#Frank Benson | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

muiitoloko · 1 month

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Chains of Command.

Summary: Bound by the strict hierarchy of military life, Frank and a troubled soldier find their lives intertwined in a struggle that challenges the limits of authority, loyalty, and human connection.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader.

Warnings: Mention of shooting, mention of death, guilt, insubordination, paternal negligence.

Author's Notes: Big thanks to @theheartwants-what-itwants and @evans23 for the awesome ideas! And don’t worry, @evans23, your bakery and cake are safe and sound over here 😅🍰

First and Second part here.

Also read on Ao3

Frank sighed heavily as he leaned back in his chair, the familiar creak of the old leather accompanying the motion. The weight of the day’s events had settled heavily on his shoulders, but it wasn’t just the stress of command that wore him down tonight. A quick glance at the clock on his desk told him it was already late—far later than he had intended to stay. He should have been home by now, but this day, of all days, was never easy for him.

Each year, he found himself in this exact spot, sitting alone in his office with a glass of scotch in hand, the amber liquid swirling as he tried to drown out the memories that surfaced with a relentless intensity. It was the anniversary of a friend’s death—a friend who would still be alive if not for Frank’s own decisions. The guilt had never truly left him, a gnawing ache that resurfaced despite the years that had passed. It was his burden to carry, and no matter how many drinks he had, it remained as sharp as ever.

He closed his hazel eyes, letting the silence of the room envelop him as the memories played out behind his eyelids—moments of hesitation, the sound of orders given, the aftermath. His hand clenched around the glass, the knuckles white from the pressure. Even after all this time, the guilt was as potent as ever, coursing through him like a toxin he could never quite rid himself of.

Finally, unable to bear the suffocating atmosphere of his office any longer, Frank pushed himself up from his chair. The room felt too small, too confining, and he needed air. He left the scotch glass on the desk, still half-full, and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair before making his way out of the office. The corridors of the barracks were quiet at this late hour, the usual hustle and bustle of the day having long since died down. The stillness was almost comforting as he walked, his mind lost in the past, replaying the decisions that had led to that fateful day.

As he walked, something caught his eye—a dim light glowing from one of the desks farther down the hall. Curiosity piqued, Frank altered his course, heading toward the source of the light. As he approached, he could make out the figure of someone hunched over the desk, deeply absorbed in their work. It didn’t take long for him to recognize you, the intense focus on your face illuminated by the soft glow of the desk lamp.

Frank cleared his throat to announce his presence, watching as you turned sharply, one hand instinctively moving toward your sidearm in a reflexive gesture of readiness. But the tension in your posture eased as soon as you recognized him. You quickly stood up, snapping to attention and offering a crisp salute, despite the hour.

"Sir," you greeted, your voice steady but tinged with surprise.

"At ease," Frank replied, his baritone voice carrying a note of something softer than his usual gruff demeanor. He let his gaze linger on the reports scattered across your desk before meeting your eyes again. "What are you doing up so late, Private? Shouldn’t you be getting some rest?"

You hesitated for a moment before replying, "Just working on summaries for the reports you requested, sir. I wanted to make sure everything was in order before the briefing tomorrow."

Frank nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful as he took in the tired lines on your face and the determined set of your jaw. You were clearly exhausted, yet here you were, burning the midnight oil to ensure that everything was perfect. It was a trait he had come to respect in you—this relentless drive to prove yourself, even at the expense of your own well-being.

For a moment, he hesitated, caught between his natural inclination to leave you to your work and the nagging sense that he didn’t want to be alone tonight. The decision was made before he could overthink it.

"Come with me," he ordered, his voice carrying the weight of command, but with a trace of something more—an unspoken invitation that was difficult to ignore.

You blinked in surprise but quickly nodded, gathering the reports and straightening them into a neat pile before following him out of the office. Frank didn’t say anything as he led the way back to his office, his footsteps echoing softly in the quiet halls. You trailed behind him, your curiosity piqued but your expression carefully neutral, masking the questions that swirled in your mind.

When you reached his office, Frank held the door open for you, a gesture that, though small, felt significant in the context of your relationship thus far. You stepped inside, the familiar space now filled with the scent of scotch and the lingering tension of unspoken memories. Frank followed, closing the door behind him before walking over to his desk.

He didn’t sit down immediately. Instead, he stood by the window, looking out into the darkness beyond, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as if carrying a weight far heavier than the one visible to the naked eye.

"You ever have a day that you just can’t seem to get through?" Frank asked suddenly, his voice low, almost as if he were talking to himself.

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you weren’t sure how to respond. Frank had never been one to share personal thoughts, let alone with someone of your rank. But there was something in his tone that compelled you to answer honestly.

"Yes, sir," you replied quietly, stepping closer to the desk but still maintaining a respectful distance. "More often than I’d like to admit."

Frank’s lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile, though it was fleeting. He finally turned to face you, his hazel eyes filled with a depth of emotion you hadn’t seen before—regret, sorrow, and something else that was harder to define.

"Today is one of those days for me," he admitted, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of pain. "It’s the anniversary of a friend’s death. A friend who wouldn’t have died if it weren’t for my own decisions."

You listened in silence, the weight of his words settling heavily in the room. Frank Benson, the man who had always seemed so unflappable, so in control, was opening up to you in a way that you never would have expected. And in that moment, you realized just how much he had been carrying all these years.

"I’ve spent every year since then in this office, drinking alone," Frank continued, his eyes locking onto yours. "Trying to drown out the guilt, the memories. But it never works. It’s always there, just beneath the surface, waiting to pull me under."

He paused, taking a deep breath as if steadying himself. "But tonight, for some reason, I didn’t want to be alone. So I asked you to join me."

You nodded slowly, understanding the significance of what he was saying. This wasn’t just about a drink or company—it was about sharing a burden, about finding solace in the presence of someone who might understand, even if only a little.

Frank gestured to the chair opposite his desk, silently inviting you to sit. You complied, feeling a mixture of gratitude and trepidation as you took your seat. Frank poured two glasses of scotch, the amber liquid shimmering in the dim light as he handed one to you.

"To the ones we’ve lost," Frank said quietly, raising his glass in a solemn toast.

You raised your glass in return, the weight of the moment pressing down on you as you echoed his words. "To the ones we’ve lost."

The clink of the glasses was soft, almost reverent, as you both took a sip, letting the warmth of the scotch spread through you. For a while, neither of you spoke, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. It was a shared silence, one filled with unspoken understanding and mutual respect.

The silence between you and Frank lingered, heavy with the weight of unspoken memories and shared pain. You could feel the unasked question hanging in the air, your curiosity gnawing at you. You wanted to understand what had driven Frank to this moment of vulnerability, to know the story behind the friend whose death haunted him so deeply.

Taking a deep breath, you finally broke the silence, your voice soft, almost hesitant. “How did it happen, sir? Your friend... how did he die?”

Frank sat back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the glass of whiskey he held, the amber liquid reflecting the dim light of the room. For a long moment, he didn’t answer, as if he were lost in the past, reliving the events that had led him to this point. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, tinged with a sadness that hadn’t been there before.

“It was a long time ago,” Frank began, his baritone voice carrying the weight of years gone by. “Back when I was still a captain. We were in the middle of an operation, deep in enemy territory. Hostages were being held, and it was our job to get them out.”

