange to hold in your head all at once, flour and butter and sugar still obeyed.
You made banana bread from another TikTok recipe and declared it âacceptable, though overpraisedâ. You made cinnamon rolls one rainy afternoon that had Ben standing in the kitchen pretending not to hover while they cooled. You learned that modern ovens ran hot and modern measuring cups were somehow more annoying than old ones.
And then one day, without telling him why, you made his favorite cake from the fifties.
Yellow cake. Chocolate frosting. A simple one. The one he had once loved so much he used to eat ate night in the dark kitchen while you were asleep. The one youâd made for his birthday the year before Vought gave him Compound V, when heâd come into the kitchen behind you in his work shirt, stolen a fingerful of frosting, and kissed your temple while you pretended to be annoyed.
He came in from the yard that afternoon smelling like cut grass and stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. For a second he only stood there.
Then he looked at the cake. At you. Back to the cake.
âNoâ, he said quietly.
You looked up from the counter. âNo whatâ.
âThatâs not fairâ. His voice had gone rough in a way that had nothing to do with humor.
You wiped your hands on a dish towel. âDo you want a slice or not?â.
Ben crossed the room and stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell sunlight on his skin and the faint soap from his shower that morning.
âYou remember that?â.
âYesâ.
Something moved over his face too quickly to name.
When you cut him a piece, his hand brushed yours taking the plate. He looked down at it for a second like he was afraid of what it might do to him.
Then he took one bite. Closed his eyes. And had to set the fork down before he said, very low, âJesusâ.
You smiled a little. âStill good?â.
He looked at you over the plate, eyes too bright for something as ordinary as cake.
âYeahâ, he said. âStill goodâ.
It was a few nights after that when he asked about the baby.
The question came out of nowhere and yet, somehow, not out of nowhere at all.
You were in bed with a book open and unread in your lap. Ben sat on the edge of the mattress. He said your name first. Just your name. You looked up.
âI saw it in the fileâ, he said.
Your chest tightened before he even finished.
âThe medical recordsâ.
You closed the book carefully and set it aside. Your fingers stayed resting on the cover for a second longer than necessary. âI didnât know for sureâ, you said after a moment. âNot reallyâ.
Ben didnât move.
âI thought maybeâ, you went on quietly. âIâd been late. Tired. But then⌠then it happenedâ.
He stared at the floorboards.
You looked down at your own hands in the blanket.
âFor over two years before that, it never workedâ. Your voice thinned around the old shame, still somehow alive enough to sting. âI used to cry in the bathroom so you wouldnât hear me. I felt likeâŚâ. You let out a small breath. âLike a terrible wifeâ.
Benâs head came up so fast it almost startled you. âNoâ.
The word came sharp. Immediate.
You looked at him.
âNoâ, he said again, softer now but no less certain. His jaw flexed once. âThat was never on youâ.
The old grief shifted inside you, surprised to find itself contradicted so forcefully after all these years. You looked down. âI know that nowâ, you murmured. âMostlyâ.
For a few seconds neither of you spoke.
Then Ben rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, glanced at you sideways, and because he was still himself enough to reach for humor when the pain got too close, he said, âWellâ.
You blinked at him.
He looked almost cautious now, which on Ben was a strange enough sight on its own.
âIâm just sayingâ, he muttered, âif we ever wanted to⌠take another crack at it, I do still remember the basic mechanicsâ.
You stared at him. Then your cheeks turned hot all at once. âBenjaminâ.
He held up both hands. âWhat? Iâm trying to raise moraleâ.
âYou are impossibleâ.
âNot impossibleâ. His mouth twitched. âMotivatedâ.
You pulled the blanket higher though it did absolutely nothing to hide your face. âThat was indecentâ.
âProbablyâ.
âYou should be ashamedâ.
âI usually amâ, he said, and then, because he saw the way your mouth wanted to soften despite yourself, he added more gently, âI meant someday. If you ever wanted. No pressureâ.
The room settled around that. Your face was still warm. Your heart too. Because the truth was, for all your modesty and all the hurt still sitting between you, you had missed him. Not just the idea of him. Not just having a husband in the house or another body in the bed. Him close. His weight of attention. His mouth at your temple. His hand at the small of your back. The private softness that had once belonged only to the two of you.
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then you said, quietly, âYou talk too muchâ. That made him grin.
But only a few nights later, it happened.
You had been lying awake listening to him breathe. You turned toward him first. His head shifted on the pillow, eyes finding you in the dim.
âYou all right?â, he asked, voice rough with sleep.
You nodded once.
Then, because the words felt old and tender and humiliating and true all at once, you whispered, âI want my husband againâ.
He went completely still.
Your hand found his wrist over the blanket. Warm skin. Steady pulse. âAnd I wantâ, you said, softer now, âto be your wife againâ.
Ben made the smallest sound in his throat. He turned onto his side slowly, like any sudden movement might scare the moment away. Even then he didnât touch you yet.
âYeah?â, he asked.
You looked at his face, half-shadowed on the pillow beside yours, and saw how hard he was trying not to rush even this. âYesâ, you whispered.
His hand came to your cheek. When you leaned into it, his eyes closed for one beat, like that small permission had hit him harder than anything else.
Then he kissed you.
Slowly. Like he had all the time in the world to relearn you right. Your hand slid up into his hair. He shuddered at that, the reaction so immediate and honest it made your own eyes sting.
When his hand moved to your waist, it stayed light until you pulled him closer. When his mouth found your throat, it was with reverence instead of hunger first. When the old want came into him stronger, sharper, he held it back with visible effort until you asked for more in your soft, shy way that had always undone him worse than anything bold ever could.
It was not the same as before. It could never be. It was gentler. Sadder. More careful. Full of pauses and quiet checks and his voice rough in the dark asking, âLike this?â and âFeels good?â as though he needed every answer from your own mouth before he trusted himself to keep going.
And when you finally let yourself have him again, it was not because you had forgotten anything. It was because, for the first time in a very long time, he was loving you like your heart and body were both things worth protecting.
By the time it was over, you were utterly spent. You lay half across him with your cheek on his warm chest, one leg tangled weakly with his under the sheets, the summer-dark room smelling like cotton, skin, and the open window where the night air still moved the curtains in slow, lazy breaths. Benâs heart beat strong and steady under your ear. Sweat cooled along your spine. Every muscle in your body felt loose and heavy, the kind of deep exhaustion that only came after being held too close for too long in the best and worst ways.
He had not stopped after the first time. Or the second.
By the end of it, more than an hour had slipped by in pieces too soft and blurred to count properly, and now you could barely lift your head. Your fingers rested uselessly against his chest. Even your scolding energy had mostly gone thin. Mostly.
Ben, unfortunately, looked far too pleased with himself.
His hand moved lazily up and down your back, broad and warm, while the other rested at your waist beneath the sheet. Every now and then his fingers flexed there like he still couldnât quite believe you were really in his arms letting him hold you like this.
Then, in that low, rough voice that always sounded like trouble when it dropped into a tease, he said, âYou alive there, sweetheart?â.
You made a faint, exhausted noise against his skin.
He chuckled under you. âThought I mightâve fucked you tiredâ.
You lifted your head just enough to give him a glare. It was not your strongest glare. You knew that. He knew it too. That only made his mouth twitch.
âDonât you startâ, you murmured, voice breathy and ruined with tiredness.
âThere it is". His grin turned lazy and shameless. âThat faceâ.
You narrowed your eyes. âWhat faceâ.
âThat offended little look you get when I say something, in your words, filthyâ. His thumb brushed once at your side, absent and warm. âCute as hellâ.
Your cheeks heated at once. âBenjaminâ.
The satisfaction on his face was immediate. He loved this. You could tell he loved this. Not just teasing you, but specifically getting you just scandalized enough to lecture him. Over the past months it had become one of his favorite games and he played it with the delighted patience of a man who had discovered a private treasure.
âYou hear your voice when you scold me?â, he asked, entirely too smug. âAll soft and breathyâ.
You tried to push yourself up straighter and failed halfway, your arm giving out and dropping you right back onto his chest. Ben laughed outright then. Not cruelly. Warmly.
