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hueswithblues · 5 days ago

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That was such a masterpiece. The whole series itself is so beautiful.

The whole talking about "if they could turn back time" brought tears to my eyes.

I love love your writing. You weave magic through your stories.

If I Could Turn Back Time pt. 3

Ben (Soldier Boy) x Reader | The Boys

Part 1 | 2 | 3

NOTES: the final part!! I hope it lives up to expectation!! I worked really hard to make sure she was good for y'all <3 wc 6630 so be prepared to read

TW: sad in some spots, smut in others, memory suppression, false pr narratives, forced institutionalization, medication as a means of control, canon events surrounding soldier boy's capture and release, talk of killing payback, reuniting after a long time separation (not by choice), discussion of pregnancy (but none in the story), not the happiest ending but a happier one than they would have had

They didn’t know what they were looking at at first.

Frenchie was the one who spotted the file, tucked deep in an unmarked binder during a dig through one of Vought’s internal archives. Not digital—paper. Actual paper, which meant it was either important… or something they wanted forgotten. He flipped it open expecting payroll records, maybe old intel from Payback days. What he found was you.

At the top of the file was a photo—grainy, but unmistakable. You were seated on the edge of a marble fountain, all long legs and red lips, head thrown back in a laugh that must’ve echoed through the square. You were wearing a tailored dress and heels that looked made for you. Your hands curled in the lapel of a weathered leather jacket. Ben next to you, smiling wide, eyes focused entirely on you. The caption listed you by name. Below it: Vought-Approved Talent Partnership. Marriage License Certified by New York State on June 5, 1959.

It stopped him cold.

By the time the others were crowded around the table, Frenchie was already sifting through the rest. It told a story they’d never heard—not even hinted at.

Not one of a woman who disappeared. One of a woman who was made to disappear.

The official narrative had always been clean. Patriotic. Tragic. You were his girl, the sweetheart of the red, white, and blue. You stood beside him for galas, interviews, base visits. You kissed him before deployment and waved to cameras through tears. A symbol of American sacrifice.

But when Soldier Boy “died,” your name quickly vanished right alongside his.

Vought issued a statement. A few headlines heartbroken for “the grieving widow.” There was a spread in Life magazine—your face framed by sunlight, hands folded in your lap, eyes rimmed with tears. You were silent, graceful. Suffering beautifully.

And then you were gone.Taking time to appreciate what you lost.

What the file revealed was something else entirely.

You hadn’t handled the news quietly. You hadn’t wept in silk and tried to move on. You hadn’t even believed it.

You’d screamed. Ranted. Fought.

According to Vought’s internal memos, you refused to accept the official story. You said something was wrong. That you could still feel him—somewhere. That they had lied. That Soldier Boy was alive. You made a scene on set. Slapped a PR agent. Tried to push past security at a closed briefing. Nearly killed Stan Edgar’s assistant.

They flagged you for evaluation the same week.

From there, the records shifted tone.

Patient admitted involuntarily. Displays symptoms of delusional fixation toward her deceased spouse alongside paranoia, and mania. Insists Soldier Boy survived the nuclear event. Exhibits distrust of Vought supervision as well as medical staff. Unstable. Violent. Subject is a high-value public asset and must be handled with caution.

They locked you up.

Not in a prison—but somewhere quieter. Off-grid. A “wellness center.” You were kept sedated and “stabilized” under a Vought-run psychiatric program for high-risk internal associates. Everything you said about Ben, about the static in your bones, the nightmares, the pull you swore was still connecting you to him—they wrote it off as grief-spun-delusion.

You were a threat to the narrative. The one person who could crumble their empire with one loose-tongued comment.

So they buried you in silence.

That might’ve been the end of it. But you were too visible. Too beloved by the public. Too many magazine covers. Too many fans who remembered your smile. A legacy like yours couldn’t just vanish. So after a few years—once your chart read “stable”—they brought you back out.

But different this time.

No press conferences. No interviews. No chance for you to say something unscripted.

They remade you into a symbol again—but one they could control.

A curated version. Subdued. Sweet. Soft-spoken. Your handler dressed you in pastels and pearls. Your calendar was filled with gentle obligations: charity brunches, silent auctions, carefully staged photoshoots in honor of “Soldier Boy’s memory.” You were listed as a brand ambassador for a line of luxury skincare and served as the honorary face of a foundation you didn’t actually run.