He paused, taking a sip of his whiskey, the burn of the alcohol a small comfort against the ache in his chest. “We were outnumbered, outgunned, and the only way to succeed was to create a distraction, something that would draw the enemy’s attention away from the hostages. I had to make a decision—sacrifice one to save many.”

You could see the pain etched into Frank’s features as he continued, his hazel eyes dark with the memories of that fateful day. “I chose one of my men—Richard Black. He was young, eager, always ready to do whatever was needed. I sent him straight to a point where I knew the enemy would see him. I didn’t tell him that he was being used as bait. I didn’t tell him that he wasn’t coming back.”

Frank’s voice wavered slightly, and he took another sip of whiskey, trying to steady himself. “The plan worked. The enemy took the bait, and while they were distracted by Richard, we advanced with our attack. We saved the hostages, completed the mission. It was a success. But Richard... he died. He died because I sent him to his death, knowing full well what I was doing.”

He fell silent, the room heavy with the gravity of his confession. You could see the guilt etched into every line of Frank’s face, the weight of a decision that had haunted him for years. It was clear that the young captain Frank had been was a far cry from the man sitting before you now—a man who had come to realize the true cost of the choices he had made.

“At the time,” Frank continued, his voice barely above a whisper, “I didn’t care. I was satisfied with the success of the mission. Sacrificing one of my men meant nothing to me. But then... then I went to his wake.”

He paused, his hand trembling slightly as he set the glass of whiskey down on the desk. His hazel eyes seemed to lose focus, as if he were seeing something far away—something that had stayed with him for all these years.

“His whole family was there,” Frank said, his voice thick with emotion. “His wife, his two children... two kids who had no idea that their father had died because of me. They were so young, so innocent. And when they found out who I was, they ran to me, hugged me. ‘Dad talked a lot about you,’ they said. And in that moment, I felt it—the guilt, the shame. I was the reason those kids’ father was dead. I was the reason they grew up without him.”

The room was silent, the only sound the faint ticking of a clock on the wall. Frank’s words hung in the air, heavy with the burden of a past that he could never escape. You could see the tears that glistened in his eyes, though he blinked them back, refusing to let them fall.

“But I couldn’t just walk away,” Frank said, his voice rough with the effort to keep his emotions in check. “I couldn’t leave them to fend for themselves, knowing what I had done. So I took care of them. I made sure they had everything they needed. I became ‘Uncle Frank’—the man who was always there, who watched over them as if they were my own.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Frank’s lips, though it was tinged with sadness. “I paid for their schooling, their college tuition. Emily—she became a doctor. And Harry... Harry became an Air Force pilot. They’ve done well for themselves. They’ve made something of their lives, despite everything. And I like to think that, in some small way, I’ve helped them do that.”

Frank reached over to his desk, his hand trembling slightly as he picked up a framed photograph. He handed it to you, and as you took it, you saw the faces of two young adults smiling back at you. A young woman, her dark hair pulled back into a neat bun, wearing a white coat that marked her as a doctor. And beside her, a young man in a crisp Air Force uniform, his posture straight and proud. They were standing beside an a few years younger Frank, who had his arms around their shoulders, his expression filled with pride and a deep, abiding love.

“Emily and Harry,” Frank said quietly, his voice filled with a mixture of pride and sorrow. “They’re my family now. The only family I have left.”

You looked at the photograph, then back at Frank, your heart heavy with the weight of everything he had shared. It was clear that the burden of Richard Black’s death had never left him, but it was equally clear that he had spent the years since trying to atone for it, to make something good out of the tragedy that had shaped his life.

“Thank you for sharing this with me, sir,” you said softly, handing the photograph back to him. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to carry that with you.”

Frank took the photograph back from you, his fingers tracing the edges of the frame as if it were a lifeline. He stared at it for a long moment, lost in thought, before he muttered to himself with a touch of derision, “I wish my own son had followed the same path. But Eli… Eli was always so damn stubborn.”

He smiled to himself, a wistful expression that was both sad and fond. You watched in silence, sensing that this was a rare glimpse into a side of Frank Benson that few ever saw. The smile faded as he placed the photo aside, his hazel eyes sharpening as he turned his attention back to you.

“I’m not telling you this for nothing,” Frank said, his baritone voice steady but tinged with a warning. “I’ve learned that there comes a time when you have to know when to stop. When to understand your own limitations, and when to take care of yourself. And you, Private, need to learn that lesson before it’s too late.”

You stiffened slightly, surprised by the sudden shift in his tone. Frank’s gaze was piercing, his words carrying a weight that pressed down on you like a physical force.

“I see how you limp after standing for hours,” Frank continued, his voice growing firmer. “Even when I give you time to rest, you refuse to take it. Maybe you’re trying to prove something, maybe to yourself, maybe to others. But let me make this clear—you have to stop. You have to stop trying to prove something that’s long gone.”

The bitterness in his words cut deep, and you could feel your throat tighten as the implications of what he was saying sank in. Frank didn’t look away, his eyes holding yours with a mix of frustration and what almost seemed like concern.

“You’re a demoted soldier, Private. That’s a dishonor in this army,” Frank said bluntly, his voice unyielding. “You’re deceiving yourself if you think, even for a moment, that you can regain your position. You’ll be nothing more than a foot soldier, and you need to accept that.”

The words stung, piercing through your carefully constructed walls. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your emotions in check, but the anger, the hurt, and the sense of injustice boiled within you. Your grip on the glass tightened, the edges digging into your palm as you fought to control the urge to lash out.

But you couldn’t hold it back. The dam broke, and the words spilled out, sharp and biting, laced with the bitterness that had been festering inside you.

“You know, I may never be a captain again,” you said, your voice trembling with restrained fury, “but at least I never had to sacrifice one of my own. I would never do that. I would rather sacrifice myself than send one of my men to their death. In my opinion, that’s much more dishonorable.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, your words hanging in the air like a challenge. Frank’s expression remained impassive for a moment, his hazel eyes dark and unreadable. You braced yourself for the inevitable backlash, for the anger that would surely follow such a direct attack on his character.

But instead of the explosion of anger you expected, Frank laughed. It was a low, bitter laugh, tinged with a sadness that seemed to come from deep within him. He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he looked at you, his eyes gleaming with a mix of respect and sorrow.

“You’re a lot like your father,” Frank said, his voice softer now, almost reflective. "Stubborn, attacking whenever contradicted."

The room was heavy with silence after Frank's reflection on how much you resembled your father. You could feel the weight of his words, the comparison to a man who had always been a source of both admiration and deep frustration for you. The Colonel had always been a hard, uncompromising figure in your life, a man who demanded nothing less than perfection and responded to any sign of weakness with scorn. The idea that Frank saw the same stubbornness in you stung, but it also made you laugh—a harsh, bitter sound that echoed in the small room.

"He's still like that, you know," you said, your voice laced with derision. "Still the same man who can’t stand being contradicted. The Colonel doesn’t change, no matter how many lives he tramples on."

Frank didn’t respond, but the slight narrowing of his hazel eyes indicated that he was taking in your words, weighing them as he so often did. The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken thoughts and the tension that had built over the course of the evening. Frank took a slow sip of his whiskey, as if considering his next words carefully, and when he finally spoke, his tone was probing, yet measured.

"That wound on your thigh," he began, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of curiosity that caught you off guard. "I’ve read your reports, Private, and there’s no mention of how you sustained it. It doesn’t seem to be the result of any mission in Afghanistan, at least not according to the official records."