âYouâre impossibleâ, you muttered.
âAnd you married me anywayâ.
âI was youngâ.
âYou still like meâ.
That earned him another look, weaker than before but no less sincere.
Ben only smirked and brushed your hair back from your face. His touch gentled almost immediately under the teasing. That was the way of him now more often than not, mouth shameless, hands careful.
âGo onâ, he said. âTell me Iâm indecentâ.
âYou are indecentâ.
âMm-hmâ.
âAnd vulgarâ.
âSureâ.
âAnd entirely too full of yourselfâ.
That actually made him grin. âThere she isâ.
You tried to stay stern. You really did. But exhaustion and warmth and the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek made it difficult to hold onto proper outrage for long. Your eyelids had gone heavy again. The room had softened at the edges. His hand kept moving in that slow rhythm over your back, making it even harder to remember why you were meant to be offended.
Ben noticed the exact moment your body started melting back into him.
His voice changed with it, dropping lower, softer. âTired?â.
You let out a tiny hum that was probably yes.
He pressed his mouth to the top of your head. âYeah. Thought soâ.
-
Over the next few months, Ben stopped pretending he could keep his hands to himself. And you stopped pretending you wanted him to.
It was small and constant. His palm on your lower back when you passed him in the kitchen, his mouth finding the back of your neck while you stirred a pot, his fingers sliding into your hand like he owned the right to comfort now and wasnât wasting it. He was still cocky about it too, because of course he was.
Youâd be rolling dough, flour on your cheek, and heâd lean in and murmur something filthy-soft in your ear just to watch you freeze, scandalized. Then youâd swat him with the dish towel and hiss, âBenjaminâ, and heâd grin like that was his favorite hymn.
He stayed gentle with you. Always checking without making a big show of it, always in control in a way he hadnât been decades ago. But he was still so⌠him. All muscle and heat, that masculine smell of soap and sweat and sun, shoulders filling doorways, voice so deep when he was amused. It made it easy to be soft again. Easy to be your feminine self, not because he demanded it, but because he made room for it like it was precious.
Some mornings you didnât even make it to coffee before heâd catch you around the waist, pull you back against him, and mutter, âYouâre killinâ me, sweetheartâ, like you were the problem.
And youâd roll your eyes and say, âThen go be strong somewhere elseâ.
He never did.
He took you shopping in the next town over like it was a mission.
He was weirdly into checking the modern worldâs lingerie while you stood in front of a rack of ripped jeans looking like you might faint.
That made his mouth twitch. âTry âem onâ.
You did, because he was your husband and because, annoyingly, the jeans fit. You came out of the dressing room stiff as a board, tugging the hem of the too-short shirt downward.
Ben leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dragging over you like he couldnât help it. âYeahâ, he said, smug. âYou look hotâ.
You narrowed your eyes. âI look like Iâm auditioning for sinâ.
âSame thingâ.
You threw the hanger at him. He caught it and laughed like heâd won.
Then you found a little 50s-style dress with soft fabric, modest neckline and a nipped waist. You stepped out and immediately felt like yourself again.
Ben stopped talking. For a beat, he just looked at you like the air had changed.
Then he cleared his throat and said, rougher, âThat oneâ.
You tilted your head. âYou like it?â.
He blinked like youâd asked whether he liked oxygen. âYeah, I like it. Christâ.
He bought it without checking the price, then acted annoyed about the whole thing in the parking lot because being openly tender still embarrassed him.
He learned to do small domestic things without acting like they were beneath him. He replaced a broken hinge. He even installed a smoke detector and complained the entire time.
âWhyâs it gotta beep.â
âSo we donât die.â
âIâm not dyinâ.â
âI am.â
He stared at you.
Then he installed two.
At night, heâd pull you into his lap on the couch like it was casual, like it was nothing, like his hands hadnât once been the reason you feared beds. Heâd watch whatever you put on. Old movies, sermons or the news he pretended not to care about, and heâd keep one hand on your thigh under a blanket with his thumb moving slow over your skin.
And when you scolded him for the way his mouth worked, for the way he teased, for the way heâd whisper something indecent at the worst times, heâd grin and say, âYouâre cute when youâre madâ.
âI am not cuteâ.
âYouâre fucking adorableâ.
âYou need prayerâ.
âI need youâ.
That shut you up every time, because it sounded too honest to fight.
Then days were passing.
You were tired in a different way. Hungry, but picky. Your temper a little shorter. Your body softer around the edges.
One morning you were folding laundry and Ben leaned in the doorway watching you like he was doing math.
âYouâre lateâ, he said.
You blinked. âLate for whatâ.
He stared at you like you were joking. âYour periodâ.
Heat rushed to your face. âBenjaminâ.
âWhat? You areâ.
âThat is not your business".
He walked over and took the calendar off the kitchen wall with one finger like it had personally offended him. Flipped the page. Counted silently.
Then he looked at you, brows lifted, mouth already twisting into that smug, dirty humor.
âSweetheartâ, he drawled, âyou are so bad at that simple women stuffâ.
You grabbed a dish towel and snapped it at him. âStop talkingâ.
He caught your wrist gently and his eyes went bright in a way you recognized instantly. Not fear, not even shock. Something that looked suspiciously like excitement, filtered through Benâs ego like everything else.
âWeâre goinâ to the storeâ, he said.
You frowned. âFor whatâ.
He smirked. âFor the little stick that tells you whether you made me a babyâ.
Your mouth fell open.
At the pharmacy he bought two tests. Back home, he hovered so hard you finally snapped, âDo you want to come in with me too?â.
Ben leaned on the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed. âIâm your husbandâ.
âYou are not watching me take a testâ.
He looked mildly offended. âI wasnât gonna watchâ.
âYouâre literally standing guardâ.
He shrugged. âHabit.â
You shut the door in his face.
From behind it, you heard him mutter, âIf itâs positive, Iâm naming it John Wayneâ.
âYou are not!â. A pause. Then, quieter: âOkay. Maybe we talk about it".
When you finally opened the door, he tried to look casual and failed completely. His eyes went straight to your hands. You held up the test with a palm that had started shaking. Ben went still. Then his face changed.
âYeah?â, he whispered.
You nodded once, breath catching.
Ben exhaled hard through his nose like heâd been punched, then stepped forward and stopped himself halfway, hands flexing at his sides.
âYou okay?â, he asked, too careful for a man like him.
You swallowed. âI think soâ.
He nodded, eyes bright, and tried to make his mouth work around something cocky. Something dirty. Something that wouldnât show how much it meant.
What came out instead was, âHoly shitâ.
Then he cleared his throat and recovered just enough to add, âGuess Iâm still good at my partâ.
You smacked his arm. He laughed and finally, finally, he reached for you. Slow. Asking with his body first. When you didnât pull away, his arms came around you like heâd been holding his breath for months. âI got youâ, he murmured into your hair.
-
The morning you told the pastor, the sun came up clean and gold over the little town like it didnât know anything about the years youâd lost.
You sat on the porch step afterward with a glass of water sweating in your hand, watching dust drift down the road behind an early truck. Ben paced the yard, then stopped and pretended he wasnât pacing by âcheckingâ the fence post for absolutely no reason. Heâd been doing that a lot since the test. Hovering, without admitting it. Like if he kept moving, the joy couldnât turn into fear.
You watched him for a moment.
âBenâ, you called.
He stopped instantly. Looked at you like youâd snapped a leash. âWhatâ.
âYouâre wearing a hole in the grassâ.
He blinked. Then that crooked little grin tried to show up and couldnât quite find its place. âHabitâ.
âYouâre allowed to sitâ.
He hesitated, then came over and dropped down beside you with a heavy exhale, shoulder brushing yours. His knee bumped yours and stayed touching, as if heâd decided he didnât want any space left between you today.
You held your water with both hands, staring out at the quiet street.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then Ben said, rough and oddly careful, âYou want tea?â.
You almost smiled. It was such an ordinary question. The kind of question a husband asked in the morning in a small house on a quiet street. The kind of question youâd once answered without thinking.
âYesâ, you said softly. âPleaseâ.
