Chapter 18 - Something In The Static
Series Masterlist
Author's Note: I’d like to dedicate this chapter to my friend who I finally got to watch the Boys and we’re talking about Soldier Boy and I have to pretend I’m not doing this and be very normal about the conversation.
Also for everyone who's gonna say “why is Ezekiel alive”, Butcher never went all tentacle tumor on us, and therefore Ezekiel is still very much alive. “Well how did Butcher survive their encounter” idk maybe he kissed Ezekiel and then just ran away.
Chapter Title from Not Strong Enough by boygenius
Word Count: 25.7k......
Chapter Summary/Warnings: The Believe Expo is underway, and everyone is dealing with a lot of emotions. Usual warnings, time two. We're looking at angst and smut and (minimal) fluff. Just a hodgepodge of everything.
Read on A03!
Chapter 17 - Chapter 19
Coconut might be the worst smell in the world. Not real coconut, but this fake, chemical coconut that was everywhere in Homelander’s apartment. Everywhere on Homelander. Too sweet and impossible to not think about. It burns your nose, and you’re starting to wonder if it’s some kind of poison cologne. Something designed to make him even harder to stand against, because you always have to use a hand to block the smell from your nose. You’d never smelled it in the white room, but Homelander always went through an airlock before he visited you. This is just him, all the time, and you’re choking on it.
He still hadn’t touched you. And they hadn’t locked you back down. You think that, between Noir’s sudden and heroic death very vaguely “defending our country” and the the CIA releasing a statement that you’re being held against your will by Vought—you’re surprised Mallory didn’t take the disavowing you entirely path, but here you are—Sage is too busy putting out fires to convince Homelander that you didn’t break that easy. That, after Noir II, you’d gotten back up. Revised your role, changing how you played it, and kept moving. You would not break, not like this, not where Homelander could see it. He didn’t fucking deserve to see you break, really break. He could think he’d gotten you to understand, but you would never allow him to see what you breaking really looked like.
You would break—really break, with screams and sobs and nails in your skin and not getting back up—when you got home. When you could cry into Ben’s chest, and he could keep your nails on his arm instead of your own. He’d pick you up. He’d pick you up in strong, safe arms and carry you to bed, holding you as long you asked him to. Everything would smell like pine and Ben, and you’d be able to break without the freezing cold making you glue yourself together. You’d just break.
But not now. Not yet.
Not when there was still work to do.
A-Train had found you a few days after Noir II, after the CIA had responded to your speech. An official statement from the director, co-signed by president Robert Singer, stating that Soldier Boy was indeed a CIA operative, that Vought had no jurisdiction to declare him a public enemy, and that the Anomaly was currently being tortured by Vought to comply with their agenda. They didn’t say the whole truth, because according to them you and Ben were co-workers—nothing more—and Homelander had been obsessed with you since you were both young supes but you’d turned him down numerous times. You wish they had just committed to it. Just told the world what Homelander was, what he’d done to you, but the truth did somehow sound more absurd. And right now wasn’t about the truth, it was about doing what needed to be done. You had to trust that Mallory was smart. That she knew what she was doing.
It would be really helpful if A-Train had a similar leniency.
“What are they doing?” He’d skidded to a stop in front of you again, in another too-fancy bathroom at another boring event.
You’d held up a single finger, taking a long, deep breath. You were curled up on the floor, under a hand-dryer that you kept pushing the button of to make the warm air blast onto your head. It was helpful, it made you feel a little more alive and was a lot more sustainable than constant vomiting.
A-Train had just kept talking, pacing in front of you. “Sage is really not happy, there’s no fucking way I can risk talking to MM now. That was not smart, that shit you did on TV. You know why Sage isn’t here? The Deep went to a fucking Panera last night without telling anyone and Sage is pulling camera footage to make sure he’s telling the truth. And Noir is dead-“
“Can you please shut up?” You’d muttered, tapping against your calves. “I know what I did. I knew there would be consequences. I’m willing to live with them.”
“Well, I’m not!” A-Train’s feet had stopped in front of you, and you’d reached up to hit the button again. Letting the hot air push on the top of your head, calming you as he continued. “This isn’t just about you, you’re not the only one who’s suffering-“
“I could say the same to you.”
“Come on-“
“I’m serious,” you’d looked up at him with a scowl as the wind above you stopped once more. “This is good. Ben can help them now, Annie has more fuel against Vought, and Butcher and Mallory will know how to work this.”
“Fine, but I’m not helping you at all if you keep this shit up,” A-Train had snapped your name. “I’ve got people, I can’t risk my nephews for this-“
“Okay.”
He’d blinked at you. “Okay? That’s it?”
“Yeah. Okay.” You’d shrugged. “I can’t make you help me. If you won’t, you won’t. I can handle this myself.”
“You’re really not going to lecture me about being a hero, or doing the right thing?”
You’d shaken your head, looking back down at the floor. “I don’t really have legs to stand on there. I got Noir II killed, I killed Firecracker, I’ve destroyed at least two buildings and gotten a lot of other, innocent people killed by proximity. I mean, fuck, I’m in love with Soldier Boy-“
You hadn’t meant to say that. It had fallen out of your mouth and you’d stuttered to a stop, but it was too late. When you looked back up at A-Train, his mouth was hanging open.
“You-“
“Please don’t tell anyone that,” you’d whispered. “I didn’t mean to tell you that, I’m just exhausted-“
“I’m not going to.” A-Train had still been frowning at you. “I mean, I don’t really care about your personal shit. Even if it’s being in love with Soldier Boy.” A-Train had frowned. “Isn’t he technically Homelander’s father?”
“Yeah,” you’d leaned your head back against the wall. “And I’m aware of how fucked up that is.”
A-Train had shrugged. “All of this is fucked. I don’t think you fucking Soldier Boy is any less fucked than anything else we’ve all done.”
“We’ve never actually fucked,” you’d mumbled, because you couldn’t stop now. In no world had you foreseen the I’m very in love with Ben and it’s all impossibly confusing and complicated conversation happening in a fancy bathroom with A-Train, but you had started it and now you were apparently incapable of stopping it. “I mean, we’ve done stuff. But not fucking.”
“Okay.” A-Train had frowned. “Why the fuck are you telling me that?”
“Because I’m lonely.” You’d looked up at him with a sad smile. “And you’re here.”
He’d nodded, then moved away. You’d thought he’d left, just pissed off because he didn’t want to deal with this. But he’d dropped against the wall across from you with a sigh, pulling off his visor to meet your eyes. “How long?”
You’d frowned at him. “How long?”
“Have you and Soldier Boy been not fucking.”
“February. But, uh,” you’d shaken your head. “I think I might have been in love with him before that.”
“Okay,” A-Train had nodded, and kept going. “Does Homelander-“
“He found out after the interview. Sage told him.”
“And your team-“
“I’m not sure. They know we’re close, and maybe some of them have figured out it’s more than that, but I’m really not sure.” You’d tilted your head at him. “Why are we talking about this?”
“I don’t exactly have a lot of friends either.” A-Train muttered. “I killed the only woman I’ve ever loved because Homelander told me to, Sage is a bitch, and the Deep is an idiot. Ashley’s fine, sometimes, but we don’t exactly talk about things that aren’t life or death.”
“Oh,” you’d nodded. “Okay.”
It had been silent for a second, both of you watching each other wearily.
“Does he know?”
You’d blinked. “Who?”
“Soldier Boy. Does he know you love him?”
“No,” your voice had cracked a little, a lump forming in your throat. “It’s complicated.”
“Does he love you?”
“No.”
A-Train had blinked at your answer. “You said that really fast.”
“He doesn’t,” you’d let out a long breath before continuing. “I’m okay with it. He just doesn’t and it’s fine.”
He’d looked like he’d wanted to keep pushing. You’re grateful he didn’t, because if you kept talking about Ben you might have started crying.
“I, uh,” A-Train had shaken his head, foot tapping on the floor. “When I was a kid I wanted to be a hero. Just, while we’re talking about fucked shit, I wanted to be a hero. A real hero. My brother said I could help people, and I really did believe him. And then I just, I got lost. It’s a shit ton harder to be a hero when it’s not just a word. When you actually have to back it up and nobody around you seems to care. Now it’s probably too fuckin late.”