Nothing stressful. Nothing live. No hard questions. No unsupervised appearances.

Vought spun it as grace.

You’d suffered a terrible loss, that’s what they said. But you’d come through it with quiet dignity. You were a role model. A symbol of strength. The country’s gold-plated widow.

In truth, you were being managed. Handled. Coddled like a porcelain doll that might crack if anyone tapped too hard on the glass.

“She doesn’t do interviews,” Frenchie read aloud. “Prefers to keep a low profile. Still ‘working through the trauma.’”

“That’s how they framed it,” MM said. “Not crazy. Not broken. Just… delicate.”

They gave you just enough autonomy to keep the illusion believable. An apartment in a high-rise building Vought owned. An assistant. A stylist. Regular deliveries of meds tucked into color coded bottles.

But the real key was keeping your world small.

If you got too tired, too sad, too sharp, you’d start spiraling again.

And they knew it.

So they smoothed every edge. Soft lights. Soft fabrics. Scripted appearances. No stress. Nothing overstimulating. No opportunity to remember what they tried so hard to erase.

Because if you did—if you slipped, even a little—the truth would come flooding back.

And still.

Still.

Every report noted one consistent behavior, even after all these years: “subject occasionally exhibits lingering delusion that Soldier Boy survived the nuclear incident. Behavior subdued when monitored but resurfaces under emotional strain.”

You never stopped believing.

Even when they locked you away. Even when they told you he was a myth, a stroke of bad luck, a man reduced to dust.

Somewhere in that glossed-up, manicured, medicated version of yourself—you knew.

And now The Boys had the proof.

Ben hadn’t spoken since they gave him the file.

He sat perfectly still, flipping each page slowly. The younger photos. The intake evaluations. A scanned letter—unsigned, unsent, confiscated—where you’d tried to beg for proof. Not just of his death. Of anything real.

And then he reached the more recent documents.

Performance evaluations. PR reports. Photos taken outside your high-rise: you in soft pastels, heels clicking along marble tile, looking every bit the icon they rebuilt from your ashes.

But your eyes…

They were all you.

The ones that always gave him away, that saw right through him.

“Christ,” MM said quietly. “They really did it. They made her a fucking ghost.”

“No,” Ben said hoarsely, staring at your most recent surveillance image. “They made her a doll.”

He looked at the record of your last medication cycle. It hadn’t changed in a decade.

“I promised her I’d come back,” he said softly.

“She waited,” Frenchie said.

And the room went quiet.

Ben looked like he’d been gutted.

Not furious. Not even stunned. Just shattered. A man staring down the aftermath of a lifetime carved out of the woman who had once made him human.

He stood slowly. No orders. No plan.Just that old, unspeakable look on his face. “She’s mine,” he said again, quieter this time. Like a prayer. And then, “Where is she?”

It started with the air.

A shift, almost imperceptible. You noticed it while pouring your coffee—though the pot had long gone cold, and you couldn’t remember ever turning it on. The sun looked different through the windows. Not dimmer. Not brighter. Just… strange. Slanted, like it had to push harder to reach you.

You didn’t say anything. Not out loud. That would’ve been a red flag.

Instead, you stirred cream into your cup and drank it in silence, ignoring the flutter at the base of your throat. You’d learned to ignore those things. The feeling. The pull. The buzz beneath your skin that always seemed to flare before something shifted.

That’s what got you institutionalized the first time.

You said you could feel him.

Said he wasn’t dead.

You said it with your whole chest, your whole heart. Screamed it. Raged. You tore open your own skin once trying to dig it out—that horrible quiet certainty that something was wrong. And Vought had handled it the way Vought handles everything they don’t want televised: they wrapped you in a sedation order and let you rot behind high walls and soft linens until you got quiet enough to parade again.

Eventually, you learned how to be palatable.

They let you live alone now, in a sleek, soft apartment paid for by people who never spoke to you anymore. You had a wardrobe full of cream and blush and navy. You had one publicist and two handlers, and none of them trusted you. You could feel it. In the way they looked at you. In the way your meds arrived early–god forbid you went without for even one day.

Because underneath all the lace and gloss and careful smiles, you were still dangerous.

They just couldn’t prove it unless you cracked again.

You hadn’t.

Not really.