You stiffened slightly, the question hitting closer to home than you were comfortable with. The wound on your thigh was a reminder of a moment you had tried to bury, to forget. The memories were raw, too personal to share, especially with someone like Frank. You dismissed the question with a terse reply, your voice colder than you intended.

"It was my fault, sir. That’s all you need to know."

But Frank wasn’t one to be easily deterred. He leaned forward slightly, his sharp gaze locking onto yours, refusing to let the matter drop. "I shared something with you tonight, Private. I opened up about a part of my past that I don’t discuss with just anyone. I think it’s only fair that you tell me how you got that wound."

The request was delivered in a tone that was both firm and reasonable, but it grated against your nerves, pushing you closer to the edge. You set your glass down on the desk with a deliberate motion, the sound of it hitting the wood sharp in the quiet room. Rising to your feet, you met Frank’s gaze with a look that bordered on defiance, your patience wearing thin.

"If this session of feeling sorry for ourselves is over, sir, then I think I’ll take my leave," you said mockingly, your voice edged with bitterness. You turned on your heel, moving toward the door with the intention of putting as much distance between yourself and Frank as possible.

But just as your hand touched the doorknob, Frank’s voice stopped you in your tracks, his tone calm but carrying a weight of authority that made you hesitate.

"If you don’t tell me what happened and you walk out that door, Private," he said, his baritone voice steady, "I’ll have no choice but to order you to spend a few days in the brig for insulting your superior officer."

You froze, your grip on the doorknob tightening as his words sank in. The threat was delivered with a calmness that made it all the more chilling, and you knew that Frank wasn’t bluffing. If you left now, he could follow through on that threat, and the consequences would be severe. A demoted soldier, already struggling to regain a foothold in the army, being detained for insubordination—that would be a stain on your record that you might never recover from. It could even lead to your dismissal from the military altogether.

Frank finished his whiskey, the glass clinking softly as he set it down on the desk. He didn’t press the issue further, but the unspoken pressure hung in the air, urging you to comply. He had shared his pain with you, had let you into a part of his life that was clearly difficult for him to talk about. Now, he was asking you to do the same, and there was no escaping the fact that you owed him that much.

With a deep breath, you slowly released your grip on the doorknob and turned back to face him. Your gaze was hard, the anger simmering just beneath the surface, but you could see that Frank wasn’t looking at you with judgment or disdain. Instead, there was a quiet, almost resigned understanding in his eyes, as if he knew that what you were about to share wouldn’t be easy.

"It was my father," you finally admitted, the words bitter on your tongue. "He was the one who shot me."

Frank’s expression remained neutral, but you could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes. He didn’t interrupt, waiting for you to continue.

"It happened in Afghanistan," you said, your voice steady but filled with a deep-seated anger that had been festering for years. "I disobeyed his orders to save a life—just one life. He didn’t like that. When he found out, he sent for me, confronted me about it. We argued, and… well, he pulled out his gun and shot me in the thigh. Then he ordered two of his men to take me to a nurse, as if that would make everything okay."

Frank remained silent, his gaze unwavering as he processed what you had just told him. There was no judgment in his eyes, only a cold, hard understanding of the kind of man your father was—a man who would do whatever it took to maintain control, even if it meant harming his own flesh and blood.

Without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and walked out of Frank’s office, the door closing behind you with a finality that echoed in the silent room.

You walked as fast as your aching leg would allow, each step a painful reminder of that day, the searing pain in your thigh echoing the old wound that never truly healed. The cold night air whipped against your face as you left the barracks behind, but it did little to cool the anger simmering beneath your skin. Your thoughts were a whirlwind, swirling with the memory of your father’s voice, the harsh bark of his orders, the contempt that had laced every word.

His screams still echoed in your mind as vividly as if they had been hurled at you only moments ago. “You disobeyed a direct order!” he had bellowed, his face twisted with rage, the veins in his neck bulging as he loomed over you. “The mission comes first, above everything else! You don’t get to play the hero at the expense of the operation!”

But you had stood your ground, defiant, the anger you’d kept bottled up for so long finally exploding. “I’d do it again!” you had shouted back, your voice trembling with a mixture of fury and conviction. “All lives matter, not just the ones that fit into your fucking mission! That girl was innocent—she didn’t deserve to die because of your orders!”

Your words had only fueled his rage. The Colonel’s eyes had darkened with a hatred you had never seen before, and for a moment, you had wondered if this was the same man who had raised you. He had always been strict, always demanded perfection, but this—this was something else entirely. This was pure, unfiltered contempt.

“You were always a fucking disappointment,” he had snarled, his voice low and venomous as he took a step closer, his breath hot against your face. “From the moment you decided to join the military, I knew you’d never be able to hack it. You’re weak, soft, just like your mother. And now, you’ve proven it.”

You had stood your ground, the words cutting deep but not breaking you. You had known your father’s opinion of you long before that day, but hearing it spoken aloud, with such vitriol, had sent a chill through you. You had wanted to scream at him, to tell him that he was wrong, that you were stronger than he could ever understand. But before you could utter another word, he had done something that you had never expected.

With a sudden, violent motion, the Colonel had drawn his sidearm, the cold steel of the gun glinting in the harsh light of the makeshift barracks. For a split second, you had frozen, your mind struggling to process the reality of what was happening. But then, the world had exploded in pain.

The shot had been deafening in the confined space, the bullet tearing through your thigh with a sickening crunch of bone and flesh. You had screamed, the sound raw and primal, as you collapsed to the ground, your hands instinctively clutching at the wound. The pain had been excruciating, a white-hot fire that consumed your entire leg, radiating outward in waves that made it difficult to think, to breathe.

But even as you lay there, writhing in agony, your mind had been filled with one overwhelming thought: He’s going to kill me. You had looked up at him, your vision blurred with tears of pain, and seen the cold, unfeeling expression on his face as he stood over you, the gun still held firmly in his hand.

“You’re nothing,” he had hissed, his voice dripping with disgust as he pointed the gun at your head. “A worthless soldier, a worthless daughter. I should have ended you right here, right now, and saved myself the trouble of watching you fail over and over again.”

You had braced yourself for the shot, your heart pounding in your chest, each beat a frantic drum of terror. You had closed your eyes, expecting the darkness to swallow you whole, but the shot had never come. Instead, there had been a long, agonizing silence, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the distant hum of activity outside the tent.

When you had finally dared to open your eyes, the Colonel was still standing there, the gun lowered but not holstered, his expression one of cold calculation. For a moment, you had seen something flicker in his eyes—hesitation, perhaps, or the briefest hint of regret—but it had been gone as quickly as it had appeared.

“Get up,” he had ordered, his voice flat, devoid of the rage that had fueled his earlier outburst. “Get up and get yourself to the medics. And don’t you dare tell them what happened. This stays between us, understood?”

You had nodded, too stunned, too broken to argue, and had struggled to your feet, the pain in your leg nearly causing you to collapse again. Two of his men had appeared then, their faces carefully neutral as they took hold of your arms and half-carried, half-dragged you to the medical tent. You had seen the looks in their eyes, the barely concealed pity mixed with something else—disgust, perhaps, or a grim understanding of the realities of the chain of command. They hadn’t asked any questions, hadn’t even looked at you as the nurse had patched up the wound with a brusque efficiency that left you feeling hollow.

The memory of that day burned in your mind as you limped through the darkness, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. The pain in your leg was a constant reminder, a physical manifestation of the betrayal you had suffered at the hands of the man who was supposed to protect you, to guide you. But instead, he had shown you the depths of his cruelty, his willingness to sacrifice even his own daughter for the sake of his twisted sense of duty.