“I don’t think it’s ever too late,” you’d watched him carefully, speaking slowly. “You can always change. Humans aren’t static. We’re always changing. It’s a strange kind of exceptionalism to think you’re immune to that. To think you’re special enough to not be capable of being better.”
A-Train had narrowed his eyes at you. “What are you talking about.”
“I dedicated my whole life before this to studying people,” you’d held his gaze, not wavering on your words. “And you realize pretty fast that concepts of good and bad are different across the world. It’s not something that’s fixed, because people aren’t fixed. We’re not born good or bad. We are who we are, who we’ll be, but we also make choices. I mean,” you’d shrugged. “You can keep doing good things, or bad things, or nothing at all. But you’re never incapable of doing something different. If you think you can’t, it’s because you think you’re too good to be better. But everyone is always capable of being better.”
“Like Soldier Boy?”
“Like Ben,” you’d whispered. “He’s better. And he’s good. Really good.”
“And you really love him?”
You’d swallowed. “Yeah. A lot.”
A-Train had nodded. “You think he’ll be waiting for you?”
“Yes.” You’d answered without hesitation. Ben may not love you, but he’d never leave you. If you knew one thing in all of this, it was that Ben would never leave you. “He will.”
“Then what?”
You’d frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”
“When this is over. If you win,” A-Train had shrugged. “Then what?”
“I,” you’d shaken your head. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“You have to have a reason you’re still going,” A-Train had leaned forward slightly. “It can’t just be because you’re a fucking good person.”
“I’m not-“
“Yeah, you are.” A-Train had rolled his eyes. “You’re better than me, than all of us. Congratulations, you did it. You won the stupid contest.”
“I didn’t-”
He’d kept going, ignoring your protest. “But you have to have something you want. Everyone has something they want. That’s how this shit gets out of control.” He’d sighed. “You get promised the thing you want and never fully get it. Then it’s never enough.”
“I don’t have anything I want,” you’d mumbled. “Just for this to be over.”
“After that,” A-Train had snapped. “You’ve got to think of after. Otherwise you’ll just burn out.”
“Butcher-“
“Is a vengeance fueled asshole. That dude might not have an after. I want my family back. So does MM. Hughie and Annie probably want a peaceful, boring fucking life. Ashley wants a year at a spa. What do you want.”
You’d swallowed. “I don’t know.”
“Think about it. What did you want before?”
“To do something important,” you’d said softly, rubbing circles against your arms. “Have a job where I helped people, where I was respected in my field. Then go home to someone who loved me, who I’d built a life with. A life that was mine.”
“Then do that. When this is all finally fucking done, build a life.”
“I can’t,” you’d shaken your head, eyes blurred from tears. “I wanted to get married. I wanted a job. I wanted kids.” You choke slightly. “I don’t, I can’t be sure any of that is even possible anymore. Not after this.”
“You can do whatever you want.” A-Train’s voice had been sharp. “Don’t let all these assholes control you, change how you live your life. You can do all that, or none of it, but you do it.” He’d sighed. “Don’t let them make you lose people. Lose happiness. They don’t deserve to have that kind of control over you.”
“Thank you,” you’d smiled softly, and he’d shrugged.
“Sure.”
You’d given a dry laugh. “They really just fuck everything up, don’t they.”
“Fucking everything,” A-Train had nodded with a small smile that had fallen fast. “I still can’t help you. Not like you asked. My family-“
“It’s fine,” you’d met his eyes with a sigh. “I’ll find something else.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yeah,” you’d shrugged. “I can move things around, find another way. You can still help.” You’d given him a tight smile. “You can be better. But you should leave the bathroom. They might start looking for us soon.”
He’d nodded and stood, giving you one last look before leaving. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
The air whooshed, and you were alone on the floor of the bathroom again.
We could go to Rome, Ben’s voice had hummed around you. When all this shit is over, we can always go to fucking Rome.
I’d love to go to Rome. You’d smiled into the empty air around you. I’d love anywhere, as long as you were there.
Because you love me.
Because I love you. You’d leaned back again, hitting the button above you one last time. Ben, really I love you. It’s kind of stupid how much I love you.
Are you ever actually going to fucking tell me that?
Maybe. You’d sighed. Maybe one day in a million years I’ll grow some balls and tell you.
What would you say?
It doesn’t matter.
Shut the fuck up. When you tell me you love me, which you will because you’re not a pussy, what are you going to say.
Benjamin.
Don’t Benjamin me, I’m fucking helping.
You’re not real.
So you can fucking tell me. If I’m not real it won’t goddamn matter.
The air turned off, and the bathroom had still been empty.
You’d started to hum. A simple love song, just so you could see his face. Look at him.
He was so fucking handsome. You'd almost started crying because he was right there, tall and broad and standing in front of you, grinning at you but not real. You couldn’t feel him, not really, because your sensory manipulation didn’t extend to emotion. So you could grab Fake Ben’s hand and feel his warm skin but not him. You couldn’t feel Ben, strong and resolved and everything. But you could smell pine, and feel his hand trace along your jaw. You could grab it and hold it there—let Fake Ben trace circles on your cheek with his thumb—and try to pretend it was real. Pretend it was enough.
I love you. Your words had to stay in your head, because if you stopped humming to talk aloud Fake Ben would disappear and you needed to keep looking at him. I love you like the ocean loves the moon and the sun loves the stars. I love you like the birds want to sing and the caterpillar longs to be a butterfly. I love you like the grass loves the rain and the lighting loves the thunder. Like the flower loves the bee and the snail loves its shell. I love you like you’re music I get to sing and light I get to eat. I love you like the spiderweb loves the spider and the grave loves the flowers. I love you like a mirror loves to shatter and the alter loves the blood. I love you like the devil loves fire and like god loves the devil. I love you, Ben. I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ll love you until all the world is scattered across the sky and we’re both trapped in the spaces that remain between. I’ll love you until my voice is gone and my heart is only still beating because you’re holding it. I’ll love you until everything is burning away and it’s just you and me. If they find a way to kill us I’ll love you as a ghost and my skeleton will keep one hand on yours. I love you because all my bones and muscles fit in with your bones and muscles, and because my soul is mine but it’s stronger when it’s yours as well. I love you, Ben. I love you.
You’d cried. No sobs wracking your body, but small tears you couldn’t hold in. Tears you’d let Fake Ben wipe away before you’d had to let him go, and then wiped again yourself because they were real, and he hadn’t been. And you’d returned to Homelander, smiled through the party in a green velvet dress that didn’t fit and said words you didn’t mean. Let Homelander herd you wherever he wanted and kept your head together. Taken in even breaths of horrible coconut and smiled with no teeth at people with eyes like monsters. Looking at you like you were a prey that they couldn’t have because the apex predator had decided you were his.
You didn’t throw up that night. You’d stared into the dark, cold air and talked to the phantom of Ben trapped in your head.
And you’d sat in the fire. Not alight under your skin, but pulsing in a small, warm ember. Awake. Growing.
By the time you’re sat in the Seven’s meeting room, with all four remaining members and Ashley, it was stronger. Beginning to smoke along your veins.
“We’ll all be attending the Believe Expo tomorrow,” Sage’s arms are crossed as she glares around the table. “It’s important to appear as a unified front, and this is our primary base. Many non-christian supporters will be in attendance this year, as the association between Homelander and Christianity is becoming interchangeable in the public eye. Which also means we’re leaning away from actual biblical rhetoric, and into our own narrative. We can’t completely disavow the religious aspect, so we’ll have to walk a careful line between not alienating the new people and indoctrinating the old ones. Everyone will get their scripts tonight.”
The Deep raises his hand, and Sage rolls her eyes but nods for him to speak.
“Uh, aren’t they going to notice if a,” he frowns at Sage, looking her up and down. “Muslim is leading the Christ Show?”
“No, because I’m an atheist, dumbass.” Sage snaps. “And I can recite the bible from front to back. All you have to do is show up, do what I tell you, and not say you’re in love with an octopus again. Understood?”