Ben nodded like he could do that at least. Like tea was something he could make right when so much else had been ruined. He stood to go inside, then paused and looked down at you. His eyes moved to your hand. To your wedding ring. To his ring on his own finger. He reached out, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted, and tucked one loose strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles barely grazed your cheek.
âStill canât believe youâre hereâ, he murmured.
You leaned into the touch before you could stop yourself. âNeither can Iâ.
He huffed a breath through his nose and left his hand there for a second longer than necessary. Then he went inside.
You listened to him in the kitchen: cabinet doors opening, the old kettle filling, the low curse when he bumped his hip on the counter because he still hadnât learned that small houses didnât move out of the way for big men.
The sound settled something in you. It reminded you, painfully and sweetly, of another small house. Another quiet street. Another kitchen where you used to sit with a mending basket at your feet and listen for footsteps that didnât come.
Back then, you had waited in silence. Now, you didnât have to.
Ben came back out with two mugs. Heâd even put a spoonful of sugar in yours the way you liked without asking. That made your chest ache in a small, secret way you didnât name.
He sat beside you again and handed you the mug carefully, then stared out at the street.
After a minute he said, âYou scared?â.
You glanced at him. He didnât look at you when he asked it. He was looking past the fence line, past the mailbox, out at nothing. The question sounded like it had cost him.
You blew gently on the tea. âYesâ.
Ben nodded once. Like he had expected that. Then he finally looked at you. His eyes were too honest for his own comfort. âMe tooâ, he admitted.
You shifted your mug to one hand and reached for his other on the porch step. His hand was warm, callused and heavy. He stiffened for half a second, then let your fingers lace with his like heâd been waiting for permission.
âYou knowâ, you said softly, âin the beginning⌠I used to sit and sew and listen for youâ.
Benâs mouth tightened. âI knowâ.
âI stayed up because I thought one day youâd walk through the door and be him againâ.
Benâs gaze dropped to your joined hands. For a moment you saw the old shame try to rise. The old instinct to get mean or dismissive to escape it. But he didnât. He stayed. You watched the choice happen in his face, and it made something in you loosen, just a little.
âIâm⌠sorryâ, he said, quiet as breath.
You didnât answer with forgiveness. But you squeezed his hand. Benâs thumb moved across your knuckles.
âYou still gonna make me go to church every Saturday?â, he asked.
You tilted your head. âYesâ.
He sighed like a man enduring terrible hardship. âUnbelievableâ.
âYou need itâ.
âYou need it tooâ, he grumbled, then added, quieter, âIâll goâ.
You smiled into your mug. "I know".
âââââââââââ
A/N: Please let me know what you think.đĽ°Â AND I may have a surprise for you đ
Summary: Four years after Dean disappeared, he comes back to find the life he left behind⌠waiting for him in the shape of a little girl with his eyes. Now itâs ghosts in the walls, love that never died and a second chance that might heal everythingâor break it for good.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language
Word Count: 8790
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
It was hot for June. You shifted your weight on the little stool, tugging at the hem of the stretchy dress youâd worn in, your belly impossible to disguise now at eight months.
Sally fanned herself with a catalog, perched in the plush chair by the mirrors. âOnly Dean Winchesterâ, she muttered with a grin, âdecides on a Wednesday heâs getting married by Saturday. God help usâ.
Lilah was twirling between the racks, her bee backpack bouncing, her curls springing loose from her braids. Every time you came out of the dressing room, she gasped like it was Christmas morning. âMommy, youâre a princess! Daddyâs gonna say âwow! so prettyââ.
You smiled, but it was a shaky thing. Because, yeah. This was Dean. Impulsive, stubborn, impossible. Heâd kissed you across the kitchen table last night and just said, âMarry me. Nowâ. Like it was the simplest thing in the world.
And the thing was⌠youâd said yes.
Now here you were, trying to wedge yourself into gowns clearly not designed for women who could barely see their feet. One zipped halfway, another refused to go past your hips, and the third made you look like youâd been swallowed by a cloud.
Sally caught your expression and snorted. âRelax. Youâll find something. Or weâll hack one of these into shape. I donât care if Deanâs a certified panty-melter, he doesnât get to demand a wedding without giving you a dress to match.â
Lilah bounced over, hugging your thigh as you stepped down carefully in another gown, this one softer, flowier, hugging the bump instead of fighting it. Her eyes went wide. âThat one! Mommy, that one!â.
You met your own reflection, hand smoothing over the curve of your belly where Henry shifted under the fabric. For the first time that morning, your throat tightened.
Sally was already on her feet, grinning like sheâd won the lottery. âOh honey. Thatâs the one. No contestâ.
You blinked hard against the sting in your eyes. âItâs just⌠the first one that actually fitsâ, you mumbled, brushing a trembling hand over your bump. Henry kicked right on cue, like he agreed.
Then Sally peeked at the discreet little tag dangling behind the zipper. Her eyebrows shot up. âOofâ.
âWhat?â, you asked, instantly suspicious. You craned your neck, saw the numberâand nearly burst into tears. âOh, no. Nope. Forget it. Thatâs⌠thatâs insaneâ.
âSweetheartâ, Sally said carefully, âitâs a wedding dress. Theyâre all insaneâ.
But your chest was already tight, your pulse too fast. Between the heat, your low blood pressure, the hormonesâGod, the hormonesâyou actually felt your eyes blur. âI canât. I canât spend that much. Not on one day. Not whenââ. You broke off, pressing your palms to your cheeks.
âMommy?â, Lilahâs little voice piped up, muffled against your skirt. âYou donât like it?â.
You crouched as much as the dress and belly would allow, gathering her face between your hands. âBaby, I love itâ, you whispered, kissing her curls. âI just⌠itâs a lotâ.
Behind you, Sally fished your phone from your purse with zero shame.
âSallyâdonât you dareââ.
But she already had it against her ear, pacing toward the window. âHey, Winchester? Yeah, itâs me. Donât panic, everyoneâs fineâ. She smirked back at you, ignoring the daggers you were shooting her. âI just need to know how much money your fiancĂŠe is allowed to spend on looking amazing for youâ.
Your mouth fell open. âSALLYâ.
On the other end, you could hear Deanâs voice, tinny but sharp: âWhat? What the hell are you talking about? Put her on the phoneâ.
âNopeâ, Sally said cheerfully, twirling the dress tag around her finger. âSheâs currently hyperventilating because she thinks she canât buy the only dress that actually fits her eight-months-pregnant self. So. Whatâs the number, Dean?â.
There was a long pause. Then Deanâs voice, incredulous and rough: âThe number? Itâs whatever the hell it costs. She likes it?â.
âShe loves itâ, Sally said firmly.
âThen buy itâ, Dean snapped, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Sally grinned triumphantly and mouthed, youâre welcome. Then, into the phone: âGood answer, Winchester. Iâll make sure she doesnât faint before the cashierâ.
Deanâs voice softened, muffled but unmistakable. âPut me on with herâ.
Sally handed you the phone like sheâd just won a prize.
You pressed it to your ear, your voice already trembling. âDeanââ.
âSweetheartâ. His voice was a low rumble, steadying you through the line. âYou look beautiful, donât you?â.
You let out a shaky laugh. âI donât even know what I look like right now, Deanâ.
âI doâ, he said simply. âI can see it in my head. And I donât give a damn about price tags. You hear me? Youâre my wife, and youâre gonna walk toward me in the dress that makes you feel like you. Thatâs it. Thatâs all that mattersâ.
A few minutes later, you stood at the counter, carefully draped over the attendantâs arms. Sally had one hand on your elbow like she didnât trust you not to faint, and Lilah was twirling in the middle of the boutique, humming to herself about how bee-utiful you looked.
The attendant cleared her throat gently. âWill this be on your card?â.
You fumbled for your purse, already wincing at the thought of the number. But before you could pull out your wallet, your phone buzzed in your other hand, Deanâs name lighting up the screen. A new text.
Dean: Use the black one with the gold stripe. Trust me.
You frowned, thumb tapping back.
You: Dean. Please tell me this isnât one of your fake ones.
His reply came instantly.