You stopped suddenly, your breath coming in sharp, painful gasps as you tried to push the memories back, to lock them away in the recesses of your mind where they couldn’t hurt you anymore. But it was no use—the pain, both physical and emotional, was too fresh, too raw. It was as if the wound had been reopened, the scab torn away to reveal the festering anger and resentment beneath.

You leaned against the rough bark of a nearby tree, your leg throbbing with every beat of your heart, and let out a low, frustrated growl. You had tried so hard to forget, to move on, but the past was always there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to ambush you when you least expected it.

And now, Frank Benson knew. He knew the darkest secret of your past, the one you had never intended to share with anyone. You had wanted to keep it buried, to pretend that it had never happened, but now that it was out, you felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that you hadn’t felt since that day in Afghanistan.

But even as the anger and pain threatened to overwhelm you, there was a part of you that felt a strange sense of relief. For so long, you had carried this burden alone, the weight of your father’s betrayal pressing down on you like a stone. But now, someone else knew—someone who had his own demons, his own scars. And while that didn’t make the pain any less real, it did make it a little easier to bear.

You took a deep, shuddering breath, the cool night air filling your lungs, and forced yourself to stand up straight. You couldn’t afford to dwell on the past, not now. There was still work to be done, and you weren’t about to let your father’s actions define you.

With a final, determined breath, you pushed away from the tree and began to walk again, each step a reminder of the strength you still had, the resilience that had carried you through every challenge life had thrown at you. You were a soldier, a fighter, and no matter what your father—or anyone else—thought of you, you knew that you were stronger than they could ever understand.

The road ahead was still uncertain, filled with challenges and obstacles that you couldn’t yet see. But you would face them head-on, just as you always had. Because no matter how many times life tried to knock you down, you would always get back up.

And that, you knew, was something your father could never take away from you.

The next day, Frank Benson walked through the corridors of the military compound with a purposeful stride, his expression unreadable, his hazel eyes sharp and focused. The morning sun streamed through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor as he approached the office of Colonel [Your Last Name]. There was a tense silence in the air, the kind that preceded significant confrontations, and the few soldiers who passed him along the way offered quick, respectful salutes before hastily moving out of his path.

Frank’s mind was clear, his thoughts honed to a razor’s edge as he prepared for the conversation that was about to take place. He knew this wouldn’t be easy—confronting a man like the Colonel never was—but it had to be done. What you had revealed the night before had weighed heavily on his mind, and he could no longer remain silent. There was a line that had been crossed, one that even Frank, with all his years of service and understanding of the complexities of military life, could not tolerate.

When he reached the Colonel’s office, he paused briefly, adjusting his uniform and smoothing down his white hair before knocking once, sharply, on the door.

“Enter,” came the gruff voice from within, and Frank pushed the door open, stepping inside with the measured calm of a man who knew exactly where he stood.

The Colonel was seated behind his desk, his posture as rigid and imposing as ever. The room was dimly lit, with thick curtains drawn to block out most of the sunlight. The Colonel looked up as Frank entered, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the sight of the Lieutenant General standing before him. There was a brief flicker of something in the Colonel’s eyes—surprise, perhaps, or maybe suspicion—but it was quickly masked by his usual stoic expression.

“Lieutenant General Benson,” the Colonel greeted, his voice carrying a note of forced politeness. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

Frank didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he closed the door behind him with a soft click, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. He then crossed the space between them with slow, deliberate steps, his gaze never leaving the Colonel’s. When he finally reached the desk, he took a seat opposite him, his posture relaxed but his gaze unyielding.

“Colonel,” Frank began, his baritone voice steady and devoid of emotion, “I believe it’s time we had a conversation about your daughter.”

The Colonel’s eyes narrowed further, a flicker of annoyance passing over his features as he leaned back slightly in his chair. “I see,” he replied, his tone carefully measured. “And what, exactly, do you wish to discuss, Lieutenant General?”

Frank allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile to touch his lips, though there was no warmth in it. He was aware of the power dynamics at play here—despite the Colonel’s bravado, there was no mistaking the fact that Frank outranked him, both in title and in influence. But Frank wasn’t here to flaunt his superiority. He was here to deliver a message, one that he intended to make very clear.

“I’ve recently become aware of certain events that transpired during your time in Afghanistan,” Frank said, his voice calm but with an edge that suggested there was more beneath the surface. “Specifically, events involving your daughter, now Private [Your Last Name].”

The Colonel’s expression remained impassive, though there was a slight tension in the way he gripped the armrests of his chair. “And what about them?” he asked, his tone dismissive. “She’s been dealt with, as she should have been.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his composure didn’t waver. “I’m not here to question the decisions made by military command,” he said evenly. “But I am here to address the manner in which you chose to handle a situation involving your own daughter—a situation that, by all accounts, involved not just a breach of protocol, but a severe violation of both military and ethical standards.”

The Colonel’s lips curled into a sneer, his eyes flashing with a cold, almost mocking disdain. “Ethics,” he repeated, his voice dripping with contempt. “You come into my office to lecture me about ethics, Lieutenant General? In war, there’s no room for sentimentality, no room for weakness. She disobeyed a direct order in a combat situation. She deserved to be punished.”

Frank’s gaze hardened, though he maintained his stoic exterior. “Punishment is one thing, Colonel,” he replied, his tone sharp and precise. “But shooting your own daughter—an officer under your command—crosses a line that even you must understand cannot be ignored.”

The Colonel’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he fought to keep his temper in check. "You think you can come in here and lecture me about judgment, Benson? After everything we’ve been through, after all the lives we’ve saved together?"

Frank’s smile widened slightly, but there was no warmth in it. "I’m well aware of our shared history, Colonel. And I’m also aware that respect is a two-way street. But what you’ve done goes beyond mere insubordination. It’s a betrayal of the values we’re supposed to uphold."

The tension in the room was palpable, a cold war of words and glances, each man carefully measuring the other. The Colonel’s eyes glittered with barely restrained fury, his knuckles white as he gripped the arms of his chair.

"So, this is how it’s going to be?" the Colonel spat, his voice low and venomous. "You think you can just waltz in here, throw your weight around, and tear down everything I’ve built? You’ve always been like this, Benson—always so high and mighty, acting like you’re better than the rest of us. But you’re not. You’re just another coward, hiding behind your rank and your rules."

Frank remained unfazed, his composure unbroken. He had expected this outburst, had anticipated the Colonel’s attempts to lash out in a bid to regain control. But Frank was no longer the young officer who had once looked up to this man. He had seen too much, endured too much, to be rattled by petty insults.

"I’m not here to tear anything down, Colonel," Frank said evenly. "I’m here to set things right. You’ve crossed a line, and there are consequences for that."

The Colonel’s sneer deepened, his eyes glinting with malicious satisfaction. "You’re a fool, Benson. You think you can intimidate me with your rank? I’ve seen men like you come and go, men who think they can dictate terms to someone like me. But let me tell you something—there’s nothing you can do to me that I haven’t already survived."

Frank’s smile didn’t waver. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his expression calm, almost amused. "You’re right, Colonel. I can’t intimidate you. But I can hold you accountable."

With that, Frank reached for the intercom on the Colonel’s desk, pressing the button with a deliberate, measured motion. "Sergeant, send in the men."

