(angst, mentions of toxic relationship, violence and cheating. mentions of drugs and alcohol.)
from the moment you first laid eyes on him, you knew ben was the type of man who would break your heart.
you don’t know why you keep going back to him, you're drawn to the hollow pull of his need. a moth to a flame, a magnet. knowing he wants you—even if only on some carnal level—makes you feel something. you know his love for drugs and alcohol will always be stronger than the one he feels for you, if he even is in love with you. with soldier boy, nothing is certain, nothing but silence and distance.
never letting you in, always leaving you wondering.
you know you can’t fix him, can’t make him better and maybe that’s what brings the red cross nurse out of you—such a cliché, the soldier and the nurse—you try. for him, you try. you’d do anything for him, without even asking. every time he comes back smelling like another woman's perfume, your heart drops, but you can't do anything but welcome him back like you've been waiting your whole life for him. every time you find a lipstick stain on his clothes that doesn't match your shade, you're reminded that for ben, you're probably just one of many.
on more nights than you'd like to admit, you find yourself sobbing softly on the floor in front of the washing machine, holding tight in your hands ben's incriminated clothes. most of the times he pretends not to hear.
cold heart, cold hands and cold attitude, ben has all of the above.
ben's addictions, a heavy fog you cannot lift, break you down silently. it’s all there is for him: sex, pills, fighting, alcohol, late night TV and killing.
thanks to butcher, you find ways to keep him under control so his violent and sudden outbursts won't eventually lead you to madness, but you know the boys pity you. if they just knew he’s not always an asshole, an old fashioned dick. in fleeting moments, he is soft, tender, reminding you of a love that could've been.
sometimes he's the one who forgets.
ben forgets every time he paces around the room, shouting, fists clenched tight, voice raised. he doesn't hit you, but you still flinch if he comes near you when he's mad, because you both know he doesn't have to hit you to hurt you. he'll say things he can't and won't take back and you'll pretend you didn't hear him.
you forgive him before he says sorry. that's why he never apologises, he just touches you gently, eyes filled with pretend regret while you curl up on his lap as he lights a joint.
his rage isn’t just loud—it’s lonely, misdirected, and brutal. and it leaves emotional wreckage every time.
he doesn't always yell, maybe it'll be a slammed door, a look or a flash in his eyes that makes the room feel like it might shatter under the weight of his fury. you know ben's anger is really a mirror of his inner damage, the anger is not just anger but a symptom—a scar.
the sound of his keys tossed carelessly on the counter, the light in the hallway turning on and he way he never takes off his boots right away are little sensory details that haunt you.
you don't remember falling asleep, curled up in your bed, but the second the front door opens, you wake up, like your body knows when he's close.
tock, tick, tock, tick—
you know it's past midnight because the city is unnervingly quiet, the new york traffic slower until the first hours of the morning.
as you hear the fridge opening, then closing, and the noise of a beer cracking open, you wonder how ben got home.
he doesn't speak when he walks into the bedroom, just stares down at you. before you can let him know you're awake—maybe by whispering a shy ‘hi’—he disappears back into the darkness like he's part of it.
you always hope ben will mumble something, maybe an excuse, but nothing ever comes. just the weight of having him near enough to smell but never knowing where he's been.
he's fine, just tired, he just needs his space—you tell yourself as you snuggle to your pillow, waiting for him to join you in bed.
as he crawls into bed with you, you pretend to sleep. maybe this time he'll pull me closer and hold me all night like im the only girl in the world.
ben still doesn't speak, his back to yours feeling like a wall you cant climb.
"where have you been?" you whisper after a few minutes.
ben grunts like he was just on the verge of falling asleep and your voice brought him back to reality. "out."
"with?"
"does it matter?" his cold and short answer shuts you up immediately. he rarely ever has to raise his voice to shut you up.
"it does to me." you say as you roll onto your side, facing him. you find him stomach up, arm under his head as his green eyes are glued to the ceiling. the scent of smoke clings to him—probably cigarettes, maybe weed, more likely something worse.
ben exhales through his nose. not annoyed, just... weary. almost as if the conversation is too much and your concern just noise in his ears. when he finally turns his head to look at you, his eyes are red—and you almost wish it were from tears. "can we not do this right now?"
"do what, talk?"
he sighs now, doesn't answer. you watch his figure bathed in moonlight peaking from the blinds. you watch his fingers twitching on his thigh, like they're still holding something they haven't put down. you wonder where you'll find the empty beer can tomorrow, bets are on the bathroom counter.
you know this version of him all too well, you've met him before, for months around 1am. this is the ben that comes back home in the middle of the night, smelling like the girl he eyed too long at the bar.
you reach for his arm, not to bring him closer, god no, but just to touch him. to remind yourself he is real.
"i wait for you." you murmur, glancing back up at his face just in time to see the bite he gives the inside of his cheek.
your fingers gently tighten around his arm, encouragingly, and you hope that he's going to say something different tonight, something that will make the waiting worth it.
instead ben grunts again, tired green eyes still avoiding yours.
"i'm here now." he replies like it's enough before rolling onto his side, facing the opposite direction.
you stare at his naked back, inches apart, his silence weight more than what he said.
you roll onto your back as a soft snore breaks the silence and you sigh, another battle lost.
like always, ben falls asleep first and you breathe him in like the apology you'll never receive.
