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Time After Time – Chapter 11

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

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language & violence, reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), 2023!!, a lot of time travel, SB being his charming self and everything that comes with it, mentions of smut, lovers to enemies, PTSD, humor & historical name drops, hurt, major angst

Word Count: 11.7k

Posted on Patreon May 9, 2025

A/N: Aaaaah, we're here! It starts funny, but it ends in heartbreak... Either way, I've been so excited for you guys to read this one! 😆 ✨ Chapter title comes from Gone with the Wind (1939)

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Chapter 11: When You’re Slapped, You’ll Take It and Like It

They thought he was asleep. Or at least pretending to be. Either way, no one fucking questioned it.

Curled on the couch, one arm draped over his chest like he might’ve actually nodded off, Soldier Boy kept still, eyes nearly closed, barely breathing – like an antique six-foot paperweight.

A postcard picture of composure.

In the chaotic background, Supreme Court Barbie was talking – again. Wet Nap was nodding along with his girlfriend. Baguette Boy chimed in with another theory, something about quantum entanglement and paradoxical timelines. Mute Ninja Barbie was holding up signs and gesturing shit. The Asshole’s voice, gruff and grounded, cut through the clamor with a string of barely suppressed impatience.

Ben told them you’d come back. Hell, he told himself the same fucking thing, over and over, with the kind of confidence that could make lies sound like goddamn gospel.

It was a loop. That’s what he’d figured out when he saw your face in this century – exactly how he remembered you, down to the goddamn smile and stubborn spark in your eyes.

You were the exact same woman who had so recklessly wrecked him in 1942.

You hadn’t recognized him, though. And that’s when it hit him – you were living this in the wrong order. Out of sync with him. He’d already had you. Loved you. Lost you. And you… you hadn’t gotten to that part yet.

But when you vanished – again – this time on his watch, it hit different. Harder. Like some cruel joke the universe wasn’t finished playing yet.

He’d told himself you’d come back to this moment. This year. This room.

But you could’ve landed anywhere. He didn’t know shit. Not really.

You didn’t control it. Couldn’t. And hell, he didn’t control it either. What made him think he could?

What if you’d fallen through time and landed in the fucking Middle Ages? Or the goddamn Ice Age? What if he just watched you slip through his fingers all over again, except this time it was permanent?

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

He didn’t let it show. Not with the others still arguing behind him, still theorizing like any of them had a fucking clue what it felt like to watch the love of your life disappear while your hands were practically still on her skin.

He hadn’t told them. Not a word. None of them knew who you really were. Who you’d been to him. He didn’t want their sympathy. Didn’t trust them with that piece of himself. They weren’t his friends – they were yours. He knew they just tolerated him because they were fucking scared.

And the second you’d opened your mouth in this timeline and looked at him like a stranger, he’d slowly figured out what he had to do. He’d put the puzzle together, piece by piece. He had to do what was necessary. He was the only one who could do what needed to be done.

Trigger it. Push you.

Make you angry enough, desperate enough, emotional enough to bounce back again. Back to the past. Back to him. The first version of him. The one who hadn’t ruined everything yet.

But the glorious plan came with a teeny-tiny flaw: You might never land here again. You might be lost to him forever. He didn’t know the future. Didn’t know if you were meant to come back to this point here at all. Didn’t know exactly how it worked.

Shit.

Would he have to wait five minutes? A week? Six months? Another eighty fucking years to see you again?

He wasn’t sure he could hold up another round of this insanity.

Ben’s fingers curled into a fist, still resting casually on his chest, like he wasn’t white-knuckling the thought of losing you twice in one lifetime. Once was war. Twice was tragedy.

Every tick of the clock gnawed under his skin. Every breath stretched taut in his chest like wire. You’d vanished thirty-six minutes ago. Thirty-six minutes, forty-four seconds. But who’s counting?

You were supposed to come back here. This time. This place. He’d been so fucking sure.

Minute one: Triumph! He was smug as hell. Happy his plan had finally worked after a goddamn year of waiting and trying every fucking thing in the book – and now, you were gone. Time loop triggered. You’d landed in 1942, and Past Ben, that little shit, had eyes on tango. The loop was closing.

The team, on the other hand, worried and yapped around him, buzzing like a fucking annoying beehive.

Butcher was mid-sentence when MM interrupted with a sharp, “Right, but did anyone check if she actually exists anymore? You know, in our time?”

Soldier Boy smirked. He’d give it another three minutes before MM busted out your whiteboard from the corner.

“She’s not erased,” Annie said. “She’s–… she’s somewhere. She has to be. Her powers kicked in.”

“Yeah, but I mean, she could be anywhere,” Hughie offered, pushing his fingers through his hair. “Or anywhen? Like… French Revolution. Or Ancient Rome. Or Woodstock. Again.”

“Oi, imagine that,” Butcher grunted. “Shows up mid-orgy at Woodstock, starts philosophizin’ about multiverse theory while stoned out of her skull.”

Ben snorted silently. Wouldn’t put it past you.

“No, she’s already done that. She hooked up with one of the Grateful Dead,” Annie said matter-of-factly. “Said he cried during sex.”

The fuck–

“Besides, she told me she never visits a place twice to preserve the timeline. She wouldn’t risk breaking it,” Annie added. “She’s a scientist, not a lunatic.”

“She’s absolutely a bloody lunatic,” Butcher argued with a smirk. “Brilliant, dangerous, unbelievably reckless. And a fuckin’ woman. Which means she’s probably off tryin’ to stop Marie Curie from nuking 'erself.”

Minute five: The peanut gallery fully moved on to your hobbies.

“Didn’t she also once punch Tesla in the mouth?” Hughie asked quietly, scratching the back of his neck like a nervous tic.

Frenchie shook his head. “No, no, petit Hughie, that was Hemingway.”

“Yeah, because he told her girls can’t be physicists,” Annie confirmed, nose wrinkling. “She did say Tesla was hot. Tried to sleep with him. Not like, successfully, but she wanted to see if the rumors were true.”

Hughie furrowed his brow. “What, the celibacy rumors?”

“Yeah.” Annie nodded. “But he was a virgin. She didn’t wanna take that away from him. Apparently, he really was in love with that pigeon.”

“Probably for the best,” MM huffed, arms crossed. “Girl would’ve electrocuted herself on purpose just to time it with an orgasm.”

Ben’s brow wrinkled subtly. He’d never heard that story before. Or any of them. What the fuck exactly had you been doing during all your little adventures? You’d never told him about any of it. Probably because he wasn’t a friend of yours – or really anything to you in this time, except maybe your worst nightmare.

“Imagine her trying to teach physics in Ancient Greece,” Annie said, giggling.

Frenchie laughed and translated something Kimiko signed, “She says our time traveler would be mistaken for a goddess and start a sex cult.”

Ben smirked. He wouldn’t put that past you, either. Walk into Athens, throw on a toga, and start preaching feminism and thermodynamics. He could see it now.

“She’s probably in the fuckin’ Renaissance,” Butcher muttered, half-pacing. “Painted like one of ‘em oily tit angels while da Vinci strokes his beard.”

“Nah, she’d hate that,” MM said. “Way too many dudes named Giovanni telling her she can’t read.”

“Maybe she went to the moon landing,” Hughie offered.

“She’d punch Buzz Aldrin for not letting a woman walk first,” Annie said, grinning.

Yeah, you would…

“Kimiko says maybe she joined the Manhattan Project to slow it down from the inside,” Frenchie translated again.

Yup, you would do that, too.

A part of him wanted to stand up and tell them they were all fucking morons. He knew where you truly were. At least, he hoped he was still right about his own theory.

You’d fallen into his hands in 1942 like a goddamn fever dream – hair wild, eyes fire, lips ready to tell him off with beautiful four-letter-words. You’d broken something open in him back then. Unchained it.