There was a brief pause, and then the door to the office opened, admitting two soldiers who entered with a crisp salute. They were young, their expressions neutral but their eyes sharp as they took in the scene before them.

The Colonel’s eyes widened slightly as he realized what was happening, but he quickly masked his surprise with a scornful sneer. "What’s this, Benson? Bringing in the muscle to do your dirty work? I thought you had more class than that."

Frank didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he addressed the soldiers with a calm, authoritative tone. "Sergeant, please escort Colonel [Your Last Name] to the brig. He’s to be detained for twenty-four hours on charges of insubordination and conduct unbecoming of an officer."

The Colonel’s face twisted with rage, his eyes blazing with fury as he shot to his feet. "You can’t do this! You have no right—"

"I have every right, Colonel," Frank interrupted, his voice cold and unyielding. "And I suggest you think carefully about your next words. Insubordination is one thing. Defying a direct order from a superior officer is another matter entirely."

The Colonel opened his mouth to protest, but the sight of the soldiers stepping forward, ready to enforce Frank’s order, made him hesitate. He glared at Frank, his hatred burning bright in his eyes, but there was a flicker of something else there as well—something that might have been respect, or perhaps recognition of the inevitability of his situation.

"One day, Benson," the Colonel hissed, his voice low and filled with venom. "One day, you’ll slip up, and when you do, I’ll be there to watch you fall."

Frank met his gaze without flinching, his expression as calm and composed as ever. "Perhaps," he said softly, his tone carrying the weight of years of experience. "But today is not that day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a military to run."

The Colonel’s eyes narrowed, his fists clenching at his sides, but he said nothing more. With a final, hateful glare, he allowed the soldiers to lead him out of the office, his shoulders rigid with barely contained rage.

As the door closed behind them, Frank remained seated, his expression thoughtful as he stared at the space where the Colonel had stood moments before. He knew that this was far from over, that the Colonel would not take this humiliation lightly. But Frank had made his decision, and he would stand by it, no matter the cost.

With a weary sigh, he reached for the glass of whiskey Colonel had left on the desk, the amber liquid glinting in the morning light. He took a slow, deliberate sip, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat.

The battle lines had been drawn, and the cold war between him and the Colonel would continue. But for now, Frank was content to let the tension simmer, knowing that he had taken the first step in holding the Colonel accountable for his actions.

As he set the glass down, Frank allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. The Colonel might hate being contradicted, but Frank Benson had never been one to back down from a fight.

And he wasn’t about to start now.

The barracks were abuzz with the latest news, the whispers and rumors spreading like wildfire. It didn’t take long before the entire compound knew what had happened—Colonel [Your Last Name] had been detained after a heated confrontation with Lieutenant General Frank Benson. The story had already taken on a life of its own, growing with each retelling, and as you made your way through the corridors, you could feel the eyes on you, the weight of their judgment pressing down on your shoulders.

But what cut the deepest were the snide remarks, the muttered insults that followed you wherever you went.

“Like father, like daughter,” one cadet sneered as you passed, his voice dripping with mockery.

“Guess insubordination runs in the family,” another added, his tone laced with contempt.

You kept your head down, refusing to acknowledge them, your jaw clenched tight to keep the retorts from spilling out. You had heard worse before—had endured far more cutting remarks from those who doubted your abilities, who questioned your place in the military. But today, the words seemed to dig deeper, their barbs sharper than usual. Today, they weren’t just attacking you; they were attacking the very core of who you were, the legacy that had been thrust upon you by your father.

You tried to push it all aside, focusing on the reports you had to complete for Frank, the mountain of paperwork that awaited your attention. But no matter how hard you tried, the anger simmered just beneath the surface, a constant, burning reminder of what had happened. The more you thought about it, the more your frustration grew, the resentment building inside you like a storm waiting to break.

Who did Frank Benson think he was? It was obvious that he had ordered the Colonel’s detention after you had confessed what had happened in Afghanistan. But you didn’t need his protection—you didn’t want it. Frank wasn’t your father, and he had no right to interfere in your life like this. You were more than capable of handling your own problems, of standing up for yourself, and the fact that Frank had taken it upon himself to act on your behalf only fueled your anger.

The reports sat unfinished on your desk, the words blurring on the page as your mind raced. You could barely focus, your thoughts consumed by the events of the day, the lingering resentment that gnawed at you with every passing moment. You wanted to confront Frank, to demand an explanation, but a part of you knew that it would only lead to another confrontation—one that you weren’t sure you were ready for.

Instead, you threw yourself into your work, forcing yourself to focus on the details, the numbers, the facts that you needed to compile for Frank’s review. But even as you worked, the anger simmered just beneath the surface, a constant, burning reminder of everything that had happened. You couldn’t escape it, no matter how hard you tried.

The hours dragged on, the day slipping by in a haze of frustration and resentment. You barely noticed when the sun began to set, the light outside your window fading into darkness as the barracks grew quiet. The reports were finished, neatly stacked on your desk, but the sense of satisfaction you usually felt at completing your work was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was only a hollow emptiness, a gnawing feeling that something was deeply wrong.

And it was all because of Frank Benson.

You couldn’t avoid him forever, no matter how much you wanted to. The thought of facing him again, of seeing that calm, collected expression on his face, filled you with dread. You knew that you would have to confront him eventually, to address what had happened, but the very idea made your blood boil. How could he have taken such drastic action without consulting you first? How could he have presumed to know what was best for you, to make decisions that would affect your life so profoundly?

He wasn’t your father. He had no right.

With a deep, shuddering breath, you forced yourself to stand up, pushing the reports to the edge of your desk. You couldn’t avoid it any longer. You had to confront him, had to make him understand that you didn’t need—or want—his protection. You weren’t a child, and you weren’t going to let him treat you like one.

As you made your way to Frank’s office, your heart pounded in your chest, each step heavier than the last. The corridors were mostly empty, the few soldiers you passed offering you nothing more than a quick nod or averted gaze. They knew better than to get in your way tonight.

When you finally reached Frank’s office, you hesitated for just a moment, your hand hovering over the doorknob. But the anger inside you wouldn’t let you back down now. With a firm twist, you pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Frank was seated at his desk, his attention focused on a set of documents spread out before him. He didn’t look up as you entered, his white hair catching the light of the desk lamp, casting sharp shadows across his face. For a moment, you were struck by how composed he appeared, how completely in control. But that only made your anger flare hotter.

“Lieutenant General,” you began, your voice sharp and cutting, barely masking the fury that simmered just beneath the surface. “I need to speak with you.”

Frank finally looked up, his hazel eyes meeting yours with that same calm, unreadable expression that had infuriated you so many times before. He set the papers aside, folding his hands neatly on the desk as he regarded you with a measured gaze.

“Go ahead, Private,” he said evenly, his tone as composed as ever. “What’s on your mind?”

The very casualness of his response was like a slap in the face, and you had to clench your fists at your sides to keep from shouting.

“You had no right,” you said, your voice trembling with barely restrained anger. “You had no right to interfere like that, to detain my father. I didn’t ask for your help, and I certainly didn’t need your protection. You’re not my father.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and loaded with all the emotions you had been trying to suppress. For a moment, Frank said nothing, his expression remaining unreadable as he watched you with those sharp, discerning eyes.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but there was an underlying steel in his tone that sent a chill down your spine.

“I’m aware that I’m not your father, Private,” he said quietly, his gaze never leaving yours. “But as your commanding officer, it’s my duty to ensure the safety and well-being of every soldier under my command. What happened today was not about protection—it was about accountability.”