But that morning, something made your fingers twitch. You spilled a little coffee on your wrist and just stood there staring at it. The sensation was too sharp. Too real. It made your chest ache.

You turned on the radio to drown it out, but the sound made your teeth hurt. You turned it back off and sat on the couch instead, wrapping a blanket around your legs even though it wasn’t cold, but you were shivering.

And then—

The knock.

Not harsh. But not polite, either. Firm. Measured. One-two-three—pause—four.

You went still.

No one knocked on your door. Not without texting first. Not without clearing it through Vought. Your handler always rang the bell. Press. Delivery. Maintenance. They buzzed.

You didn’t move at first.

You just stared at the door like it might open all by itself.

Then, slowly, you stood. Pushed the blanket away. The oversized T-shirt you’d slept in hung off one shoulder—it wasn’t regulation, but you hadn’t been scheduled for anything today.

The hallway floor was cold beneath your bare feet. The apartment was too quiet.

You stepped up to the door and didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask who is it, didn’t look through the peephole.

You just opened it.

Two men stood outside.

Strangers. One with long, tired eyes and a soft mouth—he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. The other had shoulders like a tank and a stare like he’d already decided what you were. Dangerous. Trouble. Fragile.

You met his gaze without blinking.

“Ma’am,” he said. No badge. No name.

Something flared low in your gut.

“Can we come in?” the first man asked, gentler. “We’d like to talk to you. It’s… about something important.”

Your pulse fluttered, but your voice came out steady. “I’m not scheduled for anything today.”

“We know.”

You stared at them a moment longer.

And then—almost against your better judgment—you stepped back and opened the door wider.

The man with the kind eyes smiled like it hurt to do it. “Thank you.”

You sat on the edge of the couch, legs crossed at the ankle, blanket back around your shoulders. They didn’t sit. Just stood there. Watching you like you might break. Or bolt.

You didn’t ask who they were.

You didn’t ask why they were here.

Not yet.

Because your chest was buzzing again. Louder now. Like something behind the curtain of your ribs was waking up.

It had felt like this once before. The day after they said he died. And something inside you had screamed no.

You smoothed the blanket across your lap. Licked your lips. And asked, very softly, “What happened?”

Because you already knew something had.

The taller one—grizzled, scarred, with eyes like old gunmetal—was the first to speak.

“You ever get the feeling someone’s been lyin’ to you?” he asked.

You blinked.

Often. All the time. You’d lived in that feeling for forty years. But the rules said you weren’t supposed to say so. Not out loud. Not anymore.

You offered him a neutral smile. The kind your handler taught you to use when reporters asked something unscripted. “I’m not supposed to engage in hypotheticals.”

He huffed something like a laugh—but there was no humor in it.

The other one, the quieter one, knelt slightly in front of you, just enough to meet your gaze without feeling like a threat. His voice was soft. Almost cautious.

“We found something,” he said. “Someone, actually.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t move.

“You’ve been told a lot of things over the years,” he went on, careful not to look away. “Some of them were true. A lot weren’t. But this—this is real. And… we thought you deserved to know.”

You watched his face.

The tick in his jaw. The weight in his voice. He didn’t say Ben’s name. He didn’t have to.

Because your blood was already singing.

The older one looked around the apartment, taking in the whitewashed walls, the untouched TV, the stack of magazines your handler arranged on the table every Monday like clockwork. Like presentation mattered more than peace.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “They really did a number on you.”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Your throat felt full of something hot and old and furious.

The kind-eyed one—Frenchie, you heard the other call him—glanced back at you.

“We want to show you,” he said. “But only if you want to go. You don’t have to. We won’t force you.”

You rose before he finished.

Barefoot. Blanket falling from your shoulders. Legs unsteady but moving.

“I just need a minute,” you said, already halfway down the hall.

Your heart was beating too fast. Your hands were shaking.

Not from fear—something else. Something warm and electric. You couldn’t name it. Couldn’t tame it. But it moved through you like purpose.

You tore open the closet. Pushed past the assigned wardrobe—the soft-focus pastels, the conservative suits, the dresses your handler approved.

And there it was.

Tucked at the very back.

A dress they hadn’t let you wear in years. Too fitted. Too you. The color he always said made you look like a starlet on fire.

Your fingers fumbled with the zipper. You barely breathed as you slipped it on, smoothing the fabric down over your hips like muscle memory. You touched your hair—just once. Shook it out. Pinched a little color into your cheeks.