And now? He’d handed you back to time with those same hands like a goddamn idiot.

Minute twelve: It was all theory and nonsense now. The team was trying to keep it light, clearly covering up their own nerves. Most of them were sitting, spread around the room like they were waiting on the results of a bomb squad after your explosion.

And Ben? Well, he was waiting for the goddamn fallout.

“She once said she’d punch Freud in the dick,” MM said, completely deadpan.

Kimiko signed something fast, and Frenchie choked. “She says our little physicist did punch Freud in the dick.”

“That tracks.” Hughie nodded along and gave a shrug. “She once told me she got into a screaming match with a guard at the Berlin Wall because she wanted to ‘see the vibes.’”

“She has terrible impulse control,” Annie agreed.

Ben rolled his jaw. That was true. Too true. You were always a sucker for a cause and a pretty face. You never could keep your genius brain in one lane. You always had to poke holes in history, just to see what spilled out.

“She’s probably off starting a feminist revolution,” Frenchie suggested reverently. “In Paris, 1920. Giving speeches. Wearing pants. Drinking absinthe. Kissing poets.”

“Or burning bras in the sixties,” Hughie proposed.

Oh yes, definitely. Ben vividly remembered your hatred for underwear. Not that it had ever fucking bothered him…

“She always had a feminist agenda,” Frenchie mused and pulled casually on his half-burnt cigarette. “Maybe she is rewriting history. One angry footnote at a time.”

MM nodded in agreement. “Still respect her for trying to start a union in 1890s Chicago.”

“Oui, she is very passionate about labor rights,” Frenchie added, smiling. “Because of her, Butcher gave us more vacation days and health benefits.”

Oh boy, Ben remembered that fun team meeting last year. He also remembered how you did the same thing for the workers in his father’s steel mill.

You could never just leave things well enough alone, could you?

Troublemaker. Liar. Cheater.

“Well, there’s a bloody reason her supe name’s fuckin’ Puck,” Butcher said with that slow, lazy smirk of his. “Fit right in with you chaotic lot.”

Ben wholeheartedly agreed. You’re the fucking embodiment of chaos meeting charm. Puck. Harmless? Debatable.

Minute nineteen: Ben’s worst nightmare started unfolding. Well, after your repeated disappearances from his life and maybe the decades of torture by the fucking Commies, of course.

But this next thing was easily top three. Because Hughie, and God fucking help him, made the mistake and–

“She once told me and Annie over a bottle of wine that if she ever married one man, it’d be JFK.” String Bean fucking shrugged. “Apparently, she has like… a thing for him.”

“Oh, yeah,” Annie confirmed, cackling. “Said he had ‘silver-tongue energy.’ She always joked about his presidential stamina and the devilish charisma.”

Ben’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his jaw tightened just slightly. Something slow and poisonous curled behind his sternum.

Silver-tongue energy? That fucking preening prep school prick? That smug bastard thought he was God’s gift to the Ivy League. Got away with fucking everything. He wore more cologne than Sinatra and couldn’t do ten pushups without wheezing.

Ben beat that wimp in wrestling at Choate. Twice. Back pain. Right. From getting tossed like a fuckin’ sack of potatoes…

Fucking Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, if you were coming back smelling like Camel Lights and Cold War secrets, he’d nuke the whole goddamn state of New York.

“Ah, oui! I know for a fact that she has the audio of the ‘Ask not’ speech on her sex playlist,” Frenchie said with a smirk.

Wait, what?!

“She said that Jackie and Jack always gave her hope that power and romance could exist in the same room,” Annie added wistfully.

Ben let out a quiet scoff. He fucking gave you that. Real chemistry – not magazine spread bullshit.

For Christ’s sake, JFK cheated on Jackie in every goddamn state but Alaska. Ain’t that hard to get a wink outta the guy. He had scoliosis and wore a back brace under every damn suit. Could barely bend down to tie his own fucking shoes.

Ben’s eye twitched. Then he smirked, amused.

Asshole smoked his last cigar because of me…

Kidding! C’mon, kids, if he’d done it, it would’ve been clean. One shot. No questions.

He did fucking clap when it happened, though. Probably how that stupid rumor started in the first place.

But in all seriousness, letting that guy keep running the country would’ve been a national security risk. Shit you not, that idiot once confused Laos with fucking Legos.

Minute twenty-three: The team was debating your sex life like a twisted round of Jeopardy.

Frenchie spoke up again, “She has a bit of a historical kink, no?”

“Yep.” Annie nodded vividly. “Full-on. Rockstars, inventors, revolutionaries. She had a whole spreadsheet once.”

Kimiko signed again.

“She’s more of a Churchill-in-the-streets, Guevara-in-the-sheets kind of girl,” Frenchie translated, laughing with his head thrown back.

“She once told me if she could have a threesome with Feynman and Joan of Arc, she’d die happy,” Hughie noted with a small chuckle.

Ben didn’t doubt it. That sounded exactly like you. God, you were such a nerd. Nerdy and horny – just like he remembered you.

Kimiko typed on her phone and held it up, Hughie reading it out loud, “She always said that discussing the theory of relativity with Einstein had been better than sex. Maybe she went back to sleep with him?”

Ben’s brow furrowed. Better than sex? With who? You?

Bold claim, sweetheart.

Annie shook her head again. “No, she liked his brain but hated his attitude toward women. He was a dick to his first wife. She told me that.”

Ben sighed internally and rolled his eyes. Yeah, you told him that same story in 1942, too.

“Jim Morrison?” Kimiko signed next.

Annie burst out laughing. “Oh God. Don’t remind me. She did not regret that one.”

Ben raised an eyebrow.

Jim Morrison? Really? He vaguely remembered some barefoot burnout who made orgasm noises into a mic and wrote about snakes. That’s what got you fuckin’ going?

“Bogart? Slash? Ronnie Wood?” Hughie threw out more names.

“She does like cigars,” Frenchie chimed in, sighing almost tragically. “And stubborn men with unresolved issues.”

So you had a type, huh?

“Oi, she bloody loves doomed men, alright.” Butcher huffed a dark laugh. “Artists. Rebels. The more dangerous and angsty, the better. Men who fuckin’ burn too fast.”

Ben scowled. What the hell was this? A historical fuck list?

He wasn’t jealous, alright? He was just… aware. And slightly alarmed. You had more notches on your temporal bedpost than most people had in a lifetime. He should fucking know.

Was he just another one on the list? A little tick of fame and war paint? Another checkbox on the damn bingo card?

“She did sleep with Bowie,” Annie noted almost thoughtfully. “But only a little. Said he tasted like velvet and stardust.”

Stardust? And what the hell does “a little” mean? Did Bowie not bust inside you? Anal?

Christ, he hated those people for making him fucking think about this. You’d already lied and kept so many things from him. What the hell else didn’t he know about you?

“You guys really think she’s gone full rock groupie again?” Hughie asked, rubbing his jaw, more serious now. Doubtful.

“She did say she almost slept with Bob Dylan, but the mumbling turned her off,” Annie mused.

“She danced with Mick Jagger once at Studio 54,” Frenchie said, smirking. “And Keith Richards. Same night.”

C’mon!

He’d been there all the goddamn time. Why had you never picked him to dance with you? Welp, hopefully you told Keith to at least lay off the fucking heroin...

“Jesus fuck, she’s probably out there rewriting rock history with her pussy,” MM groaned.

Yeah. Apparently, you’d had your fun with every tragic genius who ever picked up a guitar.

How many famous men had you wrapped around your little finger, sweetheart? How many rockstars had you climbed like a goddamn jungle gym, huh? Had he been just another fucking name on your backstage pass?

The irony. Past him had always assumed you only had three to four lovers before him – max. Laughable. Now he knew why you’d always been so fucking calm when it came to his conquests – you were sneakily hiding your own shit.