Dean: Doesnât matter. Itâll go through. Just swipe it. Iâll handle the rest.
You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. Only Dean Winchester could make dropping thousands on a wedding dress sound like hustling a pool table.
The attendant gave you a polite smile as you handed over the card. It beeped green on the first swipe. Approval.
Sally whistled low. âGuess your man knows what heâs doingâ.
âOh, he knowsâ, you muttered, half to yourself, pocketing the card again. Your phone buzzed once more.
Dean: Told you. Now stop worrying. Canât wait to see you in it. Iâll probably forget how to breathe.
Heat crept up your cheeks. You clutched the phone to your chest like a teenager, even as Sally caught you blushing and smirked knowingly.
The second you stepped through the door, Lilah exploded like a firecracker.
âDaddy! Daddy! Mommy was a princess! Like a shiny, sparkly, twirly princess!â. She bounced in front of Dean, tugging at his hand with little fingers. âShe got such a pretty dress! You wonât believe it!â.
Dean crouched automatically, catching her mid-bounce and settling her on his hip. âA princess, huh?â. His eyes flicked to you, soft and amused. âGuess Iâll have to see this for myselfâ.
You felt your cheeks heat instantly. âIâuhâŚâ. You smoothed your hair back, suddenly nervous. âDo you⌠want me to try it on? For you?â.
For a moment, Dean looked tempted, his lips parting just slightly like the thought of you in that dress alone with him was too much to resist. But then his grin curved softer.
âNahâ, he murmured, shaking his head. âNot yet. I wanna see it for the first time at the chapel. When youâre walking down to meâ. His throat bobbed. âThatâs the picture I want burned into my brain for the rest of my lifeâ.
Your heart thudded so hard you almost swayed where you stood.
Lilah frowned dramatically, her little nose scrunching. âBut Daddy, it was so pretty. I can draw you a picture!â.
Dean chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. âIâll take you up on that, Buzzâ. Then, his gaze shifted back to you. âBut the real thing? Thatâs mine to see on the dayâ.
After you and Lilah got out of your shoes and jackets, Dean guided te two of you up the stairs. âClose your eyes, Buzzâ, he teased as he scooped her into his arms halfway up the hall. âNo peekingâ.
Lilah squealed, throwing her hands dramatically over her eyes. âIâm not peeking!â, she promised, then immediately cracked one finger open.
Dean snorted. âThatâs cheatingâ.
At the top of the stairs, Sam leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed. âYou ready for the grand reveal?â.
Lilah nodded furiously, hands still slapped over her face.
Dean nudged the door open with his boot, carried her inside, and finally whispered, âOkay, Buzz. Lookâ.
Her hands dropped and her gasp nearly broke you.
The room was new. Not patched up, not just painted over, but hers. The old walls were gone, replaced with soft honey-yellow paint and white trim. A little desk sat under the window, already stocked with jars of crayons and glue sticks. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with her picture books and in the corner was the brand-new bed frame Dean and Sam had built. Above it, painted carefully, a mural of flowers and bees dancing across the wall.
Lilah wriggled out of Deanâs arms and bolted across the room. âItâs mine! Itâs my room!â. She scrambled onto the mattress with a bounce. âThere are bees, Daddy! You painted bees!â.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck, a little sheepish. âWell, Sammy helpedâ.
Sam raised both brows. âYou mean I held the stencil while you got glitter in the paintâ.
âItâs sparkly bees!â, Lilah crowed, already hugging the wall like it was alive.
Dean leaned against the doorframe beside you, his grin stretching ear to ear, pride practically glowing off him. âTold you sheâd love itâ.
You pressed a hand over your belly, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. âShe does".
After dinner, Dean scooped Lilah up, sticky with sauce, and announced bath time.
From the kitchen, you and Sam could hear all the splashes and giggles and Deanâs exaggerated monster voices.
Sam, drying the last plate, cleared his throat. âUh⌠heyâ.
You glanced at him. âWhatâs up?â.
He hesitated, eyes flicking to the hallway like he was making sure Dean couldnât hear. âYour friend. Sally. The one from the partyâ. Your brows lifted, but you stayed quiet. Sam rubbed the back of his neck. âShe, uh⌠is she⌠single?â.
You blinked, then smiled. âShe is. Sheâs a single momâ.
His shoulders eased just a little, but his cheeks went faintly pink. âShe seemed⌠niceâ.
âShe is niceâ, you said warmly, nudging his arm with your elbow. âSmart, too. And she doesnât take crap from anyone. Youâd like herâ.
Sam gave a little half-smile, trying to play it cool, but you saw the flicker of something hopeful in his eyes. Before you could tease him, a loud splash echoed from the bathroom followed by Deanâs exasperated, âLilah, did you just dump water on the ceiling?â and Lilahâs unapologetic giggle.
When the bathroom door finally creaked open, Dean cam out with his shirt clinging, jeans splattered and his hair a mess. In his arms was Lilah, swaddled tight in a towel and grinning ear to ear.
âShe wonâ, Dean muttered, trudging past you with mock defeat. âEvery damn timeâ.
âDaddy got wet!â, Lilah announced proudly, her curls plastered to her forehead.
You covered your laugh with your hand as Dean shot you a look that said donât even start. Then he carried her down the hall, still dripping, muttering about pajamas and clean sheets.
Sam was still leaning against the counter, shaking his head with a smile. âHeâs⌠good at thatâ, he said softly, almost like he couldnât believe what he was seeing.
âHe isâ, you agreed, watching Dean disappear into Lilahâs room. âBetter at braiding than me now, too. She wonât even let me touch her hair anymoreâ.
Sam chuckled, then grew a little quiet. His gaze shifted back to you.
You tilted your head, catching it. âSo⌠do you want her number?â.
His brows rose. âSallyâs?â.
âMhmâ. You smirked, folding your arms. âBecause sheâs been talking about you for days. I think sheâs just waiting for me to play matchmakerâ.
Samâs ears went pink again, his mouth twitching like he couldnât hide the smile even if he wanted to. ââŚYouâre serious?â.
You nodded. âDead serious. She asked if you were âas good in real life as you are with glitter and pizza dutyââ.
Sam groaned softly, running a hand over his face, but he was still smiling. âGodâ. He shook his head. âYeah. Okay. Maybe⌠give it to meâ.
After Sam left, you let out a long breath and dropped onto the couch. Every bone, every muscle, every inch of you felt heavy. The baby was pressing low and your feet were aching.
Dean walked into the room a minute later. He stopped dead when he saw you sprawled there, one hand over your bump, your head tipped back. âYou okay?â.
You cracked one eye open, half a smile tugging at your lips. âIn three daysâ, you whispered, âIâm gonna be married. To the most unusual man aliveâ.
Dean huffed out a laugh, lowering himself onto the couch beside you. âUnusual, huh?â.
You turned your head, studying him. âYeahâ, you said, a lump rising in your throat. âBut mineâ.
Dean leaned back against the couch, tugged your legs gently across his lap, and caught one of your ankles in his big hand. âSoâŚâ, he drawled, his thumb already circling against the sore arch of your foot, âno cold feet?â.
You let out something between a laugh and a groan, tipping your head back against the cushion. âYouâre literally making sure my feet arenât coldâ.
He smirked, kneading deeper, finding the spot that had been aching all day. âYeah, well. Just covering all the basesâ.
The pressure made your whole body sigh, your swollen ankles grateful for the attention. Your hand drifted over your belly out of habit, Henry shifting under your palm.
Deanâs grin softened as he watched. âYouâre really not nervous?â.
You cracked an eye open to look at him. âAbout marrying you?â. You paused dramatically. Then: âNeverâ.
-
The day before the wedding, Dean had been up early, kissing your temple before you were even fully awake, whispering, âMe and Buzz got errands. You restâ.
Errands, it turned out, meant a mission.
Heâd bundled Lilah into Baby and driven straight into town. She sat shotgun, swinging her legs, chattering the whole way.
âDaddy, does my dress have to be white like Mommyâs?â.
âNot unless you want it to be, Buzzâ.
âCan it be yellow? With sparkles? Like a real bee princess?â.