You felt the anger rising again, threatening to boil over. “Accountability?” you repeated, your voice rising despite your best efforts to keep it under control. “Since when does accountability mean overstepping your bounds and making decisions that affect my life without even consulting me?”

Frank’s gaze hardened slightly, a flicker of impatience crossing his features. “This isn’t just about you, Private,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “What your father did—what he’s been doing—affects more than just you. It affects everyone under his command, everyone who has to live with the consequences of his actions. I made the decision to detain him because it was the right thing to do, not because I’m trying to be your father.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of you. You had been so consumed by your own anger, your own sense of betrayal, that you hadn’t stopped to consider the broader implications of what had happened. But now, standing here in front of Frank, you could see the truth in his words, the cold, hard reality that you had been trying so hard to ignore.

But that didn’t make it any easier to accept.

You took a step back, your shoulders slumping slightly as the fight drained out of you. “I don’t need your protection,” you repeated, though the words sounded hollow now, lacking the conviction they had carried before.

Frank studied you for a long moment, his expression softening just a fraction. “Maybe not,” he said quietly, his voice losing some of its edge. “But this isn’t just about protection. It’s about doing what’s right, even when it’s hard, even when it means making difficult decisions. Your father crossed a line, and I couldn’t just stand by and let that go unchallenged.”

You looked away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it was mixed with something else now—something that felt uncomfortably like guilt.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” Frank replied, his tone gentler now, almost sympathetic. “But sometimes, we don’t get to choose our battles. Sometimes, they choose us.”

There was a long silence, the weight of his words hanging heavily between you. You felt drained, exhausted from the emotional turmoil of the day, and the last thing you wanted was to continue this conversation. But you also knew that there were still things that needed to be said, things that couldn’t be left unspoken.

“I’m still angry with you,” you admitted, finally meeting his gaze again. “For what you did today, for how you handled it. I can’t just forget that.”

Frank nodded, his expression understanding. “I wouldn’t expect you to. But I hope you’ll come to understand why I made the decision I did, and that it wasn’t made lightly.”

You sighed, the tension in your shoulders slowly easing as you tried to process everything that had happened. There was still a part of you that wanted to scream, to lash out at the unfairness of it all, but you knew that wouldn’t solve anything. You were a soldier, and soldiers had to deal with the realities of their situation, no matter how painful or unfair they might be.

“Is that all, Private?” Frank asked, his voice calm, almost gentle, as he watched you carefully.

You nodded slowly, feeling the weight of the day’s events pressing down on you. “Yes, sir,” you replied, your voice quiet but steady. “That’s all.”

Frank gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod, a silent acknowledgment of the emotional toll this conversation had taken on you both. “Dismissed,” he said simply, his tone neutral but not unkind.

You turned to leave, your mind still a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. But just as you reached the door, Frank’s voice stopped you once more.

“Private,” he called out, his tone softer now, almost hesitant. “If you ever want to talk—about anything—I’m here.”

You paused, your hand hovering over the doorknob, the offer hanging in the air between you. For a moment, you considered taking him up on it, letting go of the anger and resentment that had been festering inside you for so long.

You dropped your hand from the doorknob, still facing away from Frank as the words slipped out before you could stop them. "I'm tired, Frank," you mumbled, your voice thick with exhaustion. "I'm so tired."

The weight of everything that had happened—your father, the whispers, the anger—pressed down on you like a physical burden, and you could feel the tears welling up, burning at the corners of your eyes. You tried to hold them back, tried to keep your composure, but it was a losing battle. The dam broke, and a single tear slipped down your cheek, followed quickly by another.

You heard the soft creak of the chair as Frank stood up, his footsteps quiet but deliberate as he approached you. His presence was a comforting weight behind you, solid and reassuring, and when you felt his hand on your shoulder, gentle but firm, it was like a lifeline in the midst of a storm.

"Come here," Frank said softly, his voice low and steady, a tone that held no command, only an invitation.

Before you could think, before you could stop yourself, you turned toward him, your vision blurred with tears. The next thing you knew, you were wrapped in his arms, your face buried in his chest as the sobs you had been holding back finally broke free. Frank’s embrace was strong and warm, his body a solid wall of comfort as he held you close, one hand gently stroking your back as you cried.

It had been so long since you had been held like this—since you had allowed yourself to be vulnerable, to let someone else shoulder even a small part of your burden. And as you clung to Frank, your fingers curling into the fabric of his uniform, you couldn’t help but notice the way his chest felt beneath your cheek, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his body seeping into yours.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to forget the rank, the uniform, the tension that had defined your relationship. In that instant, he wasn’t Lieutenant General Frank Benson, your superior officer—he was just a man, a strong, reassuring presence in a world that had become too chaotic, too overwhelming.

And Frank, despite everything, was still a man. A handsome man, with those sharp hazel eyes that had softened as he held you, with a baritone voice that rumbled through his chest, soothing and firm. There was a scent to him, something clean and earthy that mingled with the faint scent of his cologne, a combination that made your head swim. You could feel the strength in his arms, the way they enveloped you, protective and grounding, and it stirred something in you that you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in a long time.

The tears came harder then, not just from the exhaustion, but from the realization that you had been denying yourself this kind of connection for far too long. The touch of a man, the warmth of his body against yours—it was something you had pushed away, something you had convinced yourself you didn’t need. But now, as Frank’s hand moved in slow, comforting circles on your back, you realized just how much you had missed it, how much you had needed it.

Frank held you as your sobs gradually subsided, his touch never faltering, his grip on you steady and sure. His chin rested gently on top of your head, and you could feel his breath against your hair, warm and even. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough, a silent reassurance that you weren’t alone, that you didn’t have to carry this weight by yourself.

As the tears finally slowed, leaving you feeling drained but strangely lighter, you hesitated to pull away. The warmth of Frank’s body, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear—it was too comforting, too grounding to let go of just yet. But eventually, you knew you had to. You took a deep, shuddering breath, your fingers slowly releasing their grip on his uniform as you leaned back just enough to look up at him.

Frank’s hazel eyes met yours, and in them, you saw something you hadn’t expected. There was no judgment, no pity—just understanding, and a quiet, unspoken connection that went beyond rank, beyond the roles you both played. He raised a hand, brushing a tear from your cheek with a tenderness that made your breath catch, his thumb lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

"You’re not alone in this," Frank said softly, his voice a low, reassuring rumble that resonated through you. "You don’t have to be."

You swallowed hard, the last of your tears drying on your cheeks as you held his gaze. There was a warmth spreading through you, something deep and comforting that eased the lingering tension in your chest. Frank’s touch was gentle, his eyes filled with a softness that belied the stern exterior you had come to know so well.

And in that moment, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was exactly what you had needed. A reminder that you were more than just a soldier, more than just a rank—that you were human, with all the complexities and emotions that came with it.

Frank’s hand moved to your cheek, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw with a feather-light touch that sent a shiver down your spine. It was such a simple gesture, and yet it felt like so much more—a connection, a shared moment of vulnerability that made your heart skip a beat.

For a fleeting second, you allowed yourself to imagine what it would be like to let go completely, to lean into the warmth of Frank’s touch, to close the distance between you and press your lips to his. The thought sent a thrill through you, a spark of something that had been buried deep inside, something you hadn’t felt in a long time. But before you could give in to the temptation, you reminded yourself of who you were, of who he was, and the reality of your situation.