Ben couldn’t even be fucking mad about that. Proud, maybe.

“Well, not just rockstars. I mean, she said Ben Franklin had ‘whore energy,’” Hughie said unhelpfully.

You said that about me once too, Ben thought bitterly.

Alright. That was enough. He knew you liked your fun. Hell, he respected it. But did they have to talk about it like you were some groupie for the ghosts of history?

Maybe he was just a notch on your belt, too. You liked danger. You liked history. You liked impact. Ben had all three.

Was he just your goddamn summer fling of 1942 with a side of daddy issues?

Did he even fucking matter?

Fuck ‘em. They didn’t fucking know what they were talking about. He knew you didn’t fake that shit. Didn’t fake that look you always gave him or a single orgasm. Didn’t fake love.

Right?

Minute thirty-one: The existential dread kicked in.

Ben shifted, just a bit. No one noticed. They were still going. Still laughing – like you hadn’t vanished into a glowing void and left his brain short-circuiting.

Butcher was laying odds on whether you joined the Black Panthers or got drunk with Churchill.

But Ben had stopped listening. On the inside, his mind was a goddamn war zone.

What if the loop broke? What if you skipped timelines? What if 1942 glitched and you ended up in 300 BC debating Plato about feminism in physics?

What if you didn’t come back?

What if past him fucked it up?

Fucking shit.

Sure, he’d been a charming devil back then – same as now. But one wrong move, one wrong word, and you actually might throttle the poor fella.

Minute thirty-four: The internal panic crescendoed.

Ben stopped pretending to nap. He wasn’t even hiding it anymore – he was staring at the ceiling like he could will time itself to bend. His plan had been simple. Send you back to the exact moment, close the loop, welcome you into his arms. He was so fucking smug and sure: You’d come back. You always did.

Right?

So where the hell were you?

He could still see the exact spot you’d been standing when you disappeared into thin air. A ghost image of you burned into the room, into the inside of his eyelids every time he blinked. The silence that fell in the second after had fucking gutted him. Still did.

Just like back then, you’d vanished within the storm.

He tried to think back – to the way your skin felt beneath his palms, the way you shook when you came, the way your eyes widened when he whispered marry me and I love you and you just stood there, unable to breathe.

He could still hear your fucking voice in his head like a phantom limb. Could smell the hay and the sweat and you – rain-washed and desperate. He remembered your hands on his chest, clinging to him. Your tears. That last look.

Fuck. Maybe he’d gotten it all wrong.

You left 1942, yeah. But that didn’t mean you returned to this moment. Time travel was tricky fucking bullshit. Unstable. You could’ve reappeared in 1752 for all he knew. Or 2086. Or never.

What if you died somewhere along the way?

What if you landed in his goddamn coffin?

But he’d been waiting eighty-one fucking years for you already. What were another few minutes?

This wasn’t over. It was never over.

Minute thirty-seven: He started timing his breathing. In, out. Calm the fuck down.

The jokes slowed. Everyone was shifting in their seats. Even Kimiko had stopped miming your historical seduction tours. The laughter faded, replaced by uneasy silence.

“She’s gonna come back and yell at us for talking about this,” Hughie said quietly.

“She’s gonna come back and punch him,” Annie muttered, nodding at Ben.

What if you came back and still hated him forever? What if he couldn’t fix it? What if you’d never see in this current version of him what you saw in the old one again?

Ben almost didn’t hear the sound at first. Not even with super-hearing.

A pulse. A sharp, electric crack.

The kind that made his spine straighten and rise from the couch. The kind that made his shoulders tense and muscles flex. The kind that made the hairs on his arms and neck salute and his heart pound furiously fast.

Green eyes snapped up, and there you fucking were. A vision, a dream, ripped straight from his fucking memories.

Not a hallucination. Not a figment of his worst fucking imagination. You were back. You were real.

You stumbled forward three steps like someone had unzipped the air and shoved you through it. Bare feet scuffed against tile, lungs breathing hard like you’d just run a mile underwater, limbs trembling, lips parted, eyes wild and wide, disoriented.

Ben was already on his feet. His heart fucking stopped. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t anticipated the most logical fucking thing on this planet.

You looked exactly like the night you left him. Why hadn’t he seen this fucking coming? Of course you’d look the fucking same.

Breathless. Soaked in rain. Dressed in a ghost of his past. Beautiful in the way that haunted dreams.

His dreams.

That navy dress – his dress – clung to your skin. The silk red bow still tangling askew in your wet hair. You smelled like summer thunderstorms and cigarette smoke and his old fucking cologne that they stopped producing sometime in the 60s.

For you, there weren’t eighty years between now and then. No time had passed. The wound was still fresh. Still bleeding and gushing like a fountain and drowning you.

The image of you hit him like a bullet straight through his heart, landing with the force of a hurricane.

And you? You took one shaky step forward like you were just learning how to walk again and locked eyes with him.

For just a moment – just one tiny, impossible, blinding fraction of a moment – he didn’t see the century between you two. Didn’t see the fucking broken pieces.

Just you.

No one else existed. Eight decades melted away in a second.

And him? No suit. No shield. No mask. No sarcasm. No Soldier Boy. Just Ben.

Just him – vulnerable, bare, raw. Same guy that stood in front of you in 1942. That held you when you had nightmares. That watched you sleep with your head on his chest. That always kissed you like the world was fucking ending.

Older, sharper, but still that same damn lazy smirk just waiting to be slapped off.

And you saw it. Saw it all.

He felt it – the heat of betrayal turning you into a fucking wildfire. You knew. It was all over your beautiful face – that flicker of recognition, that heartbreak, that rage crashing through you like a tidal wave.

You didn’t take your eyes off him. Didn’t blink. If your looks could kill like his offspring’s, he’d be a fucking smoldering crater right now with a hole down straight to Earth’s core.

He betrayed you. Deeply. He’d flicked a match and poured gasoline over everything the two of you had once declared sacred in the holy quiet of a bedroom and incinerated it like it never fucking mattered.

But it did. It meant the fucking world.

And if anyone knew what a betrayal this cutting felt like, it was him. Knew what it felt like when the one person you trusted the most, loved the most in this godforsaken fucking world, stabbed you in the back, twisted the knife, and fucking laughed.

And he hated himself for it. Hated to do to you what had been done to him.

He’d never forgiven and forgotten a single fucking prick that ever wronged him. Had ripped apart every heart that ever broke his, including yours. He lived and breathed revenge.

And still, you were fucking better than him, weren’t you? Better in every way imaginable. You could forgive.

Right?

His eyes flicked to the others around you. Silent, stunned, fucking shell-shocked. They hadn’t even noticed you at first, too busy debating their little butterfly effects, paradoxes, and Doctor Who bullshit.

But now, all eyes were on you.

And him.

Because you were still staring at him. Seething. Shaking. Rage in its purest form – and it was all for fucking him.

The mask had to slip back on, but the breath died in his fucking throat and his heart goddamn stuttered. “Told you, she’d be back,” he said, with all the bravado he could fake.

Like he had just woken up from his nap and hadn’t spent the last thirty-seven minutes counting, anticipating, panicking.

The scream came first. Feral, guttural, ancient. Something primal ripped from your throat like it had been building in your bones for eight fucking decades.

You snapped like a wire he’d strung too tight, lunged forward, and decked him clean across the jaw.

The punch snapped across his face, sharp and personal and full of all the fire he remembered. It cracked so loud, the room winced. You were a magnificent angel of vengeance.

God, he fucking missed you.

And Ben took the hit. Didn’t even try to block you. Knew he deserved it. Knew he had it fucking coming.

He staggered back half a step with a grunt, head snapping just slightly from the brutal force of it. Slowly, he turned back to face you, look at you, and then the corners of his mouth twitched upward into a smirk.

Smug. Cocky. Satisfied.