The Deep looks at Homelander for an order to say yes or no, but Homelander’s not paying attention. He’s staring up at you, standing where he’d told you to. Silently at his side, like a statue he’d collected. When The Deep coughs, Homelander scoffs and waves a hand.
“Just do whatever the woman fucking tells you to.”
“Yes, sir.” The Deep nods, and then gives Sage a nervous look.
Homelander is still staring at you.
“Sage,” he says slowly. Not looking away. “I want to see her script.”
“I haven’t written her one,” Sage glares at you. “Anomaly will be on stage for your speech at the end of the program, and you’ll kiss her. That’s her role.”
Your nails dig into your wrist, both held behind your back. Breathe. You just have to breathe and get through this and not break. One kiss will not break you. One touch will not open the floodgates. You can’t scream or run because you’ll lose. You can breathe now and fall apart later.
Homelander says your name, and it makes your skin itch. “Is going to give a speech. The people need to care about her, especially with the CIA and Starlight spewing all those fucking lies about her. About us.
Sage shakes her head. “Homelander-“
He turns, shooting her a sharp glare. “I’m not fucking asking. Write her a speech.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Sage says cooly. “Not after-“
“I dealt with that,” Homelander’s voice raises slightly, and Sage falls silent. She doesn’t flinch, but she doesn’t keep pushing either. “I am telling you that you are going to write her a speech. You can either do it yourself, or I’ll have those fucking idiot writers do it for you.”
Sage’s eyes narrow, but she nods. “Fine.”
Homelander nods, looking back to you. “Sage?”
She sighs. “What.”
“Make it about love.” He smiles at you, and nothing has ever been harder than smiling back.
The first thing you learn about the Believe Expo—something that until two weeks ago you’d been pretty certain wasn’t a thing anymore—is that it’s loud. Everything is so loud. Homelander flies you there through the cold mist and wind of the morning before telling you to practice your speech and shooting back up into the sky. They’re only setting up—workers dressed in black adjusting lights and testing speakers that ring screeching feedback through the air—and it’s already too much. People are moving everywhere, marking spots on the stage floor and arranging seats and trying to get cloth covers to stay on the tables. You’re lost in how loud it is, and almost get run over by a man carrying a large box that spills out cables as it collides with you.
“Fuck!” You flinch at his shout, dropping down to help gather the wires scattered across the damp grass as he continues. “Goddamnit girl, we’re already behind schedule, I don’t have the fucking time-“
You look up at him to apologize, and he freezes. “I’m-“
“It’s fine,” he mumbles, almost pushing you away from the mess. “I’m sorry I yelled, ma’am. I promise there won’t be any delays for the event.”
You blink at him, rubbing his neck and refusing to meet your eyes, but before you can ask any questions someone taps on your shoulder and says your name.
“Thank fuck I found you, your trailer is ready.”
“My trailer?“ You turn to see Ashely, holding a clipboard and tapping her foot. Looking around at the stage work with a tense expression. “Ashley, I don’t-“
“I’ll show you where it is. And don’t clean that up, it’s not your job.”
“But-“
“You!” She points her pencil at a woman standing off the side, holding a coffee. “Clean this up, now.”
“Ma’am, I’m uh, I’m on break-“
“I don’t fucking care, clean it! And you-“ Ashley’s glare turns back to you, still crouched on the ground. “Let’s go.”
She grabs your arms and starts to pull you up, and something wraps around your throat and hands, trying to squeeze all the oxygen out of your body. Everything is sharp, too sharp, moving too fast and yet not fast enough.
You yank your arm away the moment you’re on your feet, half because you don’t think Ashley remembers you can feel her and half because that was completely unbearable. You follow her off the stage, waiting until you’re out of the crews’ earshot to quicken your pace, walking at her side and speaking in a low voice.
“You shouldn’t touch me, Ashley.”
“What?” She shoots you a quick glare. “Don’t be dramatic, I was just helping you stand up-“
“You touched me. Your hand touched my arm. I felt you.”
“So? It’s not like I-“
“Ashley.” You stop walking and wait for her to turn around. “I felt you.”
“What the fuck are-“ Her angry expression falls, her face goes pale “Oh, I, I forgot, fuck-“
“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I mean, it’s not a big deal. You just, uh, you shouldn’t touch me.”
“I didn’t mean to, I’m- shit! I-“
“I’m not mad,” you frown at her. “I’m just reminding you. Don’t touch me unless you’re okay with me feeling it.”
She nods tightly, hands pulling at her hair, and swallows before speaking. “Don’t tell Homelander I touched you. He doesn’t want us to touch you.”
You feel the cold bloom inside you again, but manage to push it down. Give Ashley a tight nod. “I won’t.”
“Can we go to the trailer now?” She looks down at the clipboard. “Fuck, we were supposed to be at the trailer five minutes ago-“
“Where is it?”
“Just over there, but-“
“I can find it.” You start to walk away, in the general direction Ashley had pointed, but she calls your name and you stop. “What-“
“We’re not supposed to leave you on your own.” She’s tugging at her hair still, looking between you and the clipboard. “I technically should’ve been there when Homelander dropped you off-“
“I’m not going to run away, Ashely.” You sigh. “Please, just go do whatever you need to.”
She looks like she might protest for a second, but looks back at the clipboard and gives a tight nod. “Okay. Go.“
“Great.” You start to turn again, but Ashley calls your name again.
“What-“
“Um, thanks.” She mutters, gives you a tense smile. “And please, don’t try to fucking escape-“
“I won’t. I can’t.” You turn, and finally manage to get away before Ashley can see the anguish on your face.
You could escape, Sunshine. Ben’s voice carries on the wind. Or I could come fucking get you.
We’ve had this conversation. You can’t come get me, they’ll put you back under.
I don’t give a shit. You should be home. With me.
I know, but I can’t. Not yet.
You fucking should, though. This is some insane, cum guzzling bullshit. And you are not fucking kissing Homelander.
I’m not exactly thrilled about it either, Benjamin.
Not for me, brat. Because he’s a fucking pussy who shouldn’t be allowed within a million miles of you.
You have to stop your internal fight with Ben’s voice, because you reach the trailer and are immediately surrounded by people doing your hair and makeup, shoving Sage’s script into your hands for you to memorize. There will be a teleprompter, because Sage isn’t an idiot who thinks the Deep will remember anything for more than fifteen minutes—let alone a whole script from the time he’s in his trailer to four hours later when he’s on stage—but you still want to read it. To know what’s coming.
It’s what you expected in its entirety. A lot of propaganda. A lot of lies. A lot of anecdotes that never happened and some musings about love that sound like a sociopath wrote them. I love Homelander because he completes me. I see us in every great romance in history. He is the thing that gets me up in the morning.
You can hear the crowd outside now. People start to filter into the venue, more and more in larger and larger waves until the trailer feels as if it’s shaking.
But you manage to keep it together. To keep reading as your finger taps on the chair and a blonde woman you’ve never seen before—and will likely never see again—pins your hair tight against your head and applies chemicals that would probably burn your scalp if you didn’t heal in that same second.
I want to start a family with him. Lead the best life we can together.
You put the script down, and once your hair and makeup team is gone you scramble to the trash can and empty the bile of your stomach until you can breathe.
You just have to get through this. You just have to keep moving.
They’d put you back in the supe costume. It’s better fitted than last time, but still just hideous. Uncomfortable and impractical and ugly. It feels wrong on your body, not just because it’s showing too much skin and the lace is scratching at your skin but because it’s not you. Supe costumes in general are dumb, because it’s not an outfit on a person, it’s a label on a product. Ben’s lucky he has a stupid handsome face that makes him attractive in everything or you’d have made fun of him ruthlessly about his own.
You still fucking did that. You said I looked like a Christmas tree that’s been sent to war on the draft.
And I’ve have said more if I didn’t want to climb that tree and let it fuck me.
You called me an R rated G.I. Joe Doll.
You are an R rate G.I. Joe Doll, Pretty Boy. I was being accurate and poetic.
Brat.
Cunt.