No lipstick. No liner. Just a shiny, vanilla gloss. But your lips trembled like they wanted to smile.

You didn’t have time to be perfect.

Just… present.

Just you.

You stepped back from the mirror. Looked at your reflection.

Not the version they’d curated.

Not the widow. Not the relic. Not the medicated, muted ghost they wheeled out for photo ops.

You.

Flushed. Barefoot. A little messy.

But alive.

And for the first time in forty years—you had a reason to be.

The car was quiet.

No music. No chatter.

You sat in the backseat, hands folded neatly in your lap, the hum beneath your skin growing by the mile. You could feel it now—not just inside you, but outside, too.

Like the world was holding its breath.

You didn’t ask questions.

Didn’t need to.

They didn’t offer details, but they kept glancing at you in the mirror. Like they were expecting you to break. Cry. Panic.

But you didn’t.

Because the static had started to sing.

By the time the car slowed outside a nondescript building in a quiet part of the city, your pulse was pounding in your wrists. You felt lightheaded. Hollowed out. Lit up.

Frenchie opened your door. Offered his hand.

You didn’t take it.

But you let him lead you up the stairs.

At the top of the landing, they paused.

Butcher looked at you. His mouth pressed into a line.

“He’s through there.”

You didn’t ask who.

Your hand trembled on the doorframe.

But your voice, when it came, was steady.

“I’ve been waiting a very long time.”

And then you opened the door.

And he knew it was you before he saw you.

Something in the air changed. Like heat rolling off pavement, the kind that made your skin buzz and your instincts hum. And then—

There you were.

In the doorway, flanked by Frenchie and Butcher like you’d been chauffeured in by Hell and Heaven both. Hair shiny, legs bare, lips painted glossy and curled into the faintest smile—that girl. The one the country had adored and feared and drooled over. The one who used to stretch like a cat across his chest while blood still dotted your skin. A marvel. A monster.

His fucking wife.

You looked like a dream — the worst kind, the kind that clung to you after you woke up. Familiar. Too good to be real. Even when you stepped into the light, even when you eyes locked, his brain tried to convince him it wasn’t you. Couldn’t be.

But then you said his name.

“Ben?”

And it cracked him open.

“Baby,” he breathed. your voice—God, your voice.

You didn’t run to him. You just stood there for a second, like your feet didn’t know which direction was up anymore. Your bottom lip quivered, and then your breath hitched, and your whole body shuddered once before you all but collapsed against him.

“I knew it,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I knew it, I fucking knew it—”

“Hey, hey—” he caught you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, dragging you in like he could fold you inside him and keep you safe this time. “I got you. I got you, baby. I’m here.”

You were shaking. Little sniffles curling up out of your throat like steam.

“I knew you weren’t dead.” Your voice cracked. “I felt it when it happened. Could feel something was wrong after. And then nothing. Forty goddamn years of nothing. Do you know what that does to a person?”

Ben cradled the back of your head with a rough, shaking hand. “I should’ve listened to you. I heard you that morning. I did. I just—”

“I begged you not to go,” you whimpered, wiping under your eyes, still snuggled into his chest like you never planned to let go. “I begged, Ben. I had the worst feeling. I felt it.”

“I know.” He kissed your temple. “I’m sorry. I swear to God, I—”

“And now you’re here,” you whispered, fingers fisting in the collar of his jacket like you didn’t trust the laws of physics to keep him from vanishing again. “You’re really here. I’m not dreaming? You’re real?”

“No, sweetheart. You’re not dreaming.”

Your hands roamed over his chest, up his jaw, slow and reverent. “You’re warm. You’re breathing. Your heartbeat—” your palm pressed flat over his heart, trembling. “It’s really you.”

And then Butcher, of course, had to open his fucking mouth.

“You two done, or should we pop out for snacks and give you a room?”

You turned. Fast. Faster than you’d moved in a long time.

Like a switch flipped in your soul.

Your eyes snapped to Butcher and you smiled sweetly — too sweetly. A second later, your voice dropped to a venomous hiss: “I spent 40 fucking years and a shit ton of antipsychotics waiting for this moment, do not test me right now.”

Butcher blinked. “Bloody hell.”