“There she is.” He grinned, then rubbed his jaw like it amused him, inspecting the ache with something between pride and admiration. “Actually fuckin’ felt that one. Good for you, sweetheart. Knew you had it in you.”

Sure, maybe he should dial it down a little, considering you stood in front of him with your chest heaving like you were ready to rip his tendons outta his body and tie them around his throat like a noose.

But who didn’t like a little humor to lighten the mood?

“You knew? All this time?” Your voice cracked, pressing each word out between your teeth like it hurt you. “You fucking knew?!”

But Ben just raised a hand, gave you a cool little warning wag of his finger – just for showmanship, for the peanut gallery that was frozen in place like you’d stopped them in time.

“Careful, sweetheart. Only get that first one for free,” he said.

And maybe that had been his mistake. It was like a challenge. One he should’ve known you’d accept in a heartbeat.

Because throughout this whole goddamn year of pushing your buttons – really since the first day he’d met you in 1942 – you’d never backed down from a single fight. Never flinched. Never faltered.

He beat you down, kicked you while you were there, degraded you, and ripped crater-sized holes out of your heart and spirit. And you’d always gotten back onto your feet and pushed him back just as hard – with sharper words and better insults. Words that burned through his blood and carved into his soul.

“What the fuck happened in your life to turn you into such a miserable, toxic, overbearing, narcissistic, insufferable piece of shit?!”

“You’re just a drug-addicted loser with daddy issues. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“No one likes you! And believe me, asshole, I fucking hate you!”

But you didn’t actually hate him, did you? Or maybe you did. Either way, it was his fucking cross to bear.

You didn’t say anything after that, and he just stared at you. Just stood there, jaw locked, tasting blood in his mouth that wasn’t even from the slap. It was from the fury in your eyes.

The hurt. The fucking grief.

He hadn’t expected that either. It was supposed to be a fuck-and-fling with destiny. And maybe, stupidly, a small part of him had hoped you’d fall into his arms and even thank him for it – for bringing you home and back to him. You hadn’t lost anything – not like he had.

But this clearly wasn’t that.

You’d barely had time to reel before the others closed in – Kimiko brushing past Hughie protectively, Frenchie lingering at your shoulder like he might catch you if you collapsed.

They all stared, but Butcher was the first to speak.

“Christ, sunshine,” he breathed. “You look like a bloody Victorian ghost who drowned ‘erself in a lake.”

“Te revoilà, ma futée!” Frenchie patted your shoulder with a bright grin.

“You alright?” Annie asked gently, eyes narrowing toward Ben. “What happened?”

But something changed. Something was off. Ben could see it.

You looked around the room slowly, like you were seeing it for the first time. Your brows furrowed, muscles slightly recoiling where the others touched you. You glanced at Frenchie, then Kimiko. Then Hughie. Annie. Your friends. But not with recognition. No joyous reunion, no relief.

Only confusion.

Ben watched your face shift – eyes trying to place faces, trying to label people you clearly knew, but with their names just out of reach like distant stars behind clouds. You were squinting at Hughie like he owed you goddamn money and you couldn’t remember from where. You looked through Frenchie like you were trying to find out where you’d parked your fucking car.

You tried to play it cool, nodding like everything was fine, but your eyes betrayed you – lingering on each face a beat too long.

Ben’s smirk faltered. Smugness gone. His heart kicked against his ribs.

Shit. He hadn’t accounted for this – for you coming back fucking broken and brain scrambled. Was this temporary? Permanent? Had it ever happened before? Normal? He didn’t fucking know.

“Yeah, I’m fine. ‘M good, guys.” You gave a half-hearted smile, let your gaze drift over each of them.

But Ben caught it – that little flash of insecurity in your eyes when they averted to your feet for the briefest second. The way you rolled your shoulders back with feigned confidence. He knew you well enough to see it, even if your so-called fucking friends didn’t.

Liar.

You weren’t fucking fine, were you? You weren’t asking them questions. You weren’t using their names. You were fucking faking your memory.

Ben ground his jaw, watching you. Still rattled by the way you looked at him with total clarity and at everyone else like they were fucking strangers at a bus stop. Blank stare.

“What happened?” Hughie parroted his girlfriend with a soft smile, oblivious to the raging chaos within you. “You blinked out of existence. Like… interdimensional poof.”

Ben saw the tension in your muscles, the uncomfortableness in your clenched jaw, the fear in your eyes, so he did the only right thing and drew their attention to him.

“Well, if anyone’s lookin’ for a fuckin’ recap, pretty sure my cum’s still drippin’ outta her.”

“What the–” Hughie’s brows drew together, gaze snapping from you to Ben and back to you again, as if it would somehow reveal the truth. “Jesus fucking Christ! Can we maybe... not lead with that? Please?”

There was a moment of quiet – or recharge.

Because in the following second, you saw fucking red. Deep red. Dark red. Blood red.

Your entire body surged forward, only Kimiko’s iron grip and Annie’s arms around your middle keeping you from tackling Ben to the ground like a ferocious animal.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKING–”

And he flinched. Slightly. Unnoticeable to the untrained eye. But he did.

Alright. Maybe he overshot it a little there. Went an inch too far. But it was all well meant.

“Oi!” Butcher’s voice cut through the hue and cry. “Are you two really goin’ right at it again?”

Silence.

Annie’s grip softened around you, but she didn’t let go. Her touch turned comforting, and it seemed to soothe you a little. Kimiko blinked in slow-motion and then exchanged wide-eyed looks with Frenchie.

“Is it… true?” Hughie was brave enough to ask.

You didn’t respond, eyes locked on Ben like he was your target. And it broke him.

But he didn’t let it show. Couldn’t. Not in front of them.

“Ready to talk like fuckin’ adults now?”

Your lips twitched with the hint of amusement. He swallowed subtly.

“Let me go,” you said quietly in the gentlest voice to both Annie and Kimiko. Not a question but a soft order. They complied.

You crossed the distance to him in three angry steps and looked him dead in the eye. “You cold-hearted, manipulative, narcissistic asshole–”

“Hey! I didn’t manipulate anything,” he snapped, feeling his own walls erect and defend – ready to block your hits. “I did you a fuckin’ favor. How about you stop whining like a goddamn brat and say fuckin’ thanks?”

You scoffed loudly, crossed your arms, shook your head in utter disbelief. “Oh, please,” you gritted mockingly. Then you put your hands on his chest and shoved him. “You did yourself a fucking favor!”

Another shove. This one even made his feet stutter a step.

“Alright, enough.” He laughed it off, trying to uphold the façade, although it cut deeper than he’d ever be willing to admit.

“Fight me.” You pushed him again. Provoked him. Like you wanted him to crack.

“Are you fucking nuts?” He scoffed a chuckle, but the feigned amusement didn’t even reach his eyes.

“Maybe. Do it.” Another shove at his chest.

“Okay, stop it!”

“Why?” You shrugged your shoulders, then smirked – dark and daring. You took another step forward, crowding his space like he was your goddamn dinner. “Why did you fucking do it, huh? What, didn’t wanna risk me screwing up your precious legacy, so you could still play the hero in your own fucked-up little fairy tale?”

His jaw twitched, eyes flickered. Whatever hurt he felt, he tried to swallow. “That what you think, hm?”

Internally, something shattered like glass. Sharp and cutting right to the bone. He shouldn’t have been goddamn surprised you’d think this lowly of him. Hell, this version of him had given you every fucking reason to. But he still thought, after everything, after you finally catching up to him, that you would–

He held your gaze, eyes fixed on you like the moon on Earth. And he could see it then, that brief flicker of hesitation – of uncertainty. You didn’t believe your own words, so maybe it wasn’t too late to still glue the pieces back together and pretend he never broke it in the first place.

“Yeah, I do,” you still snarled and only pushed him harder.