You take a long breath, and grab the script again. Just get through this. You’ll break later, but right now you have to get through this.
I’m excited to lead a great life with Homelander, for our love story to be remembered as one from a fairytale. Because he is my prince, my white knight who saved me from the dark. Homelander you’re my soulmate-
Soulmate my fucking blue balls. Ben’s voice mutters in your head, and you can almost see his scowl. The pussy doesn’t even like you.
Soulmates aren’t real, Ben.
Still, you’re not his damn soulmate.
Well, I’m not yours. Or anyones. Because soulmates aren’t real.
But you love me.
I do. That doesn’t mean we’re soulmates. You don’t even love me, Benjamin. Something hurts deep, deep inside you and against your skull. I think soulmates, if they were real, which they aren’t, are both supposed to love each other.
Inside your chest, something pounds and beats against your lungs and ribs. Something powerful and bloody and desperate. The slight blur of the world vanishes—you hadn’t even noticed it before—and everything is clear and warm and angry.
Why are you so fucking sure I don’t love you?
What?
You keep telling me I don’t love you. What makes you so damn positive?
You don’t.
I do.
You blink into the empty trailer. No, you don’t.
I fucking do. The thing inside you rages, and you’re not sure if it’s yours or not. You’re not touching anybody, and it doesn’t feel foreign or out of place inside you. But you’ve never felt something like this. It’s focused and pious and entirely made of something monstrous that you can’t name. It’s not dangerous, nothing about it feels dangerous—it reminds you of Ben, and he’d never hurt you—but it’s still the most intensely starved and insatiable feeling you’ve ever experienced.
No, even in your head your voice is slow and confused. You don’t.
You’re not the fucking boss of me.
I am literally the fucking boss of you. I am the government-appointed boss of you.
I think they stripped that title from you when they realized we didn’t exactly have an appropriate boss-employee relationship, Sunshine.
Fuck you.
You did, that was the problem.
You watch too much porn, Pretty Boy. I’m not a boss fucking her secretary and causing a scandal.
I wasn’t your fucking secretary.
Good thing, too. You’d have been terrible at it. I’d have asked you to check my calendar and you’d have destroyed the computer.
You wouldn’t have been too mad about it. I’d have fucked your brains out on the desk and you’d have forgiven me.
I would not have forgiven you. Computers are expensive.
Then I’d buy you a damn new one, then fucked your brains out. And then you’d have forgiven me. Because I’d have told you I love you, and you’d have cum all over my cock, and you’d forgive me.
You think your heart stops for a second, restarting with the jolt of that strange feeling in your chest. In your head your voice is breathless. Ben, please stop saying that.
No.
You don’t love me-
I fucking do.
No, you don’t. This feels like a strange hill for you to die on, convincing the phantom voice in your head of the man you love that he doesn’t love you back. But you press on. Stop saying that you do. It’s mean.
Why the hell is it mean. Saying that I love you is the opposite of damn mean-
Because I really, really, love you! And it’s mean to lie to me and try and convince me that Real Ben might love me!
The thing roars inside you. What-
The door to the trailer opens, and Ashley walks in without warning, eyes glued to her phone. The thing in you flares, and then it’s gone.
“You’re on,” she looks up, giving you a once over before her eyes land on the abandoned script at your feet. “Did you read it?”
You kind of read it. You didn’t finish it, but you’ve got the gist, so you nod.
“Good,” Ashley looks back to her phone. “Are you ready?”
You nod again, pulling yourself up from the floor, and are about to walk out the door when Ashley holds out an arm to block your path. You almost run into it, and you both flinch back, Ashley nearly dropping her phone.
“You need to wear your disguise,” she says quickly, pulling her arms back. “People will swarm you.”
The prep-team had left you a large hoodie with Homelander’s smiling face printed across it, a Vought baseball cap, and black sunglasses. You glance in the mirror after you change, and you look like an idiot. You feel like an idiot. If this all wasn’t so dangerous and precarious, it would be plain stupid.
But, because the universe is strange and uncaring, this is incredibly important. You have to wear Homelander’s face on your body, because you can’t protest or it will blow everything. You have to wear a stupid baseball cap—which is going to ruin your stupid hair—because people can’t see your face. It’s the same reason you put on the sunglasses that pinch your nose, and make yourself follow Ashley out into the densely packed crowd. You don’t have another choice.
There are too many people. The first thing you realize is that there are far too many people, and you’re going through them. They’re bumping your arms and legs, brushing against your skin in accidental passing, and it’s going to make you explode. Everything is too bright and loud and everything is like a live wire. Everyone is so excited, and all you’re getting is fleeting passes of their overzealous, stabbing feelings before being plunged right back into your own cold fear. Spreading faster, not fully overtaking the fire but making it grow dim. Pushing it further away.
By the time you’re dropped off in a small tent—A-Train and the Deep playing cards at a fold-out table, Sage and Homelander nowhere to be found—your blood is rushing through your body and ramming against your throat and ears. Trying to escape your body. You almost immediately collapse into a chair, trying to take long breaths and think about happy things.
Music. The music playing over the loudspeakers is deafening. Off-rhythm gospel music that’s like nails digging into your brain.
City lights. There isn’t any life or joy in the light around you. The sun is behind the clouds, and the flood lights are hidden in a mist that makes the whole world just gray.
Ben. Ben isn’t here. With you. And all you can do is miss him.
Something claws at your heart, but you can’t spare the time or energy to feel it. It’s loud and tight, almost impossible to ignore, but you manage to just close your eyes and try to find something happy. Try to make something happy. A-Train and the Deep are fighting in the background. It’s so loud, and you’re growing cold again. You can’t see anything but the gray, can’t feel anything but a metal chair below you and the fog around you, and can’t hear anything that’s not angry or frantic.
Fresh air. The air is fresh and smells like rain. You haven’t smelled fresh air in months, and it’s all just clean and easy. Sharp and bright in your lungs, made of the wetlands around you. Mud and pine and grass, stronger than the cold sweat of the crowd. Fresh air.
You take one last, long, deep breath. You’re not at peace, but this isn’t about peace. It’s about the world being in focus, and being able to just keep going.
“Hey,” The Deep says your name, and you just stare at him. “We haven’t really talked yet. I’m Deep.”
You nod. “I know.”
“Right, of course you do. I mean, you can call me Kevin-“ He extends his hand for you to shake, and A-Train whacks it back. “Bro-“
“We’re not supposed to touch her, dumbass.” A-Train’s not looking at you. He hasn’t looked at you since you sat down. “And she’s not going to call you Kevin. Fucking nobody calls you Kevin.”
“My friends all call me Kevin,” the Deep looks back to you with a wide, white-toothed smile. “I mean, me and Homelander are real tight-“
“No, you’re not.”
“He likes me more-“
“Homelander doesn’t give a shit about you,” A-Train rolls his eyes. “It’s your turn. Play or give up.”
The Deep gives you one last look like he’s going to say something, but turns back around to their game.
It’s another ten or so minutes before Ashley returns—this time with both the clipboard and her phone—and you have to move. Interviews. Photo ops. Saying all the right words in the right tone with the right body language for the microphones and cameras.
It’s so loud. The walk—even through a barricaded area—is full of screaming people leaning over metal blockades and the bass of the music, running into your bones. Ashley is recapping Sage’s talking points—The Deep isn’t allowed to talk about marine animals, A-Train needs to talk about gospel and unity, and you shouldn’t speak at all—As the Deep shakes his body out, practicing his smile and introduction and A-Train still doesn’t look at you.
The powerful thing returns, as you’re back in the open. It’s still violent and alert, strange but not out of place, and it feels like Ben. It’s just Ben, indescribably Ben. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was him, because you know him. You know all of him, all his anger and care and vengeful warmth. You know how he is, how his heart pounds and his will moves everything around him, how everything in him is strong like this is.
It fades when you're pulled into another tent. Not fully dying out, but growing dull. Far away.
You’re sat next to A-Train—who just stares ahead into the air and lets them start to mic him—with a reminder not to talk. If you’re asked questions, Sage will answer them for you. You just have to sit there, be pretty, and smile. No matter what happens, what’s being said around you, keep smiling.