Dean chuckled, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming the beat of her enthusiasm on the steering wheel. âYeah, weâll see what they got. But sparkles? Sparkles are non-negotiable, huh?â.
She gasped. âDaddy, of courseâ.
At the boutique, every head turned the second they walked in. A man like Dean Winchester carrying a five-year-old who was already announcing, âI need the sparkliest dress for my mommyâs wedding!â, was a sight to stop traffic.
The saleslady blinked at him, then beamed. âFor the flower girl?â.
âYes!â.
Dean crouched beside her, eye level, his hand braced on her little shoulder. âBuzz, what do you think? Wanna try some on?â.
She looked at him very seriously. âWill Mommy smile when she sees me?â.
Deanâs chest tightened. He smoothed a curl out of her face. âGuaranteedâ.
Dress after dress followedâpink, blue, ruffles too big, bows too itchy. Lilah twirled in each, her laughter ringing off the mirrors, Dean clapping like sheâd just won a medal. But when she stepped out in a soft yellow dress with tiny embroidered daisies scattered across the skirt and a sash that glittered faintly gold, her whole face lit up.
âDaddyâ. Her voice was a whisper, awed. âCan i have this?".
Dean swallowed hard, his throat thick. âYeah, Buzz. Thatâs the one. You look perfect, baby girl. Just like Mommyâ.
âPerfect like Mommyâ, she repeated softly, like she was tucking the compliment into her pocket to keep forever. Then she launched forward, skinny arms wrapping tight around his neck, her little chin digging into his shoulder.
Dean caught her easily, pressing a kiss to her curls, breathing her in like he needed the anchor.
Her voice came muffled against his collar. âIâm glad youâre done saving the world, Daddyâ.
His arms locked around her automatically, his throat going tight. He shut his eyes for a beat, the memory of all those empty years pressing down on him. Then he leaned back just enough to look at her face, serious despite the sequins on her sash.
âYeah, Buzzâ, he rasped, brushing his thumb over her cheek. âIâm done. World can save itself for a whileâ.
She beamed, satisfied, and patted his stubbled jaw like she was sealing a deal. âGood. âCause Mommy and me need you moreâ.
-
The little chapel by the lake smelled faintly of lilacs and wood polish, the stained glass catching sunlight that spilled warm across the pews. It was smallâjust how Dean wanted it. Just how you needed it.
The guests filtered in with quiet excitement, not a crowd but a family. Jodie with Alex and Claire. Donna, bright as the morning itself, hugging everyone twice; Cas. And SamâSam with Sally at his side, her daughter Mia clutching a little basket of petals she kept peeking into like treasure.
Dean stood up front in a black suit that Sam had all but strong-armed him into wearing. The jacket fit snug across his shoulders, the tie sat crooked until Cas leaned in and straightened it without a word. Dean fidgeted anyway, rubbing his palms down the thighs of his pants, heart jackhammering like he was walking into a hunt he couldnât back out of.
And then the doors opened.
Lilah marched first, scattering petals down the aisle from her little daisy-yellow dress. She kept glancing back at you, making sure you were following. Every time she did, Deanâs hand twitched like he wanted to clap but remembered he wasnât supposed to.
And then he saw you.
The dress clung where it needed to, floated where it should, hugging your swollen belly like it had been made for you and Henry both. Your veil trailed just enough to brush the aisle floor, your bouquet trembling faintly in your hands.
Deanâs breath left him in one ragged exhale. His throat worked, his jaw flexed, and his eyes went glassy. He grinned, but it cracked halfway, breaking into something rawer, truer. He swore under his breath, so low only Sam caught it, and Sam just grinned like heâd been waiting for this exact moment.
Every step you took, Deanâs chest rose higher, like he was holding back a thousand words and could barely manage to stand under the weight of them.
When you finally reached him, Dean reached out. His fingers threaded through yours instantly, squeezing like a lifeline.
And the moment your vows slipped into the air, his hands were already cradling your face and his lips found yours like theyâd been waiting all day.
The kiss wasnât rushed or showy. It was home. It was slow and deep, a little shaky and full of reverence. Like your lips were a promise heâd waited half his life to keep.
You smiled against him, tears slipping down your cheeks, and he brushed them away with his thumbs without breaking the kiss, just breathed into it, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your swollen belly and his trembling chest.
From the pews, someone sniffled. A second later, Lilah squealed, âUgh, youâre kissing forever!â, and that broke the spell just enough for laughter to bubble around the room.
Dean laughed into your mouth, resting his forehead to yours, eyes still closed. âDamn right we areâ, he whispered and then kissed you again.
-
The backyard glowed under strings of warm lights Dean and Sam had strung up that morning. The grill hissed and smoked as Sam worked it like while Donna kept stealing hot dogs straight off the platter and Jodie tried to swat her hand. The girls played tag with Lilah. And you? You were barely holding onto your plate.
Dean was behind you, his arms wrapped snug around your middle, hands splayed over your bump like he couldnât stand to let go. He swayed you gently from side to side in the rhythm of a song only he could hear, his lips brushing over the slope of your neck.
âCareful, Winchesterâ, you teased, trying to spear a piece of potato salad without dropping your fork. âYouâre making me look like I canât stand on my own two feetâ.
âYou donât have toâ, he murmured into your skin. He kissed just below your ear. âNot anymoreâ.
You shivered, your plate tilting dangerously until Dean steadied it with one hand. He chuckled, kissed the corner of your jaw, and drawled, âGoddamn. Miss Winchester lookinâ too good tonight. Think I married outta my leagueâ.
You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved anyway. âYouâre insufferableâ.
âYeah?â. He pressed another kiss, then another, like he couldnât stop. âCanât help it. My wifeâs gorgeousâ.
From across the yard, Donna whistled. âGet a room, newlyweds!â.
Lilah popped up from behind the picnic table, hands on her hips, and yelled, âEwww! Daddyâs kissing Mommy again!â.
âBetter get used to it, Buzzâ, he called back, still swaying you softly. âIâm never stoppinââ.
A while later, youâd started to fan yourself with a paper plate, your dress clinging in ways it hadnât hours ago. The heat, the belly, the weight of the dayâyour body was calling time. And Dean caught it instantly.
âCâmon, Mrs. Winchesterâ, he murmured in your ear, already sliding a steady hand around your back. âLetâs get you outta this before you meltâ.
You swatted him lightly with the plate. âSmooth, Deanâ.
âNot complaininâ about the viewâ, he shot back, that boyish grin tugging at his mouth. âBut youâre sweatinâ through silk, sweetheartâ.
He guided you inside. Upstairs, in the dim of your room, it was just the two of you again. He shut the door with his boot, the laughter outside muffled into nothing.
âArms upâ, he said gently. His hands were steady as he found the zipper at your back. Slow, deliberate, dragging it down inch by inch. His knuckles brushed bare skin, raising goosebumps despite the warmth.
The dress loosened, slid over your shoulders. Dean caught it before it could fall, easing the fabric down like it was precious. His lips found your shoulder.
"Dean".
âRelaxâ, he murmured, his mouth brushing your collarbone now. âJust gettinâ my wife comfortableâ. Then he knelt to slide soft cotton shorts up your legs, his hands a little slower than necessary, his lips pressing a kiss just above your knee.
Deanâs hands paused at your hips, thumbs hooking the soft cotton at the waist. He gave you one long look, then slid the shorts down again.
When his mouth came back up, it was higher: soft kisses along the line of your hip, along the side of your belly. His finger traced just under the edge of your panties, but instead of tugging further, he eased you back with a firm, steady hand at your hip. âSit, sweetheartâ, he murmured, guiding you down until you perched on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dipped beneath you. Dean dropped to his knees between your legs like heâd been born there, broad shoulders parting your thighs as he leaned in.
The second your weight settled, his mouth was on you. No hesitation. He hooked your underwear aside and sealed his lips to your center, sucking deep and hard like he already knew exactly what would rip the air out of your lungs.
You gasped, hands clutching instinctively at the sheets, then at his hair. âDeanââ.
He groaned low at the sound, the vibration of it sparking through you.