Fucking liar.

This time, he caught your wrists, pinned them down and pressed you against the nearest column, forearm to your collarbone, concrete cracking at your back as he tried to hold you in place.

“Alright, calm the fuck down,” he hissed. “You’re actin’ a little hysterical, sweetheart.”

“Oh, yeah?” you bit with a smirk and callousness between your teeth. “You wanna talk? Let’s talk about how you sound like your fucking daddy.”

That made him bristle. You were aiming fucking low and deep and knew it, too.

“‘M fuckin’ warning you,” he growled, his grip on you turning bruising.

But you didn’t seem to care. Not one bit. You didn’t give a shit anymore.

“There’s not one good fucking bone left in your body. You’re poison inside and out,” you spat, hatred pouring out of you from every pore. “You just wanted history to fucking remember Soldier Boy, the glorious American wet dream, instead of the sad, lonely asshole you really were.”

“You’re fucking wrong.” But a slight flare of his nostrils gave it away. “Don’t fucking push me, sweetheart. You won’t like the outcome.”

“No, I think I fucking will,” you retorted with a defiant fire in your eyes.

“Calm the hell down or–”

“Or what, huh?” you challenged fearlessly. “You’re gonna hurt me? Kill me? Try. I fucking dare you. I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be,” he gritted through clenched teeth and regretted it in that same breath.

“No, you should be.” Then a smirk curled your lips like slow-acting venom.

“I think you’re forgetting who’s fuckin’ stronger,” he growled.

“No, I think you are forgetting. It’s probably the fucking Alzheimer’s,” you retorted. “You know all those endless days I spent in the shed? Remember those, gramps?”

And then, he felt it – that languid crawl up his spine, snaking through his blood like ice water and freezing everything in place.

“I did more than just tinkering in there. I practiced. Trained,” you said smugly.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, green eyes flickering to the audience in the cheap seats.

All of them kept a safety distance in case either of you two fucking detonated. But Butcher recognized instantly what was going on, a dark, diabolical chuckle rippling through the office.

“That’s right.” You smirked, mean and vicious. “My powers are fucking back. Better than ever. Guess I do owe you a fucking ‘thank you,’ huh?”

“Un-fucking-freeze me. Now,” Ben threatened and tried to fight against your spell, although he knew it was useless. His body was locked tight.

There was no way back now. He was smack dab in the middle of whatever shitstorm you were brewing. His master plan slowly derailed and broke apart at the seams.

Maybe it was fucking stupid of him to believe you’d come back as damaged as you left. In some ways, you came back even more broken, but in others, pieces had seemingly stitched themselves back together.

“Or what, huh?” you prompted daringly, knowing you had the upper hand.

Ben looked at you, at the rage in your eyes and the hate in your heart, and swallowed harshly. He didn’t want this. Any of it. He just wanted you.

“Look, let’s just talk somewhere, alright? Alone,” he suggested and nodded his head toward the group.

Your gaze followed, same flicker of uncomfortableness in your eyes. Still strangers.

A slight nod. “Fine. You wanna talk alone? Let’s fucking talk alone.”

And then you gripped him tighter and shoved.

The first thing he felt was the blistering heat.

Then the weight of gravity shifted, pulling at his gut like a slingshot let go. No light, no sound – just the feeling of being ripped through space like paper.

The humidity clung to his skin like spit. Not humid like a summer storm, but wet and dense, the kind of thick that attached to one’s lungs and left sweat crawling down one’s spine before even registering the heat.

The air smelled like rot and soil – something old and still alive. He staggered, boots slipping slightly in the wet dirt beneath them, moss-covered earth hissing with steam and the squelch of rotting vegetation. Monsters of trees stretched upward higher than skyscrapers. Vines as thick as his arms twisted through bark, leaves the size of blankets hanging low.

The sky above him was a bruised, yellow hell with a metallic shimmer on the horizon. Not dawn. Not dusk. Wrong.

Birds – if you could fucking call them that – screamed in the distance. Something howled. Something else answered – alien and prehistoric.

Ben stumbled forward, coughing and blinking like you’d just fucking water-boarded him. “What the fuck…” he muttered, spinning around in slow, uncertain circles, searching for you. “Where the fuck are we?”

You stood ten feet away, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Remember when I told you back then that I’d make you a T-Rex’s fucking chew toy?”

He scowled. “Back then? Sweetheart, we had that conversation barely two hours ago. How fuckin’ scrambled is your brain, huh?”

“My brain’s fine,” you retorted, but he caught the slight quiver of your brow that revealed the truth.

“Coulda fooled me. You’re fucking insane,” he huffed.

“Oh, I know.”

And God help him, you said it with a fucking smile.

“So, what? You dragged me to the goddamn Jurassic to die with the fucking lizards? This it? The big revenge arc?”

“Cretaceous,” you corrected absently. “Should’ve paid more attention in school. Welcome to 65 million years ago. Figured it was a fitting setting for an ancient relic like you.”

“Funny.” He scoffed bitterly. “But bad news, sweetheart, some little dinosaurs ain’t gonna do me in.”

“Oh, I didn’t bring you here for them. I brought you here for this,” you said and pointed skyward behind his shoulder, his gaze following. “It’s not a second sun, you know? It’s an extinction-level meteorite. Same that wiped out the feathered reptiles. Impact is in about thirty-six hours – give or take a few volcanic eruptions.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking serious,” he grunted.

“Deadly,” you said and grinned puckishly. “Figured Russians already tried everything. Burned you, shot you, poisoned you. Nothing stuck. Had to get a little creative. Let the world do it for me.”

Ben squared his stance, masking the unease coiling low in his gut. “You’re just gonna abandon me here? Let a fucking rock do the dirty work for you?”

You smirked cruelly. “That’s the plan.”

His jaw tightened. “Cute trick. But you’re fuckin’ bluffin’. I’m not gonna fucking die here.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” You shrugged like you could care less. “Consider it an experiment. Let’s see if immortal really is an infinite number. Either way, you’re gonna suffer. That’s what I’m counting on. Because, even if you do survive the asteroid, there’s nothing going to be here. You’re gonna be alone. Just you stuck with your thoughts while Earth is rebuilding itself. And hey, if you do make it past the first 30 million years, you’ll have some monkeys here to talk to. Maybe you’ll finally understand your ex-girlfriend then…”

“You fucking–” But Ben stopped himself before giving in to what you so desperately wanted – him being an asshole. Someone easy to blame. “You don’t get to pull this righteous bullshit. Not after what you fuckin’ did.”

“What I did?” You blinked, incredulous. You took a step forward, disbelief twisting back into fury. “You fucking used me! You took everything you ever learned about me and manipulated it against me like I was just a fucking pawn in your sick, temporal chess match.”

But Ben didn’t back down, refusing to show even a flicker of hesitation. He had to get through to you. Had to get you to listen to him.

“No, no, you don’t get to play fucking innocent, sweetheart. You landed in my past. Snooped through my life like I was some goddamn museum exhibit in my father’s mansion. You slept in my fucking bed, planted yourself in my heart like it was fuckin’ nothin’, and played house with the version of me that was still stupid enough to believe in fuckin’ dreams,” he spat. “You think that wasn’t fucking manipulation? You thought you could rewrite history just by spreading your fuckin’ legs and smiling sweet.”

“I wasn’t cruel,” you bit, your crossed arms tightening around you like you were trying to hug yourself harder.

“No, you were fucking worse,” Ben growled. “You made me believe I was worth fucking somethin’. And then you fucking disappeared. No goodbye. No fuckin’ explanation. I thought you fuckin’ died.” He scoffed a dry laugh and rubbed a hand down his face, taking a step closer toward you. “Even worse, I thought my father was fucking right about you. That you left ‘cause you thought I wasn’t good enough. That I was fucking weak.”