Sage doesn’t show up. There’s a seat saved for her, with her name taped to it and water bottle under it, but she never arrives and Ashley makes everyone keep going. A well dressed woman sits across from you, the cameras turn on, the show begins.
Smile. Don’t talk and smile. Ashley reminds every journalist to greet you and look at you casually but never actually speak to you. They just give you a few smiles and glances, and only two or three actually meet your eyes. Most end up going through the motions and trying to pretend you’re not there.
You don’t blame them. You’re doing the same. For what feels like eternity you’re sat in a chair—just another prop to the set—and as your face starts to hurt from smiling you stop paying attention. You put energy into trying to find the source of the odd feeling still making a home in your chest, but it’s stubborn. You try and pull it up to the surface and it doesn’t budge, you try and poke it and it just hums.
It’s exactly like Ben.
After all I fucking do for you.
His voice is back. It always comes back. It doesn’t make the thing in you rear and push like it had before, but it’s still everywhere. Humming lowly in the mic feedback and where your foot is tapping the floor.
Go away. I’m busy.
His laugh haunts the spaces of silence between the voices around you. I’m not fucking real, Sunshine. I can’t go away. I’m a part of you.
You’re an annoying part of me. Piss off, Pretty Boy. I’m trying to figure something out.
Figure what out?
Shut up.
Fuck me backwards for trying to help you.
This isn’t something you can help with, Ben.
Try me.
Fine, you try not to sigh aloud. I can feel something. Something I’m not sure I should be feeling.
What, like horny? Are you horny? Do you miss me and you’re horny?
No, you fucking dumb dumb. Like an emotion that I can’t understand.
Well I can’t fucking help with that shit.
I know. That’s why I told you to go away.
Whatever. You love me.
I do.
The thing responds to that. It roars and starts to claw up your spine, grabbing your heart with firm but gentle hands and trying to pull it around in your body.
What the fucking shit was that?
I don’t know. Shut up, I need to test something. Ben, I love you.
It’s going to kill you. This strange thing inside you is going to rip you to shreds, but before you can test anything further, the interviews are at an end and Ashley is ushering everyone away, dragging you around the venue to take photos. You’re handed countless crosses and bibles to hold up for the camera to see, as if people might not have been previously aware of them. The Deep and A-Train shake hands and pose with fans, you’re put in front of lambs and goats and a very unsettling marble statue of Homelander that’s still somehow warmer than the real one.
The thing is still there. It keeps growing and waning and spreading and pulling back. As you move through the convention it grows wrathful and deafening, and you can’t figure out what it is. It’s not you. You’re certain it’s not you. You’d been pretty sure before, but now you’re certain. It doesn’t feel wrong, it doesn’t feel out of place, but it’s not you. You’re not consuming like this, you’re not… Parasitic is the wrong word, you decide, because it’s inherently negative. Nothing about this thing is negative. It’s big and demanding and so loud, but it’s almost comfortable. Full of want and content and focused attention. Made of something rough that’s been dedicated to whatever feeds it.
You just can’t figure out what it wants. It’s hungry, it’s full of such a familiar, Ben-like hunger, but nothing seems to satisfy it. You repeat the words, Ben. Ben, I love you, several times, and it always takes them, but it never grows fully quiet. If anything it’s like offering it salt-water. It pours it down deep, and then grows more demanding.
If you had more time you’d find somewhere quiet to figure out what the hell is going on. But the sun is starting to fall down, and Ashley is herding you to the backstage area. Ranting about speeches and last minute adjustments and don’t fuck up and-
It’s just a flash. You only see it for a second, moving beyond the barricade through the crowd, but you still see it.
Black hair. Long, wavy black hair attached to a short woman.
Lots of people have black hair. You’ve seen at least twenty women with black hair in the past three hours alone. But you still stop in your path and crane your neck up. Trying to see over the crowd, deeper into the fray.
You see the hair again. And, this time, the side-profile of the woman it’s attached to. Hooded eyes with eyeliner and a focused determination on her face.
“Holy shit.”
Your whisper is only heard by the Deep, who turns to you with a frown. “I thought Sage told us not to swear-“
“Ashley!” Your voice is almost a shriek, loud and frantic. “I need to go to the bathroom now!”
“Hold it,” Ashley says your name without looking up from her phone, continuing to move towards the stage. “We’re on a really fucking tight schedule.”
“Ashley!” You move to grab her, stop her, make her listen and she flinches back with wide eyes.
“I-“
“I got my period,” you say bluntly. “And, uh, I’m wearing a skirt-“
She sigh. “Fine, but be fast-“
“I will! Super fast!” You run ahead, into the porta potties dropped near all the stage equipment for the crew. They smell awful, and you probably should’ve chosen a spot that’s meant to hold more than one person, but you’re here now. Now is not the time to second guess anything.
You wait, just long enough that you start to wonder if A-Train hadn’t heard you or didn’t understand, and wasn’t coming.
Then the air whooshes, and he’s crammed next to you as the door slams. “What the fuck was that about-“
“They’re here,” you don’t wait for him to fully gain his footing in the small space before you speak, and ignore his rush of stress and annoyance when your bodies brush. There’s not enough time. “They’re all here.”
“Wh-“
“Butcher,” you hiss. “MM and Frenchie and Kimiko. Probably Hughie, probably not Annie.” And Ben. Ben is here.
“Are you sure-“
“Yes.”
“Well, why the fuck are they here-“
“I don’t know!”
“Would you stop fucking interrupting-”
“No!” You’re running your hand over your face, trying to make your brain move faster. To do something productive, and stop just chanting Ben. Ben, I love you. Ben, you’re here and I can see you and touch you and I love you, Ben, I love you- “I need to think.”
“Think?” A-Train glares at you. “We need to fucking run, those idiot are always blowing everything-“
“Shut up,” you snap. “This is a chance. They’re here for a reason. They’re probably planning something-“
“Something stupid-“
“Shut up!” You’re almost shouting. There’s no time for this, you need to figure out what they’re doing here and adjust, you need to find out how to keep Homelander and Sage—wherever the hell they are—away from them, you need to see Ben. You need to find Ben, now. A-Train is still glaring at you, and your fire isn’t strong enough yet—not here, where the cold is crawling through you once more—so you need a plan.
You look A-Train up and down, he’s trying to pace in a space where you’re both pressed against the wall to not touch each other, and you’ve got it.
“You’re leaving.”
A-Train freezes, frowning at you. “What?”
“You’re going to go with them. When they leave, you’re going to go with them,” you nod to yourself as you speak. “You’re done with the Seven, you’re going with them.”
“Are you crazy?! Or stupid?!” A-Train gapes at you. “I have a tracker, they might not even take me, and my family will still be in danger-“
“I’ll burn out your tracker, they will take you, and…” You trail, trying to find your way around A-Train’s family. He’s right, Vought knows who they are. They won’t just let him go quietly and bloodlessly, not when he’d be turning to their enemy. But this has to work-
“If you can’t tell me how my family will be fine, there’s not a chance in hell-“
“You’ll die.”
“What?!”
“You’re going to die,” you say the words firmly. No room for error, no room for wavering. “They’re going to ‘kill you’,” you make exaggerated air quotes. “And you’re going to ‘die’.”
A-Train frowns at your hands. “What are those, what are you talking about-“
“You’re not really going to die,” you snap. No time. “We’re going to fake your death. They’ll make it look like they killed you and everybody wins.”
“How does everybody win there?” A-Train’s rolling on the balls of his feet, still glowering at you. “They’ll just twist it, Starlighters are murderers-“
“Exactly,” you have an almost maniacal grin on your face. “But the Seven will just have lost its second member in as many weeks. Not a great look for the whole supe supremacy narrative if their best and brightest are dropping like flies. It’s bad for everybody, and that’s why everyone wins.”
A-Train shakes his head. “What about my family? How do they win?”
“If you’re dead, if we do this right and Sage doesn’t suspect a thing, then they’ll be honored for your service and left in peace. But we have to do this right.”