You turned back to Ben like nothing happened, your lower lip wobbling again as you touched his face with the gentlest fingers in the world. “You look tired, baby. Have you eaten? Had some water or electrolytes or something.”

He couldn’t help it — he laughed, even as his eyes burned at the corners. “Jesus Christ, I missed you.”

“You better have.” you voice cracked again, so you pressed you forehead to his and whispered, “I missed you every fucking day.”

You kissed him like you were sealing something shut — the ache, the fury, the years — and when you pulled back, tears were shining on you lashes.

He brushed them away with the back of his finger, gentle as ever.

“You came back to me,” you said softly

Nobody said anything at first.

The silence in the room was taut, buzzing. Frenchie leaned against the wall like he couldn’t decide if this was a threat or a miracle. Mother’s Milk looked wary, Butcher unreadable. And Hughie… Hughie just looked stunned.

You blinked, sniffed hard, swiped at your cheeks with the backs of your hands like that might erase the years of grief still smeared across your face.

“All right,” you said, voice trembling but steadying fast. “Someone better start talking.”

And they did.

They told you everything. The long, ugly truth in jagged pieces. The CIA. Payback. The Russians. The weapon that wasn’t a weapon. You didn’t flinch once. Just sat there, spine straight, eyes glassy but sharp.

And then came the worst of it.

Homelander. His son. The plan. The disaster. The fallout.

You didn’t speak through any of it. Just listened, arms crossed tight over your chest, jaw clenched. At one point, Butcher made some snide remark about Ben being “a nuclear dickhead with daddy issues,” and you nearly lunged at him. Ben had to rest a hand on your thigh—a silent anchor—and even that small touch made your breath catch.

By the end, the room was quiet again. But different now. Heavier. You were different too—cracked open just enough to let the hurt show. Your head starting to lift from the haze as your meds started to leave your system after a missed afternoon dose.

And then Ben looked at you.

He reached for you, voice rough with everything he couldn’t say in front of them. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

His hand found yours, warm and certain, and he led you out without another word.

Down the hall. Around the corner. Into the nearest room, door clicking shut behind you—

Your knees buckled. The world tilted. And all that fire you ’d used to keep you spine straight in front of the others burned out into nothing but ash.

You crumpled into him like a wave breaking. Your hands clawed at the lapels of his jacket, pulling, fisting, trying to drag him into your bones. Your whole body shook with the sob that tore out of your chest — hot and guttural and years overdue.

“Jesus, baby—” Ben’s voice cracked as he caught her. “Hey. I got you, I got you.”

“I didn’t think—I didn’t know—” you sobbed, so hard you couldn’t breathe, tears streaking hot down your cheeks. “I felt it. That day. I knew something was wrong and—!”

“I know,” he whispered, holding you tighter. One arm banded around you back, the other hand cradling your head like you were something precious. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I would’ve gone with you,” you choked. “I would’ve—I should’ve—”

“No. No, baby, don’t.” His voice broke. “It wasn’t you. You told me. You fucking told me and I—”

“I lost you.” You were barely audible now, forehead pressed to his collarbone. “You were my whole life.”

He held you tighter. “I know,” he said. “You were mine too.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt, clutching like you were afraid he’d slip away again. you were shaking so hard your knees gave out, and he went down with you—knees to the floor, arms tight, rocking you against his chest.

“I thought I was crazy,” you whispered. “All those years. I felt it, like you were alive, and everyone looked at me like I was insane. The things they did to me, told me…”

“You weren’t crazy,” he murmured, lips at your temple. “You were right. You’re always right.”

You laughed through another sob — wet and sharp—and curled yourself closer to him.

“You look older,” you said softly, fingers brushing his jaw. “Not worse. Just… worn in.”

He snorted. “Yeah. You try tanking forty years in a fucking tube.”

“Not even a scratch on that pretty face. Your skin is dry as hell but I can work with that.” Your voice was still shaking, but your smile was there—small, reverent. “God, I missed your face.”

Ben cupped your cheek and wiped a tear away with his thumb. “I missed your everything.”

your eyes fluttered shut, and another tear slipped down. “I don’t even care what you’ve done. I don’t care who you’ve hurt. I just care that you’re here. With me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I swear to you.”

“You better not,” you said thickly. “Because if you die again, I’m coming with you this time.”

“Deal.” He kissed your forehead. “But I’m not dying. Not ‘til I’ve had another lifetime with you.”