Your jaw clenched, tears starting to burn in your eyes – but not falling. Not yet. “I never meant–… I tried to warn you. You wouldn’t listen!”

Ben’s face twitched, lips smacking. And for a brief moment, he just stared at you full of heartbreak.

“I know,” he choked out. “But I didn’t know that till a year ago. I waited eighty fucking years for you. For some goddamn answers. For someone to tell me where you fucking went. Do you know what that fucking does to a person?”

“I know what it did to you,” you replied, gaze raking over him like he was nothing. “And it proves you were never strong enough to be the man I thought you were. Proves none of it ever fucking mattered.”

“That what you believe, hm?” One step closed the distance again to you. “You were trying to change me. Don’t fucking deny it. You thought if you poured enough sugar on it, maybe I wouldn’t rot.”

“I never tried to change you. I just wanted you to stay the same,” you said, voice tight and full of hurt. Disappointment. “Look at you! You became everything he fucking hated. Everything he swore he’d never be. You didn’t just become the worst version of yourself – you fucking perfected it. You let anger rot everything good in you.”

Ben took a shaky breath, jaw locked, fists clenching at his sides, trying to push down that curling little feeling behind his sternum. It was starting to glow, and if you weren’t careful, that fucking comet wouldn’t be the only thing that wiped out these dinosaurs.

“I never stopped loving you.”

“Then why didn’t you stop yourself? Why did you tear it all apart?” Your eyes shined wet, and he knew you were choking back a sob. “You fucking broke me on purpose.”

“You think I wanted that? That it was fucking easy for me to treat you like shit? To watch you fall apart?” he countered. “I hated myself for it. For a whole goddamn fucking year. But I had to. I remembered how it went the first time, alright? I know when you got to 1942, you were fucking running from me. I was the guy, right?”

You gave him the faintest nod but didn’t say anything more.

“You fucking hated me. And if I’d treated you differently, if I’d gone soft like I goddamn wanted to every fucking day since I finally saw you again, maybe you wouldn’t have gone back. Maybe none of it would’ve fucking happened. You wouldn’t remember me. You wouldn’t fall in love with me. I couldn’t fucking risk it.”

By the end of it, Ben’s chest was heaving, but he tried to control whatever wanted to crawl out.

“You could’ve told me! You could’ve given me a choice!” you yelled.

“No, I couldn’t have!” he barked. “Because the version of you that loved me back then? She only loved me because of the fucking loop. And if I broke it… if I changed even one thing, you never would’ve fucking loved me at all. I thought if I just followed the goddamn script, we could have that again.”

“Have what again? The script is fucking broken! I told you that! Were you ever actually fucking listening?” you snapped.

“I was. And I don’t think it’s fucking broken,” he insisted, green eyes drilling into yours. “It’s not. It doesn’t have to be this way. We don’t have to hate each other. You don’t have to hate me. We can pick up where we left off. Better even. There’s no more fucking lies now. Just you and me and fucking honesty.”

“Are you fucking delusional?”

“No.” He shook his head, giving you a weak smile. “Clearer than I ever fucking was. We don’t have to stand in the fucking ruins of what we were. You just have to forgive me like I fucking forgave you.”

“This is fucking over,” you gritted through your teeth. “There’s nothing left to salvage here.”

“Disagree. It’s goddamn everything, and it’ll never be fucking over,” Ben stated firmly. He exhaled a deep breath, trying to stay calm, the ache in his chest a constant buzz. “Look, I know you just got back. I know you’re fucking pissed right now and wanna show me who’s got the bigger dick. That’s fine, sweetheart. I get it. Do what you gotta fuckin’ do. But underneath it all, I know you still love me. I know that feeling doesn’t fucking vanish in five minutes.”

“I don’t love you. I love him. There’s a difference,” you spat defiantly. “You’re not the guy I fell in love with. You’re just the fucking corpse that crawled outta his grave.”

“Bullshit,” Ben said and didn’t waver. Not an inch. No matter how much it fucking hurt. “I am him. Those aren’t just your memories. Those are fucking mine, too. You don’t get to take that away from me. I know what happened. I remember everything. Every second. I was fucking there. I know how you looked at me, how you touched me, how you talked to me like I fucking mattered. You can’t just flip a fucking switch and be done with it.”

“Watch me,” you bit and turned your back, walking away.

Ben followed you every step deeper into the screeching jungle, green eyes darting around everything that whispered and rustled in the eerie brush.

“I know the day you had, okay? I know what we did before you fucking disappeared. How long ago was it when you still felt me inside of you, huh? Fifteen minutes? Maybe thirty, tops? Bet you even still feel me now, don’t you?”

You snapped back around to face him, pointing a warning finger at his chest. “Don’t you fucking dare!”

“No, don’t you fucking dare!” he growled. “You don’t get to fucking erase anything. You think you can just ignore it? That pull you feel? Those feelings? They’re not gonna fucking go anywhere. Trust me. It’s been eighty-one years for me, and it only ever got fucking worse.”

“Guess, we’ll see,” you retorted. The fucking smirk came back – belligerent and hostile. “Since we’re both practically immortal, why don’t you check back with me in eighty years and see how I feel then, huh?”

“You wanna fucking break me? Fine,” he spat, almost coming nose-to-nose with you. “But don’t act like you’re some kind of victim here. You set the loop in motion just as much as I did.”

You took a step back, gaze lifting toward the meteor again. High above the clouds, a bright orange streak cut across the sky like a scar. Slow. Burning. Getting closer.

“You know what I like about this rock?” you asked rhetorically, using your little teacher voice again that he still wasn’t sure if he loved or hated. “It’s clean. Impartial. Doesn’t give a shit who you are or how powerful someone is. It hits, and everything fucking dies. Even you.”

Ben’s voice was quiet, lips twitching. “You don’t have it fucking in you.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah, I know you. I know you’re not leaving me here.”

“What, you think you fucking know me because you fucked me eighty years ago? You don’t know fucking anything! Never have,” you snapped harshly. “Wanna know why I can’t fucking love you now? Remember all those nightmares I had every night?”

“Yeah, and I held you through every single one of ‘em,” Ben stated.

You scoffed bitterly. “Yeah, well, they weren’t nightmares at all. Not really. Those were visions of you. Glimpses into the future. Of Soldier Boy. Of every cruel, vile, evil thing you’ve ever said and done.”

“You don’t fucking know shit,” he gritted, but on the inside, something squirmed in his ribcage.

You’d seen the worst parts of him. There was no hiding, no lying, no deflecting or convincing you it wasn’t true. And still, back then, you let him hold you, even though you knew the truth.

“No, I do. I know what kind of monster you truly are,” you said and never broke his gaze. And then, a first tear escaped your eye and streaked your cheek. “There’s no fucking redemption for you.”

Silence stretched between the two of you, brittle and sharp. The jungle screamed again, the earth trembled underneath his boots with something mighty.

“You think you’re better than me, hm? You’re not. You just never had to face the fucking consequences of your goddamn actions before like I did,” Ben said, voice low and cruel, slicing you like a blade. But you needed to fucking hear this. “Probably because no one you ever messed with was still fucking alive to tell the tale when you hopped back. Well, no one until fucking me.”

You didn’t say anything. Just spun around and started marching again as if you had a destination in mind.

“Look, I fuckin’ get it, alright? The world was mean to you and treated you like shit, and this is your little karmic payback,” he continued – persistent, relentless, and not taking fucking no for answer. Just like the first time. He’d wear you down again whether you fucking liked it or not. “This is what you do, right? Play pranks, mess a little with people who wronged you, screw with history. Literally – from what I’ve heard from your little group of nobodies. That’s why they call you Puck, right? Just sprinkle a little chaos everywhere and see what fucking happens.”

“You don’t know anything about me. Stop pretending that you do,” you huffed and kept up your pace.