You were a soldier, and so was he. There were boundaries, lines that couldn’t be crossed, no matter how much you longed for the comfort, the connection that his touch promised.

So, with a soft, almost reluctant sigh, you stepped back, breaking the contact between you. Frank’s hand fell away from your cheek, and you saw the brief flicker of something in his eyes—disappointment, perhaps, or maybe understanding. He gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod, a silent acknowledgment of the line you had both chosen not to cross.

But even as you put distance between you, the warmth of his embrace lingered, a memory that you knew would stay with you for a long time.

"Thank you," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper, but filled with genuine gratitude.

Frank gave you a small, reassuring smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. "Anytime," he replied, his tone warm, comforting.

With one last look, you turned and left his office, your heart still racing from the intensity of the moment. As you walked away, you couldn’t help but feel that something had shifted between you and Frank—a connection, a shared understanding that went beyond words.

And as you made your way back to your quarters, the warmth of his touch still lingered on your skin, a reminder that even in the midst of the chaos, there was still room for moments of connection, of comfort, and of understanding.

Frank Benson packed his things with methodical precision, each item carefully placed in his briefcase as his mind wandered back to the moment that had just transpired in his office. It had been a long time since he had held a woman so close—since he had allowed himself to feel anything beyond the rigid discipline that had defined his life for so many years. The memory of your warmth, the way you had fit so perfectly in his arms, lingered with him as he finished gathering his belongings.

The drive home was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the engine as he navigated the dark, empty streets. The city lights blurred in the distance, but Frank’s thoughts were elsewhere, focused on the fleeting but intense connection he had felt in his office. It had been years since he had experienced anything like that, not since his wife had passed away. The loss had been a heavy burden, one that Frank had carried with quiet dignity, never allowing anyone to see the depth of his grief.

His hand instinctively went to the ring hanging around his neck, the cool metal resting just below his uniform. He had worn it there since the day his wife had died, a silent tribute to the love they had shared. Frank had loved her deeply, and after her death, he had convinced himself that any desire for companionship, for intimacy, had died with her. He had buried those feelings, focusing instead on his career, on his duty, never allowing himself to entertain the thought of someone else.

But tonight, holding you in his arms, Frank had felt something stir deep within him, something he hadn’t felt in years. The warmth of your body pressed against his, the way you had fit so perfectly in his embrace—it had awakened a longing he thought he had buried for good. A part of him had wanted to hold you longer, to savor the feeling of your softness against him, to let his hands wander just a bit further, to explore the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips.

Frank shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts that had taken root in his mind. He couldn’t afford to think like that. You were younger than him, and more than that, you were under his command. There were boundaries that couldn’t be crossed, lines that he had sworn never to blur. And yet, the memory of you in his arms, the softness of your body against his, lingered like a tantalizing whisper in the back of his mind.

He clenched his jaw, trying to push the thoughts away, but they kept coming back, each one more insistent than the last. The feel of your cheek against his chest, the way your breath had hitched when his hand brushed against your back—it had been intoxicating, a reminder that he was still very much a man, with desires and needs that hadn’t simply disappeared with the loss of his wife.

Frank’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as he forced himself to focus on the road ahead. He couldn’t let himself go down that path, no matter how tempting it might be. You were a soldier under his command, a woman who had already been through more than enough. He couldn’t add to that burden, couldn’t allow himself to indulge in the thoughts that had been plaguing him since you left his office.

But as he pulled into his driveway and parked the car, the thoughts refused to leave him. The image of you, vulnerable and yet so strong, your body fitting so perfectly in his arms, played over and over in his mind. He could almost feel the warmth of your skin beneath his hands, the softness of your hair against his cheek, the way your breath had quickened when he had held you close.

Frank sighed deeply, leaning his head back against the seat, his eyes closed as he tried to gather his thoughts. He had to be strong, had to maintain the distance between you, but the memory of your body pressed against his, the way you had fit so perfectly in his arms, was a temptation that was hard to resist.

It had been so long since he had felt a woman’s touch, since he had allowed himself to even think about such things. But tonight, with you, that desire had come rushing back, a tidal wave of emotions and sensations that he hadn’t been prepared for. He had wanted to hold you closer, to feel the warmth of your skin against his, to let his hands roam over the curves of your body, to explore the softness that he had only just begun to touch.

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Frank sighed again, finally opening his eyes and stepping out of the car. He knew he had to keep his distance, to push these thoughts aside, to focus on his duty, on the responsibilities that came with his rank. But as he walked into his house, the memory of you in his arms lingered, a reminder of a desire that hadn’t died with his wife, but had simply been waiting, dormant, until tonight.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts as he made his way to the bedroom, but the image of you, fitting so perfectly in his arms, refused to leave him.

And as he lay in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, the ring around his neck a constant reminder of the woman he had lost, Frank couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, it was time to let go of the past, to allow himself to feel again, to let the desire that had been awakened tonight take root and grow.

But for now, he would sleep, and try to push those thoughts aside.

At least until the morning.

The next morning, Frank Benson started his day slowly, as he always did on Fridays. The alarm clock buzzed at precisely 6 a.m., and he reached over with a practiced motion, silencing it before it could disturb the quiet of the morning. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the remnants of the night’s thoughts drift away like smoke in the cool dawn air. The events of the previous evening still lingered in his mind, but he pushed them aside as he swung his legs out of bed and stood up, the floor cool beneath his feet.

As always, Frank made his bed with military precision, smoothing out every wrinkle, tucking in every corner with care. It was a habit he had never let go of, even after all these years—a small ritual that gave him a sense of control in a world that so often seemed chaotic and unpredictable.

He then moved to his dresser, where his neatly pressed uniform hung, the deep green fabric gleaming faintly in the early morning light. Frank ironed the creases with methodical care, his movements slow and deliberate, taking his time on this particular Friday. There was no need to rush—his schedule allowed him to come in later, and he intended to savor the quiet moments of the morning.

With his uniform prepared, Frank headed to the bathroom, stripping off his nightclothes and stepping into the shower. The water was warm, almost too warm, but he let it wash over him, closing his eyes as he stood beneath the spray. His hands moved over his body, lathering the soap across his skin, his fingers tracing the familiar ridges of old scars—reminders of battles fought and survived. His hand lingered for a moment on the slight swell of his stomach, the new weight that had crept on over the years, and he sighed, the sound barely audible over the rush of water.

But Frank didn’t dwell on it. He had more important things to think about than a few extra pounds. He finished washing and turned off the water, the sudden quiet of the bathroom almost jarring after the steady hum of the shower. He stepped out, reaching for a towel and wiping the steam from the mirror. His reflection stared back at him, the lines on his face a little deeper than they had been years ago, his hair now more white than gray. But his eyes—those sharp hazel eyes that had seen so much—were still the same, still piercing, still full of the quiet determination that had carried him through a lifetime of service.

As he brushed his teeth, Frank’s eyes caught the glint of his wedding ring, dangling from the chain around his neck. It was a familiar weight, one that had been with him every day since his wife’s passing, a reminder of the love they had shared and the life they had built together. He brushed his teeth with the same care and precision he applied to everything in his life, his thoughts drifting back to the past as the bristles moved in steady strokes.

When he finished, Frank set down the toothbrush and reached for his razor. He lathered his face with shaving cream, the scent of it clean and sharp, and then began to shave, each stroke of the razor slow and deliberate. He had always preferred a clean-shaven look—there was something about it that made him feel more in control, more prepared for whatever the day might bring. As the blade moved across his skin, he watched his reflection, focusing on the task at hand, letting the familiar routine calm his mind.