Your thighs trembled instantly, knees trying to close around his head, but his big hands pinned you wide and steady against the mattress. âStay right there, sweetheartâ, he mumbled into you. Then he sealed his mouth over you again and sucked hard.
âDeanâoh my ââ. Your voice cracked, fingers yanking at his hair because it was too much, too good, too fast. He groaned again when you pulled his hair, the sound feral, hungry. His tongue worked in deep, slow strokes while his lips tugged and sucked like he was determined to wring every ounce of you out.
The pressure coiled hot and sharp in your belly within seconds. He slid one hand up, splayed it over your bump with a tenderness that contradicted the filth of what his mouth was doing.
That grounding touch broke you. You cried out, thighs clamping helplessly around his head as your orgasm ripped through you. Dean held you steady, never letting up, swallowing every twitch and pulse, dragging it out until you were shaking against him.
When you finally slumped back on your elbows, gasping for air, he pulled away only long enough to lick his lips and grin up at you, chin slick and shining. âStill got itâ, he rasped, before diving back in like he wasnât finished.
âDean?â, Sam called muffled through the door but tight with concern. âLilah burned her hand on the grillâ.
Your heart stopped. Dean jerked back immediately. You scrambled upright, tugging your shorts back up with shaky fingers just as Sam added, âSheâs okay, just⌠some tears. Can youâ?â.
Dean was already wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, guilt and adrenaline snapping him into motion.
When he opened the door, Lilah was on Samâs hip, her little face blotchy with tears, her other hand cradled carefully in Samâs palm. She sniffled the second she saw Dean. âDaddyââ.
Deanâs entire chest softened. He scooped her into his arms like she weighed nothing. "Buzz, what happened?â. His voice was low, soothing, a complete 180 from the man whoâd been between your thighs seconds ago.
Sam gave you an apologetic look over Deanâs shoulder as he explained, âShe touched the edge of the grill. It wasnât badâred, but no blister. I ran it under cool water, just figured sheâd want her dadâ.
âCâmere, lemme see that hand, baby girlâ, Dean murmured, already stroking Lilahâs damp cheeks.
Lilah sniffled again, holding it up for inspection. Dean pressed her palm gently to his chest. âItâs okay. Daddyâs got youâ.
-
Later, is was just you and Dean. In the bathroom, the tub full and steaming, the faint flicker of candlelight bouncing off the tiles. You leaned back against him, your head tucked under his jaw, his chest broad and warm behind you. His legs bracketed yours and his big hands rested over your belly. Every few minutes, Henry gave a thump against his hand, and Dean would huff a soft laugh like he still couldnât believe it.
âKidâs already got my right hookâ, he murmured, pressing a kiss into your damp hair. âBet he comes out swinginââ.
You smiled faintly, your hand sliding over his, squeezing. âHeâs just stubborn. Like his dadâ.
Dean chuckled, his stubble scraping your temple as he nuzzled close. âYeah, but you love that about meâ.
Your laugh came out tired but true. âMost daysâ.
Another kick jolted against his palm, stronger this time. Deanâs hand tightened instinctively.
âIf it werenât for him in there, Iâd have you bent over this tub alreadyâ.
You laughed, breathless, tilting your head back on his shoulder so your lips brushed his jaw. âThat a promise or a threat?â.
Dean groaned, squeezing your hips gently but firmly. âDonât tease me. I meant it. Four weeks, Iâve been goodâ.
You shifted a little on his lap, enough to feel him stir beneath you. âWho said I donât want it?â.
He swore under his breath, his forehead pressing to the side of your head. âYouâre eight months, Iâm notââ. His hand spread protectively over your bump. âIâm not takinâ chancesâ.
âDeanâ, you whispered, turning just enough to catch his mouth in a kiss. âIâm horny. And youâre hard. So maybe stop worrying so much and justââ. You nipped his lower lip. ââtouch meâ.
âSweetheartâŚâ. His voice was ragged. âDonât make meâdonât do this to me. Itâs notââ.
You twisted in his lap enough to face him, your knees bracketing his thighs, the swell of your belly pressing against him. You cupped his jaw with wet hands, kissed him deep, slow, messy, until his breath stuttered.
âItâs our wedding nightâ, you whispered against his mouth, your voice breaking into a whine that wasnât entirely put on. âI want you. Please, Deanâ.
He groaned, low and guttural, like youâd just torn his last thread of restraint. His forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut. His hands slid up your thighs, trembling with the effort it took to hold back. âEight months pregnant, and youâre still the sexiest goddamn thing Iâve ever seenâ.
You rocked your hips against him, deliberately brushing the hard length trapped beneath the water, making him hiss through his teeth. âThen stop talking and fuck meâ.
Deanâs jaw clenched so hard you thought it might crack. His hands fisted at your sides, fighting himselfâand losing.
Finally, he snapped. âFuck itâ.
His mouth crashed against yours, his hands hauling you closer, angling you over him in the tub. âYou win, Mrs. Winchesterâ, he mumbled against your lips, already lining himself up beneath the water. âBut donât blame me when you canât walk tomorrowâ.
The water sloshed up over the porcelain lip as Dean shifted beneath you, the heat of him pulsing against you before he slid home, slow but so deep it stole your breath.
You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. âOh, fuââ.
Deanâs head tipped back, jaw locked, a broken groan spilling out of him. âShit, sweetheart⌠been weeksâ.
You braced against his chest, moving as best as you could, but eight months in, your body didnât have the speed it used to. You rolled your hips instead, grinding down, and his answering growl vibrated right into your bones.
âThatâs itâ, he whispered, kissing the damp skin of your throat. âJust like thatâ.
Your body betrayed you almost instantly. You were too sensitive now, too raw from the weeks without. Every slow grind had you clenching down hard around him, and every time you did, Deanâs whole body jolted like youâd shocked him.
âDamnââ, he hissed. His hands clutched your hips, holding you steady when you trembled. âYouâre squeezinâ me so tight, sweetheart⌠how the hell am I supposed to last?â.
Your laugh broke into a gasp as another wave of sensation hit you. âThen donâtââ.
âDonât tempt meâ, he growled, thrusting up suddenly, hard enough to splash water over the tubâs edge.
You whimpered. âDeanââ.
A few minutes later, you let Dean haul you up out of the tub. He wrapped a towel around your shoulders and knotted another low around his hips, then kissed your wet temple like he couldnât help it. âSit tightâclothes coming right upâ, he said, already stalking toward the dresser.
You reached for your bra on the counter⌠and felt three warm trickles slide down your thighs. You froze. Then a heavy pressure, your body deciding for you. Oh oh. You eased onto the toilet just as another swish hit the bowl.
Well. Hello, Henry.
âDean?â, you called, weirdly calm. Second baby calm. âBabe⌠my water just brokeâ.
He reappeared in the doorway with an armful of clothes and went stock-still.
âSon of a bitchâ, he muttered. âI knew itâI knew we shouldnâtâveâfuck, I knew itâ.
You blinked at him, caught between a laugh and disbelief. âDeanââ.
âNo, donâtâdonât tell me this ainât my faultâ. He was already scrubbing a hand through his damp hair, water flicking everywhere. âWeâJesus, sweetheart, we just⌠in the tub, and now your water breaks? Thatâs not a coincidence. I did thisâ.
You had to cover your mouth to keep from laughing, partly because he was so dead serious, partly because the truth, that Henry was just ready, wasnât going to stop him from spiraling.
âDean Winchesterâ, you said firmly. âYou did not break my water by having sex with meâ.
His eyes snapped to you, panicked and stubborn all at once. âHow do you know?!â. He gestured helplessly toward you, toward the trickle down your legs. âLook at you! We finallyâyâknow, after weeks, and nowâbam! Kidâs knockinâ at the door!â.
You shook your head, laughing now. âHenryâs been sitting on my bladder for weeks. It was gonna happen anyway, Dean. Tonight just⌠happens to be the nightâ.
He stopped pacing, staring at you like maybe he wanted to believe but couldnât let go of the guilt yet. His chest heaved.
âNot my fault?â, he asked finally, quieter, almost boyish.