“You think you’re not harming anyone, but you fucking do. Just because you didn’t rip people apart with your bare hands, doesn’t mean no one ever got fucking hurt,” Ben said, still on your tail, still not giving up. “You wondered what happened to them yet? Hm?”

That made your feet halt and your shoulders tense, but you didn’t turn around to face him. Not yet.

“Dottie? Florence? George?” He paused for a moment, as if to give both of you a chance to brace yourselves. “My mother?”

Your shoulders quivered. Ben could see it. But it didn’t make him stop. Not yet.

“They’re all dead, you know? Every single fucking one of ‘em.”

You glared over your shoulder. “This is why everyone fucking hates you, by the way.”

But Ben didn’t flinch. Didn’t get angry. Just stayed calm. “I’m not saying it to be cruel.”

“Then why the fuck are you saying it?” you snapped, facing him fully. “You know how much they meant to me!”

“Yeah, and they’re not gonna be around when you wake up tomorrow. No one fucking is,” Ben said quietly and could tell realization sunk in. Your face dropped. “But I’m still here. Just you and me left.”

He took a tentative step forward like he was approaching a deer and didn’t want to spook it. You didn’t move, just stayed.

“You and I are not so different, you know? Never were,” he said.

You scoffed, then shook your head. “I punched a few dicks and screwed a few more. So what? What you did borders on mass extinction. You can’t honestly believe that’s the same fucking thing.”

“It’s not. But if you keep up this shit, it will be. Give it a couple more decades, sweetheart, and you’ll be where I am,” Ben said, and it hit a nerve. He could see it by the subtle jump in your jaw. “Everyone you love is gonna be dead. Your so-called friends. You already killed your family – and don’t bullshit me. Dropping them off during a plague is a death sentence. You’re just too fucking cowardly to do it yourself. Just like now.”

“Fuck you,” you spat.

“You even still remember them? The other idiots? What are their names, huh?”

“Of course I do! They’re my fucking friends,” you claimed, but a blind person could see that you were lying through your goddamn teeth.

Ben certainly could.

“You’re forgetting shit, aren’t you?” he taunted, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“I remember you and what you did. That’s all that matters right now,” you said, confirming your little memory muddle.

“Look, I know why you lied back then. It’s the same reason why I didn’t tell you the fucking truth either. We thought the other one couldn’t handle it,” Ben said and swallowed, but he held your stubborn gaze. “And you know what? We were both probably fucking right. I wouldn’t have believed you back then. Or I would’ve been fucking scared of you. And if I had told you the truth, you would’ve thought I was fucking crazy. I could see it in the way you fucking looked at me when you got me outta Russia. You already thought I was. Just some old, forgotten relic, right? You never would’ve gone back. Not for me.”

“Clearly, I was right about the crazy part,” you muttered under your breath, scoffing.

“But you know me now. And I know you. The real you,” he went on, a smile hitching in the corners of his lips for a second. “And I was right back then – I always knew enough. It didn’t change anything. The other shit? It doesn’t fucking matter. It never did.”

You looked at him then, dress still damp, hair a mess, filled with rage and pain from head to fucking toe. And all he could think about was how you still looked fucking beautiful like this.

“There’s no you and me. We’re done,” you stated with all the conviction you could find, but he didn’t believe you. Not even a little.

“You really gonna leave me here and just forget about it? Let that rock drop on my head now?”

“No,” you said, and it sounded almost soft. Like a goodbye. “Turn around.”

And then he could hear it – a clicking sound behind them. A low, guttural hiss.

He saw it then – dinosaur. Velociraptor, probably – not that his knowledge on ancient, extinct reptiles was extensive. He hadn’t even seen fucking Jurassic Park yet.

The thing, whatever it was, was frozen mid-pounce, however – jaws wide and beady eyes locked onto his jugular. It was suspended in a glimmer of warped time like a fly in amber.

“You gotta be shittin' me,” he breathed, but as he turned around to you again, you were fucking gone.

And then, your little time spell lifted, and the raptor lunged.

Ben ducked, grabbed its scaled leg, and slammed it into the ground. But it was fast – snarling, vicious, and bloodthirsty fast. He cursed, rolled, landed a fist to its ribs. The predator screeched, and he pinned it, twisted its neck, and snapped it with a final crunch.

Its body dropped to the steaming earth, and Ben stood, panting just slightly. Not winded, but not untouched either, and he wondered how many more of those things there’d be.

“Fucking cute,” he huffed into the vastness of the prehistoric jungle. “Did you pack that thing for the trip, huh? I told you it’s not gonna fucking stop me. Is that all you fucking got? One little lizard? Gonna have to try fucking harder, sweetheart.”

But there was no answer. Just more screeching, more hissing, more primal noises that made his stomach churn. Just him, a jungle full of reptiles, and a glowing rock above his head that burned like a warning with a countdown.

“Don’t you dare fucking leave me here! You hear me?!”

Exhausted, Ben ran a hand through his hair and scoffed out a breath, sweat from the humidity gathering on his neck and forehead, heart hammering furiously.

Silence. Emptiness. Loneliness.

“I know you’re just trying to fuck with me!” he shouted into the void.

And then, he started saying your name, over and over again, calling for you, screaming it as the panic rose and his voice turned hoarse. But there never came a response. Fucking minutes passed.

“Didn’t take you long to lose your mind.”

You.

He swung around and found you leaning against a big tree, casual and cruel with your arms crossed and a pitying gleam in your eyes.

“I knew you wouldn’t leave me here. You’re just trying to fucking scare me,” he hissed. “It ain’t gonna work.”

“No, but this will,” you said with a sneer and crossed the distance to him in a few easy steps.

And then you fucking pushed him, and time warped again.

The humidity vanished.

It was sterile now. Stale. Bleach. Rust. Burnt skin. Familiar.

Too fucking familiar.

The dim lighting. The rusted table legs bolted to the concrete floor. That high-frequency hum in the back of his skull. His chest constricted, lungs forgetting how to fill. Strenuously, he dragged in a breath that stung and squinted around, heart pounding. His boots scraped against the cracked tile. The same cracks. He knew each fucking one.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head as the bile rose in throat.

You appeared behind him, footsteps echoing like gunfire in the cold, one brow cocked like you came to enjoy the show. “Recognize it yet? We’re in 1987. Russia. Figured this place must be burned into that big roid-rage brain of yours. It already broke you once. Might as well let it finish its job.”

“Get me the fuck outta here,” he gritted through his teeth, the burning feeling in his chest not a soft buzz anymore but a roaring drone.

But you only smiled in amusement. “Beg.”

Ben breathed heavily through his nose, chest heaving. “Fuck you.”

You chuckled, unbothered, and sauntered to the metal door, peeking through the small window down the hallway. “Lots of scientists here. I wonder if they’re gonna be thrilled when they find two of you to experiment on.”

“This isn’t you. You’re not this fucking twisted and cruel,” he pressed out between his lips with strain, his body trembling as he braced his palms on the cool metal of the table where he’d been strapped down for years.

“No, but you are. Figured it’s time you get a taste of your own medicine,” you quipped.

And fuck, that smile on your lips might’ve killed him more than this fucking place ever did.

His fingers twitched against the table, eyes stuck on the walls, the drains, the surgical sink stained with blood and memories. And then, he saw the chains. The scorch marks from one of his outbursts. He felt the burn in his veins like it was fucking yesterday.

“How are you doing?” you asked casually as you circled him like a vulture. “Still think you don’t have PTSD?”

His nuclear core gave a low warning whine in his chest, and his body tensed on instinct, muscle memory from thousands hours of being helpless and violated under knives and poison and God knows what else.

“Again – fuck you, sweetheart,” he grunted. “This place didn’t get me the first time. It won’t fucking get me now.”