“I don’t-“
“A-Train,” you hiss. “This is the something. This is the better, and this is what I’m asking of you. You’re going to leave with them, you’re going to help them. You don’t have to like it, but this is it.”
“How will I be able to help,” he protests, still pushing and there’s no time. “I mean, if I’m fucking ‘dead’-”
“You have insider knowledge of the tower. You have insider knowledge of Vought, and Homelander, and Sage. You can help them, you just have to go.”
“What about you?”
You blink. “What?”
“You’re not going to leave? Run away with them into the sunset?”
You can hear the words A-Train won’t say. You can see them on his face and hear them echo in your head. Leave with Ben. Run away with Ben and be safe and let him care for you until this is just another nightmare.
“I mean, you can’t just keep-“
“I’m going to stay.” You mutter, hating the words on your tongue. They taste bitter and foul, like sour coconut. “I have to stay.”
“That’s-“
“Not up for debate.” You cross your arms, holding A-Train’s glare. “I have to see this through. They’re here for a reason, and once I know what, I can work it into my plan.”
“You’re still doing a plan?” You don’t love the disbelief in A-Train’s voice. “There’s no fucking way you can keep this up-“
“I don’t have to keep it up.” You snap. “I just have to get through it. I’m staying, you’re going, that’s that.”
A-Train pauses, and you can almost hear his brain trying to find a way to disagree. But you’ve done this well, and he lets out a long, heavy, angry sigh. “What do you need me to do.”
“Thank you,” you give him a half-smile. “I’m going to find them. I’ll tell Ashley I just need to sit down, because I’m getting cramps or something, and I’ll go find them.” Find Ben. “Find out what they’re doing, why they’re here. I need you to find Ezekiel.”
“Ezekiel?” A-Train frowns. “I haven’t seen that guy all day-“
“He’s here. This is his event, he’s on the program. You’re going to find him, and trick him into walking into them.”
“Trick him? How am I-“
“Tell him they’re here. Tell him they’re looking for new members of the Seven and killing Butcher is a surefire way to get a foot in the door. Tell him Hughie’s here, he hates Hughie. Just get him to fight them. Preferably away from the crowd, but not until Homelander’s speech.” Your fingers are tapping against your arm, making changes to the plan as you speak. “Ezekiel can’t just go alone, he’ll mess up the plan, so you have to make him wait. After you talk to him, say you’re going to find where they are, so you can fight them together, and come find me. I’ll burn out your tracker, you’ll bring Ezekiel to fight them, make it loud, and ‘die’. My team will take care of getting you out, hopefully they’ll kill Ezekiel on the way, and I’ll know what I need to do on my end.”
“For your plan.”
“For my plan.”
A-Train shakes his head. “Are you going to tell me your plan?”
“No. All you have to do is die.”
“Fuck.” He takes off his visors, meeting your eyes fully. “You think this will work?”
No room for error, no room for doubt. “It has to.”
He nods slowly. “Where am I going to find you?”
Wherever Ben is. “You might have to look. I’m not sure yet.”
“You’ll burn out my tracker?”
“As soon as you find me.”
“And my family-“
“Will be fine.” You give him a close-lipped, tight smile. “Promise. Just find Ezekiel.”
“Fine.” A-Train put his visors back on. “See you on the other side.”
He’s gone in a rush of wind, and you’re alone in the porta potty. Just you, the horrible smell of shit, and that thing in your chest.
Ben. It is him. He’s here, and you can feel him. It’s something you’ll have to retcon later, why you can feel him, what this feeling actually is, but right now Ben is here. And you have to find him.
You find Ashley first, and tell her you’re throwing up from period cramps in quick, blunt words.
“Can’t you just hold it?” She begs, and you give her a flat look.
“Ashley, do you think Sage will be angrier if I rest in the bathroom but do my speech without a hitch, or if I throw up on live TV?”
She shakes her head, running her hands through her hair. “Fuck! First A-Train’s fucking gone, now you-“
“He was freaking out about something,” you shrug. “Wouldn’t tell me what, but I think he’s just calming down.” You make a fake retching sound, and Ashley’s face twists. “Can I please-“
“Just go!”
“Thank you!” You make yourself double over slightly, make your words strained. “I’ll be back-“
“I don’t fucking care, just be fast!”
Ashley turns away, and you’re gone. Find Ben. You have to find Ben. This place is massive, and you can’t just push your way through the crowd—not again, not if you want to keep going—but nothing is more important right now than finding Ben.
Where would you be, you fucking ass. Where would Ben be at the Believe Expo.
He’d hate all of this. He’d hate the abstinence only sex education—the fuck do they have against a good time—he’d hate the pandering and holier-than-thou attitudes—these pussies aren’t better than me just because they read a goddamn book—and he’d despise all the morality. All the haughty faces and watered-down language and fake smiles. He’d hate all of this, there wouldn’t be a corner of it he’d enjoy, so you have no fucking clue where you’ll find him.
You can’t just wander and hope you run into him. You don’t have the time to spare just trying to bump into him. But you need to find him. He’s here and you have to see him. Half because of your plan with A-Train, half because you fucking miss him. You miss him so much, and he’s here, and you can’t just not see him. Not touch him. He’s here and you need him and you love him-
That thing in your chest rolls around. It’s pulling you forward, and you don’t think twice before you let it. And you know. You know where he’d be. You’d find him anywhere, and you know where he’d be.
Taking a piss. In the VIP bathrooms, because he has no regard or respect for venue restrictions. He’d need to go to the bathroom, and would not care to use the dogshit porta potties—especially not with his sense of smell being so strong—so he’d just walk right into the VIP bathrooms. No one would stop him, because he’s Ben and he looks right everywhere. Even if he’s in disguise, he still walks and talks like there’s not a place in the world he doesn’t belong.
There are two VIP bathroom trailers. One is near the trailers, and one is across the venue. You should check both, but he’s in the further one. You just know, he’s in the further one. He’d have been staying on the outskirts of the event, and would be in the further one. So you take a long, grounding breath, steal a black Believe Expo Staff hoodie and cap, and move. Trying to run without people noticing, because there’s no time to just walk. He’s there, you know he’s there, so you have to go.
Of the three bathrooms in the trailer, two are locked. And one is Ben. There’s no way to explain how you know, but one is Ben. It’s the center one, and he’s in there, and you have to wait.
You can’t wait out in the open. If a staff member sees you they’ll either make you go “back to work” or recognize you and tell Ashley or Sage that you’re here. So you look around, make sure no one’s watching, and rush into the spare, empty bathroom. Lean against the counter and wait.
Ben. Ben is here. He’s one door down and now you have to just be patient. You’ll see him soon.
It’s the longest four minutes of your life. You hate this stupid, amazing man, taking impossibly long pisses and making you love him and not just leaving the bathroom. He must not feel you here, not like you can feel him, because he’d be breaking the door down.
That’s another thing to be confused about later. How this thing works. Right now the trailer is rumbling slightly, because someone just flushed a toilet, and you can just hear a door opening and closing over the noise of the crowd.
Ben.
You open your door, and there he is. He’s turned away from you, and wearing a baseball cap that covers his hair, but it’s him. You’d be able to recognize him blind and underwater, and that’s Ben. Tall and broad and walking in rough steps with his hands fisted at his side. Away from you.
“Ben,” you hiss his name, but he doesn’t turn around. “Benjamin.”
His steps stutter, but he keeps moving. Getting further and further away.
“Ben!” Your words are still said in a hushed voice, through your teeth, but you’re almost shouting. “I know you can fucking hear me, you cunt.”
He stops, but still doesn’t turn. Hands curling tighter, knuckles becoming white.
“Benjamin, if you don’t turn around right fucking now-“
You see his body heave from a sigh, hear a low and frustrated sound, and he turns around with a scowl.
He’s so fucking handsome. His face is tired and angry, half obscured by his hat, but he’s still everything. And when he sees you, glaring at him with all the anger you can muster when he’s right there, his mouth falls open and that strange feeling—his feeling—roars.
The shock across his features doesn’t even last a second before he’s moving. Sprinting across the grass with no regard for secrecy or not drawing attention. Sprinting to you. He’s here.