You reached out, catching his wrist. âNot your fault. Promiseâ.
Dean sagged, shoulders slumping with relief, but he still muttered under his breath as he crouched down in front of you, one big palm spreading protective over your belly. âStill feel like I should apologize to the kidâ.
Dean crouched there for another beat, his forehead pressed against your belly. Then he pushed back, stood and started moving. âIâll, uhââ. He bent to scoop up the pile of clothes heâd dropped, only to set them right back down again. âThe bag. Right. Whereâs the bag?â.
âIn the closet, by the doorâ, you said softly, watching him.
âRight. Okay. Bagâ. He nodded to himself, pacing to the doorway. His leg bounced once, twice, like he couldnât stop the nervous energy from spilling out. He gripped the doorframe, tried to make his voice calm. âWeâre good. We got time, right?â.
âPlentyâ, you assured him, leaning back against the toilet tank with a steadying breath. âContractions arenât even regular yet. First babies can take forever. Second ones still take a whileâ.
âRightâ. He nodded again, over and over, like he was trying to tattoo the word calm onto his own brain. But his leg bounced harder.
You reached out, catching his wrist as he passed. His pulse was hammering under your fingers. âDeanâ. He froze. âYouâre hereâ, you whispered, searching his eyes until he met yours. âThatâs all I needâ.
For a second his expression cracked. That raw grief he carried for missing Lilahâs first moments, for the years he wasnât there. His voice was rough when he spoke. âI wasnât there last timeâ.
Your throat tightened. You shook your head firmly. âYouâre here now. For me. For him. Thatâs what mattersâ.
Dean swallowed hard, then nodded once like he was trying to force the guilt down where it couldnât touch you. He bent again, kissing your damp forehead.
âOkayâ, he murmured, steadying himself with your steadiness. âWe got this. I got youâ.
Dean practically sprinted around the house, bag in hand, keys already in his fist. By the time he got you settled in the passenger seat, towel exchanged for your favorite pants and a shirt, his leg was bouncing again, and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
âSeatbelt on?â, he asked for the third time, glancing over at you.
âYes, Deanâ, you sighed, hiding a little smile.
Babyâs bag was wedged at your feet, your phone in your lap. You scrolled quickly, thumb hitting Samâs contact, and pressed speaker as Dean pulled out of the driveway.
On the other end of the line, Sam finally answered, voice groggy. âHello?â.
Dean didnât even let you speak first. âHer water brokeâ, he blurted, voice rough.
Sam was instantly awake. âWhat? Now?â.
You gave Deanâs hand a squeeze and cut in steady. âYeah, now. Weâre heading to the hospital. Is Lilah asleep?â.
âYeahâ, Sam said. âIâll keep her as long as you need me to. You focus on Henryâ.
Dean muttered a gruff, âThanks, Sammyâ and hung up before his brother could say more.
-
You were propped against the raised bed with a hospital gown loose around you and the IV already taped to your hand. The nurse had finished the first round of checks and slipped out with a smile, promising to check dilation again in a while.
Translation: this was going to be a long night.
Dean sat in the chair beside you, knees spread wide, elbows braced on them like he was ready to jump into a fight at any second. His leg bounced restlessly and his eyes hadnât left you in twenty minutes.
âYou okay?â, he asked again, for what had to be the tenth time.
You gave him a tired little smile. âDean, Iâm fine. Contractions arenât even bad yetâ.
âNot bad?â. His brow furrowed. âYou just winced like someone stuck a knife in youâ.
âThat was a crampâ, you corrected gently. âWeâre not even closeâ.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. âGod, this waitingâs worse than a huntâ.
You chuckled weakly, reaching for his hand. He gave it to you instantly, his palm hot and solid against yours. âDeanâ. You squeezed, forcing him to look at you. âYou donât have to do anything right now. Just be here. Thatâs itâ.
His eyes softened, but his shoulders stayed tight. âYeah, well, not sure Iâm cut out for the whole âjust sit thereâ jobâ.
âFunnyâ, you teased lightly, ââcause youâre actually killing itâ.
That pulled the smallest, crooked grin from him. He leaned forward, kissing the back of your hand, then held it against his chest like he needed the contact more than you did.
You watched his eyes keep flicking between your face and the green line of Henryâs heartbeat. When the next mild squeeze passed, you squeezed his hand back.
âHeyâ, you said softly. âCome sit up here. Youâre hovering a hole in the floorâ.
He huffed, dragged the chair closer so his knee bumped the mattress, then laid your joined hands over your belly. Up close, the tough-guy edges slipped; he looked a little younger and a lot more scared.
âThis part⌠it just keeps reminding meâ, he murmured, eyes on your fingers instead of your face. âI wasnât there when Lilah came. Four years she had to do it without a dad, and she still turned into the kindest, loudest little miracle. I missed everythingâ.
You turned his chin gently until he met your eyes. âYou didnât make her kind by being gone, Dean. Sheâs kind because thatâs in her, because itâs in you. The cars and the glue and the buzzing? Thatâs you all over her. I just kept her safe till you found your way backâ.
He swallowed. âSometimes I look at her wall and⌠it feels like a ledger. All the pictures Iâm not inâ.
âIt isnât a ledgerâ, you said firm. âItâs a map. It led you homeâ.
He let out a shaky laugh that wasnât really a laugh, then nodded. âHomeâ, he echoed, like he was trying the word on again.
You slid your thumb over his ring. âYouâre here for this one. For the midnight feedings, the diaper blowouts, the boring Tuesdays. For her, too⌠school plays, swing pushes, braids with glitter if she demands itâ.
âIâm already the braid guyâ, he muttered, a ghost of a smile tugging. Then, quieter: âIâm gonna spend the rest of my life showing up. Even when itâs not exciting. Especially thenâ.
âGoodâ, you whispered. âThatâs all either of them needâ.
He leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours. âIâm sorry I missed her first breathâ, he said, voice rough. âI wonât miss hisâ.
âI know", you whispered.
Deanâs throat worked, and for a beat he just stared at you, raw and open in a way that made your chest ache. Then, like clockwork, that need to cover vulnerability with something else crept in. His mouth tipped crooked.
âYâknowâ, he drawled, thumb brushing slow over your skin, âlast time I had you spread out like this, there were a lot less wires involvedâ.
You groaned, smacking his shoulder weakly. âDeanâ.
âIâm just sayinâ, if you need a distraction, I got about a hundred ideas. Hell, I couldââ.
âDean Winchester, shut upâ, you hissed, half laughing, half horrified.
And of course, right then the door opened. The doctor walked in. âLetâs check your progress, shall we?â.
Dean sat up straighter instantly, clearing his throat like a guilty teenager. âUhâyeah. Great. Progress is good. We love progressâ.
You buried your hot face in your pillow as the doc pulled on gloves.
The doctor glanced between you two with the faintest lift of her brow before focusing on the exam. âNot quite there yetâ, she reported after a moment. âAbout three centimeters. Still some time to goâ.
Dean exhaled hard, like heâd been holding his breath through the whole thing, then muttered under it, âThree centimeters. Huh. Usually I can get you toââ.
âDean!â, you cut him off, mortified, smacking him again.
The doctor pretended not to hear, tugging her gloves off with a snap, though you swore you saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
As soon as the door clicked shut, you groaned into your hands. âYou are insufferableâ.
Dean just grinned, kissing your temple. âAnd you love me for itâ.
Hours unspooled in soft beeps and low light. The lake-black outside the window turned slate, then pearl. You dozed in ten-minute scraps between the milder waves; Dean didnât blink. He timed every squeeze on his phone, then looked up with a brand-new question each time.
âSo when he comes outâdoes he, like⌠breathe right away? Orââ.
You smiled, sleepy. âHeâs been practicing in fluid. Once heâs out, heâll clear it and cry. The cry helps open everything upâ.
Dean nodded, storing it like intel. âOkay. Crying is good. For onceâ. He glanced at the monitor. âAnd he canât⌠yâknow⌠drown before that? I know itâs a dumb question, butââ.
âItâs not dumbâ, you said. âCordâs still doing the job till he starts on his ownâ.