“No?” You tilted your head and then strolled over to the counter where a radio stood, your fingers skimming over the buttons. “Guess we’ll see.”

And then you turned it on, the room filling with the soft tunes of Russian pop, getting louder and louder till his skull screamed and his brain lit on fire.

The electricity in the air spiked. His hands gripped the edges of the table tighter, metal bending in his grasp. His jaw locked, teeth gritted hard enough to crack. He tried to breathe, tried to tamp it down, but it was rising fast. Burning up through every nerve like napalm.

Nuclear energy rolled off him in pulses. Unstable. Dangerous. Loud.

“You’re gonna fucking blow up both of us,” he hissed. “Turn it the fuck down!”

He wouldn’t die, but you would – or lose your powers. Either way, he’d be fucking stuck here again.

“No, I’ll be long gone by the time you blow,” you replied – still casual, still unbothered, still mocking. You were relentless now, stalking in front of him, the taste of vengeance hot on your tongue. “Who’s fucking weak now, huh?”

“Fuck you.”

He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of winning. Not even when his knees buckled and he sunk to the floor. Not yet.

You crouched down in front of him, calm and unaffected. “Say it. Say you’re fucking sorry. Beg me to get you out of here.”

“Fuck you,” Ben repeated, but his voice cracked as he fought against the ticking bomb wedged between his ribs. “You wanna fucking leave me here? Fucking fine. Doesn’t change anything. I still fucking love you... Thought about you every day in this fucking shithole. And you came. You got me out. You fucking saved me.”

“Yeah, biggest mistake of my life,” you scoffed. “Should’ve frozen Butcher when he knocked on my door and bolted.”

“You can’t run away forever.”

You came in closer, eyes burning. “You thought I’d fucking crawl back to you, huh? After everything?”

He shook his throbbing head, fighting it. “You need to fucking listen to me. You’re spiraling. It's the fucking serum. It's messing with your head. You ever actually been this long in the past before?"

You didn't respond, but he took your hesitation as a no.

"Just-... just calm the hell down, alright? Think it through–”

“No!” you snapped. “You don’t get to play fucking hero now. You’re not worried about me or anyone else. Never were, so don’t pretend you are now. You abused me and bullied me for a year straight just so I could fall into some fucked up predestined loop with you. That your definition of love, huh?”

“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t throw that word around like you don’t know what we were. What we fucking are.”

The nuclear hum in his chest flared, pressure building in his sternum, but he forced it down. He couldn’t detonate. Not with you standing three fucking feet away.

“You don’t even know what love is. You just fucking twist it until it serves you,” you replied harshly.

“You don’t get to look at me like that,” he bit out. “Like I’m the fucking monster. You knew who I was back then, too.”

“I did,” you admitted, tears stinging your eyes. Your voice got quieter, barely audible over the radio and the constant crackle of nuclear energy. “And I still fucking trusted you. How stupid was I?”

“I-… I’m sorry,” he forced out, pushed the danger down further with all his might for as long as he could. “I never meant to fucking hurt you. I just wanted you back.”

A smile flashed on your lips. Sad and tragic. “You’ll never get me back. This is the last time you see me again. You understand?”

A beat, and then – he fucking screamed.

Not angry. Not words. Not your name. Just a raw, tortured sound that peeled the chipped paint off the walls. His chest began to glow. His skin shimmered. His vision doubled and whited out around the edges. He was seconds away from exploding.

“Get me the fuck outta here... Please,” he finally rasped with what little strength he had left. His eyes found yours but only witnessed coldness in them. The warmth he once knew and clung to like a lifeline – gone. Forgotten. Erased. “Please, get me out. Don’t fucking leave me here. Please.”

“I’m fucking done with you,” you said.

Your palm reached out and curled on his shoulder, and just like that, you pushed him out of the cold, out of the lab, and back into the present.

The light twisted. His bones stretched. His stomach turned, and the first thing he saw was you.

“Don’t fucking follow me this time,” you snarled. “I mean it – or I’ll leave you with the fucking Reds.”

And then, you spun on your heel and walked away, leaving him crouching, panting, and burning on the floor. Your eyes flicked across the group and landed on Butcher.

“All yours,” you said. “And by the way, I fucking quit.”

Then the office door slammed shut behind you.

Ben barely had time to lift his head before the rest of the merry fucking band made their way slowly and cautiously toward him. Annie, Kimiko, Hughie, Frenchie, MM – staring like they’d just seen him climb out of a burning orphanage holding a cigarette and a baby skull.

“What the fuck are you staring at?” he huffed and pushed the fury, the fire inside of him, down. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of exploding like the petulant, walking nuke they expected him to be. “If you wanna see a show, go find a fucking circus.”

He held it. Dug in. Gritted his teeth and shoved it down. Like choking on fire, like forcing a scream back down his throat until it died in his gut. The glow faded, slow and grudging, retreating like a beaten dog to its cage.

“You alright there, guv?” Butcher asked, voice soaked in that piss-and-vinegar mockery he always wore like cologne. “Bit warm in the cheeks. Heartbreak’ll do that to ya.”

“What-, uh, what happened?” Hughie asked, and for a second, Ben wasn’t sure if the kid was genuinely worried about him.

“None of your goddamn business,” Ben huffed and slowly rose to his feet, slipping the mask back on that fit him like a second skin. A snake that couldn’t shed its scales.

“Let’s go, guys,” Annie said and nodded to the door. The others followed, each of them sending him a little glare on their way out.

But Butcher stayed, lingering in the doorway, smirk curling on his lips like a jackal.

“I know what you’re fucking thinking, asshole,” Ben growled.

“And what’s that?” Butcher asked calmly, clearly enjoying the downfall.

“You think now that she has her powers back, you can turn her against me and take me out,” Ben gritted. “But it’s not gonna work. She’s not gonna fucking kill me. She’s not gonna betray me.”

Butcher’s smirk twitched with amusement. “Guess we’ll see. Didn’t look like she still needs a lotta convincing. Enjoy your evening, mate.”

Ben stood frozen, watching Butcher’s retreating back, and only exhaled the breath he’d been holding in when he was entirely alone. Again.

And for the first time in a year, he wasn’t sure time could fix it, and he wondered how he lost everything, how he ended up here – with nothing.

Without you.

▶️ Chapter 12: You’re Not Just a Man, You’re a Monument!

Did you think it'd go down like this? Did you enjoy getting Ben's side of things? Because we're far from done. Next week we get glimpses into Ben's life, starting with the serum and ending with what caused his downfall a little in the 80s 👀

And for a little fun: What was your favorite reader historical story? Punching Freud? JFK? 🤣

Coming Up:

Ben caught a look between the two of them – barely a glance but enough. It was the kind of exchange scientists made when they’d seen what had come before – when they were still pretending the next experiment might not end the same way.

“The serum rewrites you,” Frederick explained proudly. “Not just your body. It makes you what you should have been. The best version.”

Ben looked down at his hands again, trying to control the tremble. “Sounds like a lot of poison for something that’s supposed to help.”

“Poison can be medicine,” Klara stated. “If you survive it.”

Frederick continued flipping pages like he hadn’t just described a dozen men dying on his table. “You’ll undergo rapid metabolic overhaul. Tissue degeneration followed by cellular regeneration. And yes, there will be pain. But afterward, you will have capabilities beyond conventional human limits.”

“How much pain?” Ben asked.

“Enough,” Klara replied. “But you’ll be stronger after. Think of it like being melted down and poured into a new mold. Like steel.”

Ben swallowed hard. “And if the mold doesn’t hold?”

Frederick smiled as if he’d made a joke. “Then you’ll have done your country a great service, young man.”

Ben was quiet for a moment. “You believe this can win the war?”

Frederick nodded surely. “Oh, it will end the war.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Klara said, voice almost gentle. “To become the kind of man who can’t be ignored anymore. You’ll never feel weakness again.”

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