Another sob. Another laugh. Another kiss.

And finally, finally, a little quiet.

You had curled yourself up beside him on the worn quilt of the bed you’d commandeered for the night—his jacket draped around your shoulders, your legs slung across his lap. Your makeup was long gone, but your eyes were still rimmed red, your cheeks soft from hours of crying and holding and kissing and just being together again.

Ben’s fingers brushed absently over the inside of your thigh, tracing the edge of a scar he hadn’t remembered you having. Your hand was in his hair, combing slow, like you were trying to memorize him again.

“They really fucking did it,” he muttered finally, voice low, almost incredulous. “My team. They sold me out.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Your hand stilled in his hair.

“They didn’t just sell you out, Ben.” Your voice was quiet. Cold. “They played me. Lied to my face. Came to the house. Held me while I cried. Told me they wished they’d died with you. That they’d do anything to bring you back.”

Ben’s jaw tightened. You could feel it under your palm.

“I wore black for a long time, before the threw me into that fucking institute,” you said. “I turned that house into a mausoleum. I couldn’t sleep in our bed. I couldn’t even walk past the record player.”

You laughed then, bitter and brittle.

“God, I thought Gunpowder was gonna kill himself at first. He’d cry when he came over. He used to say he could still hear your voice in the halls.”

Ben scoffed. “Yeah. Real fucking thespian, that one.”

“And fucking Crimson. That evil bitch. She was always the first to jump at doing a memorial. Like I wasn’t your wife. Like she knew you better than anyone.”

Your fingers curled tighter in his hair.

“They let me rot,” you said angrily. “They let the world treat me like some deranged little widow who couldn’t let go. All the while they knew. They knew. They knew you weren’t dead. That you were in a box. That they put you in it.”

Ben’s voice dropped into something lethal. “They’re dead.”

You looked at him.

“Not just because of me,” he clarified, eyes glinting. “Because of you. Because they hurt you.”

Something in your face cracked at that. your breath hitched. You leaned in and kissed him like it hurt not to.

“I want to be there for every single one of them,” you whispered against his mouth. “I want them to see me when it happens. I want them to know that I know.”

“You will be,” he said. “You’ll be the last thing they ever fucking see.”

They were quiet for a beat. He let you breathe. You let him seethe.

Then you smiled—sweet and vicious—and leaned back just enough to meet his eyes. “Think they’ll piss themselves when they see us together?”

Ben’s grin was slow and terrible. “If they don’t it’s because they’ll be bleeding too much to notice.”

You laughed—a real one this time, from your chest, from that soft, mean place inside you. You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed his jaw.

“I love you,” you said.

Ben pulled you in, forehead to forehead. “I love you more.”

… 6 months later …

The house was stupid. Expensive. Soft white walls and sleek mid-century furniture, every line clean and curated like a magazine spread. But there were signs of life now—your shoes kicked off by the door, his leather belt slung over a chair, a half-eaten peach on the counter that Ben claimed he was “saving for later.” One of your rings glinting on a windowsill where you’d left it to soak up the sun. Not a single prescription medicine bottle in sight. Well, other than the for fun ones.

You’d been here for almost two months. No handlers, no missions, no ghosts.

Just the two of you and a far more generous deal with the CIA than you ever would’ve expected.

Ben was outside, shirtless, fucking around with a grill, while you leaned in the doorway in one of his shirts. Sipping on a fizzy drink with three maraschino cherries in it. You looked like vacation, like sin wrapped in sunshine. He didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t staring.

“Something wrong, soldier?” You teased, voice honey-slow.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re wearing too much.”

You snorted, padded barefoot across the tile to kiss his cheek. “I’m not taking my shirt off until you stop burning the chicken.”

“Chicken’s fine,” he said, flipping it with the point of a grill fork. “You’re the one who buys the fancy shit that cooks too fast.”

You grinned and stole a bite of something from the tray beside him. “Organic chicken cooks exactly the same as any other chicken.”

There was a stillness between you now—an ease that only came from having gone through hell and survived it. From revenge and blood and hard-earned closure. You didn’t talk about Payback anymore. Or any of the terror they’d caused. You didn’t need to.

But sometimes, late at night, you still talked about him.

Homelander.

Ben’s son.

His goddamn son.