Once his face was smooth and free of stubble, Frank rinsed the razor and splashed cold water on his skin, the shock of it waking him up fully. He stood there for a moment, staring at his reflection, his hand resting lightly on the sink. The thoughts from the night before threatened to resurface, but he pushed them down, focusing instead on the day ahead.

Frank dressed in his uniform with the same methodical care he applied to everything else, buttoning the jacket and smoothing out the fabric before he fastened his belt. The final touch was the ring around his neck, which he tucked beneath his shirt, close to his heart. It was a small, private gesture, one that no one else would see, but it meant everything to him.

With a final glance in the mirror, Frank nodded to himself, satisfied with his appearance. He was ready for the day, whatever it might bring. The thoughts from the previous night would have to wait—there was work to be done, and Frank Benson never let personal matters interfere with his duty.

As he left the house, the cool morning air greeted him, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the shower. He paused for a moment, breathing it in, feeling the familiar sense of calm that always came with the start of a new day. The world was quiet, the city still waking up, and for a brief moment, Frank allowed himself to enjoy the peace before the day’s demands took over.

Today would be another day of challenges, of decisions that had to be made, of responsibilities that could not be ignored. But Frank was ready, as he always was. He was Lieutenant General Frank Benson, and he had a job to do.

And whatever thoughts lingered from the night before, whatever desires had been stirred, they would have to wait. Because duty came first, always.

Frank drove through the quiet streets, the early morning light filtering through the trees as he made his way to the bakery. It was a small, unassuming place, tucked away in a corner near the barracks, but it had become a part of his daily routine—a little indulgence he allowed himself. As he pulled into the parking lot, the familiar scent of freshly baked goods greeted him, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. This was one of the few places where he could let his guard down, even if just for a few minutes.

The bell above the door jingled softly as Frank entered, the warmth of the bakery wrapping around him like a comforting embrace. He made his way to the counter, where the owner, Mrs. Talbot, greeted him with a warm smile.

“Morning, Lieutenant General,” she said, already reaching for the plate she knew he favored. “The usual?”

Frank nodded, his smile widening just a fraction. “Morning, Mrs. Talbot. Yes, please.”

She set a slice of rich chocolate cake in front of him, followed by a steaming cup of black coffee. “Here you go, sir. Fresh out of the oven.”

“Thank you,” Frank replied, his voice warm as he settled onto the stool at the counter. He pushed away the nagging thought that perhaps this daily indulgence was contributing to his slightly expanding waistline. It was a small price to pay for a bit of comfort, and he wasn’t about to give it up.

As he took his first bite of cake, savoring the rich, velvety chocolate, Frank reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small portable radio. It was an old model, well-worn from years of use, but it had never let him down. He tuned it to the barracks channel, a familiar mix of news, history, and the occasional interview with soldiers. It was his way of staying connected to the pulse of the military, even during these quiet moments.

The familiar voice of the radio host filled the bakery, a steady, soothing presence as he introduced the day’s program. Frank sipped his coffee, letting the warm liquid chase away the last remnants of sleep, his mind drifting as he listened to the news about the royal family and the latest developments in world affairs. But then, something caught his attention—a voice that was both familiar and unexpected.

“And now, we have a special guest with us today,” the host announced, a note of excitement in his voice. “Private [Your Last Name], who recently joined us at the barracks. Welcome to the program!”

Frank nearly choked on his coffee, his hand freezing mid-air as he processed what he had just heard. You?On the radio? He hadn’t expected that. He leaned forward, his attention fully focused on the radio now, curiosity piqued.

“Thank you,” came your voice, a little too bright, a touch too cheerful—the way you always sounded when you were nervous. Frank could practically see you sitting there, trying to hide your anxiety behind that trademark humor of yours.

“So, Private,” the host continued, “I hear you have a rather interesting background. Care to tell us a bit about your studies before you joined the military?”

There was a brief pause, and Frank could almost hear you taking a deep breath before you answered. “Well, I studied history and philosophy at university, which, as you can imagine, comes in really handy when you’re trying to figure out how to survive basic training.”

There was a soft chuckle from the host, and Frank found himself suppressing a smile. He had come to expect your quips, but it was still amusing to hear them, especially in such a public setting.

“Philosophy, huh?” the host continued, clearly intrigued. “That’s not something we hear every day in the military. How does that help you in your day-to-day duties?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” you replied, your tone light, but with an underlying seriousness that Frank had come to recognize. “Philosophy teaches you how to think critically, how to question everything—even when it’s coming from a superior officer. Though, uh, I wouldn’t recommend doing that too often. Gets you in trouble more times than not.”

This time, Frank couldn’t help but smile, his amusement growing as he listened to the banter. There was a sharpness to your wit, a quickness of mind that he admired, even if it did sometimes land you in hot water. He took another bite of cake, the rich chocolate melting on his tongue as he listened to the conversation unfold.

The host laughed, clearly enjoying your humor. “I imagine that must keep things interesting. But what about history? Does that play a role in your work here?”

You hesitated for a moment, and Frank could almost hear the gears turning in your mind as you considered your answer. “History is… well, it’s like a roadmap. It shows you where you’ve been, the mistakes that have been made, and, hopefully, how to avoid making them again. In the military, that’s pretty important. Knowing the past can help you make better decisions in the present.”

Frank nodded to himself, impressed by the depth of your answer. There was a wisdom in your words, a maturity that belied your years. He had always known you were intelligent, but hearing you articulate it so clearly, so confidently, added a new layer to his understanding of you.

“But of course,” you added, your tone turning playful again, “it also means I get to be the one who points out when someone’s using the wrong historical analogy. Which, by the way, happens a lot more than you’d think. Seriously, Hannibal crossing the Alps has nothing to do with our morning runs.”

The host laughed, and Frank found himself chuckling along with him, the sound echoing softly in the empty bakery. He had to admit, your sense of humor was disarming, a way of putting people at ease even as you tackled serious subjects. It was a rare skill, one that Frank had come to appreciate more and more.

As the interview continued, Frank listened intently, the radio forgotten as he became more engrossed in your words. You talked about your experiences, the challenges you had faced, and the lessons you had learned along the way. There was a sincerity in your voice, a passion for what you were doing, that Frank found deeply compelling.

And yet, there was also a vulnerability there, a hint of the struggles you had faced and the doubts that still lingered beneath the surface. Frank could hear it in the way your voice wavered slightly when you spoke about your demotion, the way you deflected with humor when the questions got too personal. It made him see you in a new light—not just as a soldier under his command, but as a person with hopes, fears, and dreams.

By the time the interview ended, Frank was left with a strange sense of… something. It wasn’t quite admiration, though that was certainly part of it. It was more a deepening interest, a desire to know more about you, to understand what made you tick.

He finished his cake and coffee in silence, his mind still turning over the things he had heard, the way you had spoken, the way you had carried yourself. There was so much more to you than he had realized, so much more beneath the surface. And as Frank paid for his breakfast and made his way back to the car, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had only just begun to scratch the surface of who you really were.

For the first time in a long while, Frank felt a flicker of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years—a curiosity, a desire to connect, to understand.

And as he drove back to the barracks, the memory of your voice still fresh in his mind, Frank knew that this was only the beginning.

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #frank benson x reader #frank benson

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