You don’t have time to take a step back before he’s crashing into you, picking you up and slamming the door behind him. He doesn’t kiss you. You’d thought he’d kiss you, but he just raises you off the ground in the most bone-crushing hug you’ve ever experienced. And you can feel him. You can feel the warmth of his body, the care with which he’s touching you—hands roaming you like he’s not sure you’re real and is trying to check—and the strength of him. Really him. Here and touching you and smelling like pine and gunpowder and full of desperation. He’s so tired—you can feel it in your bones—and he’s trying to pull you closer and closer into him, in a way that would be painful if it wasn’t him. If he wasn’t still holding you like you were holy, like you were just a cloud that might dissipate in his hands if he didn’t stop it with firm hands and adoring touches.
“You’re real,” his voice is soft and hoarse in your ear, and something in you breaks. He sounds exhausted. “You’re fucking real.”
“Ben-“
He kisses you then. Drops one hand below your thighs and hauls you further up his body, swallowing your words. Swallowing you. It’s just you and Ben, and he’s here. He’s real and touching you like he always has and, just for now, you’re safe. You’re safe in his arms, keeping you steadily off the ground, and getting drunk on him. On his hands kneading your skin and cupping your face, on his mouth against yours. Hungry, always hungry, pushing into you brutally. Trying to take all your breath and give you his. Tongue tracing your teeth and pushing down your throat, sucking and biting your lips and groaning into your open mouth. You take it all. Your hands grab at his hair, push his cap to the floor so you can touch him, and lean as far into him as you can without being him. He’s here. He’s here and you love him and he’s everything. You’re letting him consume you, touch you as much as he wants, because you missed him. Because he’s real, and anything he can give you is enough. If he tries to take your heart, reach into your chest and rip it out, you’ll do it for him and feed it to him. If he bites your neck you hope it will, for once, leave a mark. If he gives you any part of him, you’ll dig a hole in your body and keep it there. Anything to feel him forever, anything to never stop feeling this. Feeling Ben.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only because you can feel the pounding of his heart under your hands. Only because he’s breathing heavily, chest rising and falling in an uneven pattern, and you’re doing the same. You feel a little dizzy, but you want to keep going. You want to touch him until you pass out and he can take him home. Or to Rome, or Hawaii, or fucking Ohio or Texas or California or anywhere where he’s there and you’re together. Where you can feel like this forever, and it’s just you and Ben. Happy. Where he can always set you down this carefully against the counter, and keep his forehead pressed to yours as you both just hold each other. Where you can close your eyes and fall into him and always trust he’ll catch you.
He mumbles your name, lips brushing yours as he speaks, and you can’t stop the small sound leaving your throat. A strangled noise of Ben. Ben, I love you. I missed you and I love you and I’m sorry.
You’re crying. You don’t even realize it until you feel his thumb against your cheek, wiping your tears away, and that makes you cry more.
“Ben,” you’re whispering. You don’t trust your voice to do anything else. “You’re here.”
“I’m here.” He mutters. “You’re real.”
You huff a soft, weak laugh. “I’m real.”
He nods against you, and when you open your eyes he’s still there. Watching you, always watching you. Looking at you so reverently, and that thing is stronger than you’d ever felt it when he’s touching you. He’s wrapping around you, he’s everywhere around you, full of care and affection and something small and bright that’s resting at the base of his throat. His whole body relaxed and washed with relief. You love him. You love him so much.
“Hi,” you smile at him, and it’s real. It’s sad and you’re still crying, but Ben is here and nothing can stop you from smiling at him. Just for now, just in this moment, you can smile at Ben and get to mean it. “Can you kiss me again?”
Ben chuckles, and it’s a sound from deep in his body that moves into yours. He does as you ask, and this time he’s gentle. Not pushing for more, just kissing you until you sigh and hum against his mouth. Letting both of you just savor it, sit in the feeling of comfort and each other.
When Ben pulls back he draws up slightly, studying your face, tracing it under one hand as the other holds you at your waist. “Are you-“
“I’m okay.”
He doesn’t believe you. Ben frowns and his eyes narrow, and you know he doesn’t believe you. He trusts you, you can feel it, but you can also feel that concrete resolve around you both and you know that Ben isn’t going to just drop it.
“Don’t-“
“I’m not lying,” you move your hands up from his chest, resting them on his shoulders. “I’m okay.”
“I don’t think you’re lying,” he mutters, scanning over your body. “I know you think you’re okay. You always think you’re okay.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“You always say you’re okay, and you’re not.” Your eyes meet again, and there’s something painful in Ben’s. You can feel that pain in his body, but when it reaches his eyes it’s somehow worse. It makes him look sad. “You always fucking think you’re fine, and you believe it, but you’re goddamn not.”
“I-“
“Just,” he sighs, squeezing your hips and running a thumb over your cheekbone. “Tell me the truth. Not what you think is the fucking truth, the factual truth. Are you okay?”
You don’t answer. You try to answer, but words choke in your throat and suddenly you’re crying. Not soft tears like before, full sobs that shake your body and make you fall into Ben’s chest. He catches you, holds you against him until you can breathe again. He lets you wrap your arms around his torso and traces familiar patterns on your skin, resting his chin on your head and humming so fucking terribly. So off-key and out of tune you almost don’t recognize the song.
When you do, you pull back and frown at him, blinking away your tears. “Rainbow Connection?”
“Shut up.”
“When did you-“
“Don’t fucking change the topic.“
“Ben,” you move one hand up to rest against his chest, and he holds it. Pulls it up to his mouth and kisses your palm, and your heart flutters through all its sore fatigue. “I’m okay. I’m really okay. I’m exhausted, but I’m okay.”
“Homelander-“
“Hasn’t touched me,” you whisper. “Not like that.”
Ben doesn’t stop glaring at you. “Swear it.”
“Promise. No lies.” You smile at him again. “Would be a weird fucking thing to lie about anyway.”
Ben rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
You’re wasting time. You have so little time to find out what the Boys are doing here, why they’ve decided being here is worth such a massive risk, but when Ben kisses you again you don’t really care. It’s just him, big and warm and safe.
Real.
When he leans back, you’re not crying anymore. You think you’ve just tired yourself out, or that your body knows there will be time to cry later. Right now Ben is here, and that’s all that matters.
“Are we going to talk about Rainbow Connection?” You smile at him because you can. As long as Ben is here, you’ll always smile at him. “Did you watch the Muppets again?”
Something flashes under his skin. Sore and hot, embarrassment. That’s his embarrassment. “Shut the fuck up.”
“You did-“
He kisses you again. He won’t stop kissing you, and you’ve never been less annoyed about anything in your life. Today he’s allowed to kiss you to shut you up. Anything that keeps him here longer, anything you can take and hold in the weeks to come.
Anything that makes you more certain he’s real. That this isn’t a cruel trick of your brain, and any second you’re going to wake up in a cold room that smells like coconut with Homelander across the mattress.
But he is. Ben is here and real and you can feel it. A dream wouldn’t feel powerful like this, wouldn’t have all the protection of Ben running through your body, wouldn’t have this strange feeling of something pushing from Ben into you when he holds you.
“You can gloat about it later,” he grunts against you, before standing up to his full height, looking down at you. “We need to fucking go.”
You sigh. You’d known this was coming, and you’re honestly surprised it took this long. “We’re not going anywhere, Ben.”
“The goddamn fucking hell we’re not-“
“I have to stay here.” Your voice isn’t loud, or firm. It’s soft and shaking and tired, because you’re exhausted. Because every ounce of will and strength in your body is being used for this. For telling Ben you can’t just go, that he has to leave you here and you’re both going to have to find a way to live with that. “You know I have to stay here.”
“You don’t have to do a single fucking thing but go,” he’s not yelling. His voice is rising and his words are sharp but he’s not yelling. “You’re not safe here, we need to fucking go-“
“I can’t.” You reach up, holding his face between your hands and trying not to shatter when he raises his own to keep you there. “I can’t go, not until I see this through.”