You had seen the whole thing unfold in real time. And you’d been just as gutted—if not more—when it had all gone to hell. You’d held Ben after it happened, after the fallout, after the heavy resentment and disappointment started to settle. You didn’t say much then. Just held him. Let him break apart against you in a way he never would’ve allowed anyone else to see.

And now…

Now it was quiet. The kind of quiet that meant healing. Not perfect. But whole.

You sat outside that night, curled up together on a giant sectional, the stars bright and sharp overhead. He had one hand on your thigh, your legs over his lap, and the sound of bugs in the distance filled the space between lazy kisses and shared sips of your drink.

You were quiet for a while, just watching the dark.

Then: “What would you do if you could turn back time?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What, like Cher?”

You laughed. “No. Like—really. If you could go back. Start over. Change something.”

Ben went quiet.

He looked at you, really looked. And for a second, the weight of everything came back. Payback. You, crying in his arms. The son he never got to know who was somehow even worse than Ben had been on his worst days. Forty years in a goddamn coffin.

“I’d listen to you,” he said finally.

Your brows lifted.

“That morning,” he said. “When you told me not to go. You said you had a bad feeling, and I blew you off like a fucking asshole.”

You didn’t speak—just rested your head against his shoulder.

“I’d listen. I’d stay the fuck home. Should’ve pulled you into bed, fucked you stupid. I’d take you to fucking Italy or something, I don’t know. Somewhere hot and quiet and full of carbs. We’d disappear for a while.”

You smiled against his arm. “You’d get bored after a week.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But I’d be bored with you. That sounds pretty fucking perfect.”

You looked up at him then, eyes glossy. “Ben.”

“I mean it.” He looked at you, really looked. “You were the only person who ever saw the shit I couldn’t. You always did. If I’d just listened—if I’d stayed—we could’ve had all of this. Back then.”

Your lip trembled just a little.

He leaned closer, voice low. “I’d listen to you. Every time. About everything. I’d follow you out of that house, get in the car, go anywhere you told me to. I wouldn’t blink… I’d have built us a home. A nice one, like this. Exactly how we wanted it.”

A soft, wet laugh slipped out of you.

“And I’d never leave,” he said. “Not for one second. I’d watch you grow old— if we ever did but you’re still as perfect as the day I’d met you so I wouldn’t hold my breath on that one. And I’d love every single minute of it. I’d bury myself next to you if you let me.”

Tears welled up in your eyes. Your chest ached like something sharp had bloomed inside it.

“I’d knock you up once, twice, fuck it, maybe five times—” he grinned a little, but it was edged with sadness,“—and spoil you rotten the whole time. Rub your back, kiss your feet, build a crib by hand. You would’ve fuckin’ loved that shit, I know you would have.”

“Ben—”

“I’d let you decorate everything however you wanted it, wouldn’t have bitched even once. Let the kids paint on the walls. Dance with you in the living room like a fucking idiot ‘cause it makes you laugh. I’d cook us dinner every goddamn night.”

You were crying now — silent, shuddering tears — and he was too, though he wouldn’t admit it, not unless you asked.

“I didn’t need glory,” he said. “Didn’t need war or fucking medals. I needed you. Just you. I was too blind to see it back then, and I’ll never forgive myself for that.

You were quiet for a long time. You cupped his face softly resting your forehead against his, just soaking in the fact that after everything, against all odds, he was right here.

Then: “You hate cooking if it’s not on a grill.”

He huffed a small, broken laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

“And we would’ve been terrible parents,” you added, softer now. “We were so selfish. So… wrapped up in each other.”

Ben blinked at the sky, his jaw tight. “Maybe. But I still would’ve done it. Just to see you with a baby. Ours. You would’ve been such a beautiful mother, sweetheart.”

You made a small sound — not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt.

“I used to think about that kind of stuff sometimes,” you whispered. “When I couldn’t sleep. What they’d look like. What kind of trouble they’d get into.”

Ben’s voice almost cracked. “I would’ve loved them so much.”

“You didn’t even know how to love yourself back then,” you said gently. “You barely knew how to love me half the time.”

“I figured it out eventually,” he murmured. “Didn’t I?”

You tilted your head up, kissed the underside of his jaw. “Yeah. You did.”

Silence again — soft and heavy.

“I wouldn’t have been a good dad,” he said. “But I would’ve tried. For you. For them.”

“I know,” you whispered.