âRight. Backup lineâ, he murmured, oddly comforted. âCan I cut it?â.
âIf you donât faintâ.
He snorted. âI delivered a ghoulâs head once. I can handle a cordâ.
-
Three hours later the room had shifted. The contractions had teeth now. Every time one hit, it tore a groan right out of you, your nails biting into Deanâs hand. He never pulled away, even when your grip went white-knuckle.
âBreathe with me, sweetheartâ, he tried once. âIn through the nose, out through theââ.
âShut up, Dean!â, you snapped, heat and pain slamming through you.
He winced like youâd shot him, but nodded fast. âYep. Shutting. Quiet as a church mouse. A very helpfulââ.
âDEANâ.
âRight. Silentâ. He pressed his lips together.
Another wave hit. You curled forward, sweat slicking your brow, a low, guttural sound breaking out of you. Dean made a noise with you half instinct, half helplessness, like his body thought it could share the pain if it just tried hard enough.
The doctorâs voice cut through: âOkay, weâre close. Next one, I want you to pushâ.
Deanâs hand was shaking in yours. He swiped his thumb across your knuckles. âAlmost there, babyâ.
The doctor leaned forward, her voice steady but firm. âWeâve got crowning. Keep breathing, almost thereâ.
Dean risked just a glance. He shifted at your side, craning his neck despite himself. One look between your legs and his face went slack, eyes wide.
âHoly shitâ, he breathed. âSweetheartâI can see him. I can see him. Heâsâheâs got hair, oh my god, heâs right thereââ.
You let out a furious hiss, teeth bared, sweat dripping into your eyes. âDEAN. Not helping!â.
He snapped back upright instantly, squeezing your hand like a lifeline. âRight. Sorry. Justâyouâreâheâsââ. He made a helpless noise, a wrecked mix between laughter and a sob. âGod, heâs⌠heâs right there. Push, baby, pushâbring him outââ.
Another contraction slammed through you, and you bore down hard, everything inside you clenching, burning. Dean groaned right along with you.
Then the room filled with the sharp, wet cry of a new life.
Dean blinked hard, jaw tight, his throat bobbing as he forced down the swell rising like a tide.
âStrong set of pipesâ, the nurse quipped, but Dean barely heard her. He was staring like heâd never seen anything holy before.
When they laid Henry on your chest, the crying stuttered, softened, the tiny body rooting instinctively against your skin. You gasped, tears spilling, both hands trembling as you gathered him close.
Dean leaned in but froze half an inch away, his breath caught, his eyes rimmed red. He clenched his jaw so hard a vein stood out, fighting itâdonât cry, not here, not in front of them. He dragged a hand down his face, muttered a curse under his breath.
But then Henryâs tiny fist flexed, caught nothing but air. Dean couldnât stop himself. He caught that hand with one finger, let it curl impossibly tight around him.
His head ducked instantly, as if he could hide it in the curve of your shoulder, but his voice betrayed him, wrecked and breaking. âHi, buddy. HeyâŚâ. He sniffed hard, shaking his head. âGod, youâre perfectâ.
The doctor and nurses busied themselves, polite enough to let the moment stay yours. Deanâs shoulders shuddered once, sharp, before he forced his breathing back under control. He kissed your damp hair, his voice low, shaky against your temple.
âYou did it, sweetheartâ, he whispered.
You stroked Henryâs damp hair with trembling fingers, your lips brushing his crown. Dean hovered, his forehead pressed briefly to yours before he straightened at the nurseâs quiet prompt. âWant to cut the cord?â.
âYeahâ, he rasped. âYeah, I got itâ.
He lined up the blades, heart hammering in his ears while he cut the cord. He let out a long breath, half a laugh, half disbelief, handing the scissors back.
The nurse moved Henry gently to weigh and clean, his cry filling the room again. Dean followed every step like a shadow, his hand unconsciously braced at your shoulder as if tethering you both.
Then she guided the baby into Dean´s arms, careful.
For a heartbeat, he froze, his chest barely moving with breath. Fear, awe, disbeliefâall of it tangled in his face. His thumb brushed instinctively over the blanket edge near Henryâs chin, and the baby squirmed, a little squeak tumbling out.
Deanâs whole body jolted. âShitâsorry, bud, I didnâtââ. His voice broke, quiet and panicked.
But Henry just settled, tucking into the crook of his arm like it was the only place he belonged.
Deanâs lips parted, eyes burning as he whispered, almost to himself, âThatâs my boyâ.
You watched him, your chest aching in a way you hadnât expected. Youâd seen Dean bleed out on motel bathroom floors, seen him laugh in bars with a beer bottle dangling from his fingers, seen him broken and stitched back together. But this? This was different. This was raw.
The nurses moved quietly around you with warm cloths, gentle instructions and the kind of care you half-heard and half-obeyed. But Dean? Dean was somewhere else entirely.
He sat hunched forward in the chair, Henry swaddled tight in his arms, the newbornâs face still flushed, eyes little more than slits. Dean kept his head bent close, his lips moving in a steady stream of words you couldnât quite catch.
Every so often, Henry made a tiny sound and Dean would pause, grin like the world had just cracked open, then go right back to murmuring.
âGot a sister waitinâ for you, buddyâ, he whispered, his thumb brushing Henryâs cheek. âSheâs the loud one. Youâre gonna love herâ.
Henry squirmed, his mouth working around some invisible dream. Dean chuckled under his breath, softer than youâd ever heard. âThatâs it⌠already got opinions, huh? Just like your momâ.
The awe in his voice was unmistakable. He was cataloging everything. From the way Henryâs tiny fingers curled against the blanket, the almost-blue shade of his eyes behind heavy lids to the squashed little nose. It was like he couldnât stop staring, couldnât believe this wasnât something fragile heâd only ever dreamed about.
He leaned closer, pressing his lips to the crown of Henryâs head. âUncle Sammyâs across the street. Thatâs your guy. Heâll teach you the boring stuff⌠and Iâll teach you how to drive before youâre supposed to. Donât tell your momâ.
You watched, half-dazed from exhaustion, half undone by the sight of him.
Dean hadnât moved for twenty minutes, maybe more. He hadnât noticed the nurse coming in and checking your IV. Hadnât even heard the clack of the monitor adjusting. He was in his own little worldâjust him and Henry. Youâd never seen him so still.
You smiled softly. âHeyâ.
He blinked, like waking up from a dream, and looked over at you. âYou okay?â.
You nodded, slow and tired. âThink I could hold our kid now, or are you planning on raising him from that chair?â.
Dean huffed out a breath. Carefully, reverently, he walked over and lowered Henry into your arms. The second your hands took him, Dean leaned over the bedrail, his arms caging you both in. He kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the shell of your ear, his lips lingering like he wasnât quite done grounding himself.
âJesus, youâre incredibleâ, he whispered. âI donât know how the hell you just did that, but⌠you didâ.
Your lips curved into a soft, tired grin as you brushed a fingertip over Henryâs tiny nose. âWell⌠I had a really cute baby to look forward toâ. Deanâs chest rumbled with a laugh against your hair, but you tilted your head up just enough to catch his eye. âThoughâ, you added, smirking faintly, âI gotta say⌠this is getting a little unfairâ.
Dean frowned playfully. âWhat is?â.
You angled Henry slightly so Dean could see the little furrow between his brows, the shape of his jaw already set, stubborn even at just hours old. âHe looks exactly like you. Even worse than Lilahâ.
Dean blinked, then laughed outright, dropping his forehead to your temple. âOh, câmonâworse?â.
âWay worseâ, you teased, though your voice was warm. âItâs like my genes just threw in the towel. Weak. Completely overpoweredâ.
Dean chuckled again, but there was pride in it. Pride and something a little watery in the way his eyes softened. He looked down at Henry, then back at you, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. âGuess that means I gotta stick around, huh?â, he murmured. âCanât have two mini-mes runninâ around without supervisionâ.
You let out a tired laugh, pressing your face into his chest. âGod help meâ.
Dean grinned, kissing the top of your head. âNah. God helped me. Gave me you, Buzz, and now this guy. Canât ask for more than thatâ.