He looked down at her, at the sadness written into the corners of your eyes — sorrow softened by time, but never erased. And he kissed your temple, your cheek, your mouth.

“We’ve still got time,” he said. “Not for that, maybe. But for everything else.”

You nodded. “We always make the worst kind of magic, don’t we?”

“The absolute worst,” he agreed. “But it’s ours.”

You smiled, faint and fond and full of hurt. “Yeah. It is.”

You didn’t say anything for a long while. Just stayed curled against his chest, one hand gently carding through the hair on his sternum like you were grounding yourself in the rhythm of his breath.

Ben didn’t rush you. He never did anymore.

When you finally tilted your face up to his, your eyes were glassy with tears again—not sobbing, not broken, but heavy with something deeper. A sadness that sat underneath your skin and never quite left.

“Come with me,” you said softly.

He blinked. “Where?”

You didn’t answer. Just took his hand and led him inside, barefoot and quiet, past the peach pit and the burning candle that smelled like vanilla and bourbon. The air was thick with it. Sweet and warm.

The bedroom was dim and quiet, lit only by the lazy flicker of candlelight on the dresser and the soft hum of cicadas through the cracked window. The sheets were rumpled from earlier— neither of you had bothered making the bed. You never did.

You kissed him slowly as you undressed him. No urgency. No fumbling. Just the casual, confident unwrapping of something that already belonged to you. Your fingers skimmed the edge of his waistband, dragging denim down over his hips while he watched you like you were the sun and he was still crawling out of the goddamn dark.

“You always get like this when you’re sentimental,” you murmured against his throat, smiling faintly.

“Like what?” he asked, breath already catching as you eased him back onto the bed.

“Soft,” you teased fondly, straddling him. “Talkin’ about babies and cribs and shit.”

He smirked, hands resting at your hips. “You bring it outta me.”

“Mm.” you mouth bruyou d his. “You used to get like this after missions. Or after fights. Or birthdays. Or—fuck, really anything that made you feel too much.”

“You callin’ me a drama queen?” he grinned.

“I’m calling you mine,” you whispered, kissing him again, deeper this time. “And I know you better than you like to think I do.”

“Not better than I know you,” he muttered, fingers sliding up under your shirt—his shirt. “You’re still the most beautifully dangerous thing I’ve ever survived.”

“Flatter me,” you said, grinding down on him just a little, “and see what happens.”

He groaned, head tipping back. “Jesus, you’re gonna send me up to heaven.”

“Not before I ride you,” you said sweetly, nipping at his jaw.

And you did.

Slow. Lazy. Familiar.

Like you’d done this a thousand times before and would a thousand more. Like you knew exactly how he liked to be touched, where to drag your nails and when to tighten your thighs around him just to make him hiss through his teeth.

Ben’s hands roamed like he couldn’t stop touching you—his palms flat over your back, your ribs, your thighs. Possessive in the softest possible way. He didn’t need to stake a claim. He already had one. It was written in the way you tipped your head back when he kissed the valley of your breast. The way you whispered his name like it was a secret just for the two of you.

“You’re unreal,” he muttered, half-choked, as you rocked against him. “Fuck—look at you.”

“M’looking,” you panted, watching where your body’s met through your lashes, flushed and gorgeous. “Trust me, babe. I’m looking.”

It didn’t build to a crescendo.

It was just you both—sweaty and breathless, tangled in sheets and years and the weight of everything you could never say out loud.

And when you finally came, trembling and whimpering his name into his neck, he followed with a low, wrecked sound that might’ve been your name, or a prayer, or both.

Afterward, you didn’t move right away.

You lay sprawled half across him, legs tangled, your fingers idly tracing the scar at his ribs. He smoothed his palm over the curve of your back, then rested his chin on your shoulder, content.

You were both quiet for a while.

Until his voice broke the quiet veil that had settled over the room. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted more than being right.”

You smiled, soft and slow, and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re never right.”

“I was right about you.”

You sighed and settled back into his chest. “Yeah. You were.”

You drifted like that—sated and warm, the weight of memory pressed in close but no longer heavy enough to break them.

There was peace in it. And comfort. And the quiet kind of love that didn’t need to prove itself anymore.

And after 38 years together, 40 years apart, and 6 months reunited, that was enough.

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#thank you for making my day better.#gonna be thinking about this for a while #I love Ben so much

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