“Yes, you can! You fucking can!” His voice is loud, but Ben’s still not yelling. You’ve heard him yell, and it’s commanding. Ben’s yell demands attention, demands compliance. This is angry and loud but he’s pleading, and it’s worse. He knows you’re not leaving with him, deep down, so Ben is begging you to change your mind. It’s making you hurt, making all your bones and organs shutter and snap, and it’s horrible. All of this is horrible. “All you fucking have to do is go-“
“Ben-“
“You’re not fucking safe, I’m not going to goddamn leave you-“
“You’re not leaving me,” you smile at him, and your heart is starting to fold in on itself. “This isn’t leaving me.”
“Yes, it fucking is-“
“I’m telling you you’re going to have to go without me. Not now,” your words become quick, slightly panicked, because if Ben leaves now you’ll collapse and not get back up. “But when it’s time. When you go, you’re going without me.”
“I’ll pick you up and fucking carry you out,” he snaps, and you sigh.
“I’ll scream.”
“Then I’ll fucking cover your mouth.”
“I’ll bite your hand.”
“And I won’t goddamn feel it.”
“Then I’ll take off your stupid hat and people will see you.” You shake your head, and try to be a little more numb. Try to pretend this isn’t killing you, that you can’t feel it killing him. “I want to come home Ben, I really want to. But I can’t. You know that.”
“There’s not a fucking chance in hell I’m letting you stay here-“
“Ben,” you whisper. “You don’t let me do anything. I’m staying here, but you’re not leaving me.”
“I fucking am,” he’s furious, you can feel it coursing through you, but it’s like poison. It’s raging and turning every part of Ben against himself, making your heart start to wither for him. For how he’s doing this to himself. “If I fucking go without you, I’ll be fucking failing you again. I’m not fucking failing you again-“
“Benjamin-“
“I’m not! I’m never failing you again, I’m never leaving you again, I’m never fucking losing you again-“
You pull his head down, and he freezes. Ben lets you hold his head against your shoulder, and when you start to run a hand through his hair he falls onto you. Just holds you like you’re going to try and escape, buries his face in your neck like he can climb in you and stay there.
“I can’t fucking lose you again,” he mumbles your name against your skin, and your heart grows weaker. “I just fucking can’t.”
“You didn’t lose me.” You say softly. “You didn’t fail me, or leave me, and you’ll never lose me.” Ben. Ben, I love you. “I’ll come back. I’ll always find my way back to you.”
“You shouldn’t fucking have to,” he pulls back, and his face is so sad. You’ve never seen Ben sad, where his face is just slack and tired and clouded. He’s still angry, but his wrath is made of despair. Low and sunken and almost sick. That thing in him—in you—feels ill. “I can’t fucking stay here with you, I can’t protect you-“
“I’m okay,” you lean forwards, and Ben meets you. Heads pressed together, his arms still around your body and your hands still in his hair. “I’m going to be okay.”
“You’re fucking not-“
“I will,” you whisper, and it’s not just Ben you’re trying to convince. “I’ll be okay. You don’t need to protect me from this, Ben. I’m okay.”
“Please,” he mutters your name, and your heart finally breaks. Pulls itself in two at how low and desperate and hopeless Ben’s voice is. “Please, just come home. Just fucking come home.”
“I can’t,” you’re crying again, and these tears are slow. Soundlessly falling from you, the only part of yourself that’s allowed to just mourn this. You’re not going home. Ben hasn’t failed you, he could never fail you, you love him and he’d never leave you or fail you or lose you, but you’re not going home. “We both know I can’t.”
“I don’t fucking know shit-“
“I’m aware,” you smile dryly. “But I still can’t come home.”
“You can,” his protests aren’t loud anymore. He’s just grasping at straws, trying to find one thing that will make you give up and go. “We’ll just fucking walk away, go to Rome-“
“Not until this is over. Not until Homelander’s dead.”
“He will be,” Ben’s hands squeeze on your hips. “The team has a way to kill him, and they can fucking do it themselves-“
Your eyes widen. “They found a way?”
“I fucking found a way, they barely did shit-“
“Benjamin,” you pull back, and everything is urgent again. “How do you kill Homelander.”
“V. But-“
“V?”
“Compound fucking V. Puts him down for the count, makes him a damn coma patient.” Ben says your name. “But they can do that themselves, we can go-“
“How do you know?”
“We found a file in his lab-“
“His lab?”
“The fucking Homelander lab, where they used my cum to make him grow-“
“That’s fucking disgusting-“
“Shut the fuck up, you love my cum-“
Now is not the time to let that turn you on. Keep going, no getting sidetracked trading easy, sparring words with him or thinking about his cum. “Ben, are you sure this will work?“
“I’m fucking positive, the lab nerds were real clear that even one shot of V throws off his whole body and turns the pussy into a vegetable.”
“Won’t you still need to blast him with the special sauce?”
Ben rolls his eyes. “They can make their own goddamn special sauce. Pump Homelander full of V, find their own fucking way to take him out forever. Drop a nuke on him, I don’t give a fuck. We-”
“That’s why you’re here.” Your brain spins, sorting and matching every piece of this together. “Samaritan’s embrace was a V front, and you’re looking for some.”
“We’re fucking finding some, and killing Homelander, so you can go-“
“You won’t.” You pull Ben face forwards, forcing his words to die in his throat, making him listen. “Ben, you’re not going to find any V here.”
He frowns, momentarily distracted from lightly tugging at your skin and pleading for you to leave. “What the fuck are you talking about. Butcher said-“
“Butcher was wrong,” you shake your head. “I mean, he might have been right last week, maybe even this morning, but if there was V here it’s gone now.”
“Why-“
“Sage said she was dealing with a Homelander mistake last week. She must have been talking about the lab, about how you were able to get in and poke around. And nobody’s seen her or Homelander or Ezekiel all day. Whatever V was left, they’ve gotten rid of it.”
Ben scowls. “So we can just find more-“
“Sage won’t leave more.” You tap your fingers against Ben’s jaw, trying to focus and not think about how he’s stilled himself completely to let you talk yourself through this. “She won’t get rid of it, not all of it, it’s too valuable, but she’ll hide it. Any supplies that might be accessible to anyone that could be hypothetically compromised will be destroyed or relocated. She won’t tell anyone, won’t leave any records. It’ll be as good as gone.”
Ben hums, and you see his question in the knit of his brows. Well how are we supposed to fucking get our hands on it?
“I’m not sure,” you mutter, frowning. Scanning Ben’s face like you might find the answer in it, and not stopping when you don’t because you just want to look at him. “I’d bet on Homelander, he and Sage don’t really trust each other, not enough for him to let her just bulldoze any plans or intentions he might have with remaining V. But it’s not a safe bet, Homelander’s never a safe bet.” You feel something tight and bitter in his chest, and sigh. “I’m okay, Ben.”
He rolls his eyes, still not moving under your hands. I didn’t fucking say shit.
“Yeah, but you thought it.”
What are you, a fucking mind reader?
“With you?” You smile at him, and it’s so easy. Even when you’re talking about killing Homelander, it’s still easy to smile at Ben. “I might as well be.”
Smartass.
“Fuck you.”
He grins. Not in public, Sunshine.
You stick your tongue out at him. “Shut up. And we’ll just have to ask A-Train when he gets back.” You sigh. “I can’t think of anything else that might work.”
Your fingers have stilled on Ben’s face—now just playing with the hair of his beard—and he takes it as a sign to speak. “A-Train?”
“The fast one.”
“Why the fuck are we waiting for him?”
“He’s defecting,” you shrug. “He’s leaving with you today, you’re going to have to fake his death by the way-“
“Fucking Fast-Man is coming home, but not you?” Ben’s glaring at you, saying your name in a deep, annoyed voice. “I am not fucking trading you-“
“You’re not trading me, Benjamin.” You hold his glare. “I’ll come home soon, just not now. And A-Train is going to help you. He helped me.”
“How the fuck has he helped you?” Ben grumbles. “He hasn’t gotten you out-“
“Nobody’s gotten me out, because I’m waiting. I have a plan-“
Ben scoffs, but that strange feeling in him pulses with warmth. “Of course you have a plan.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You always have a damn plan, Sunshine.” He glowers at you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you not have a fucking plan.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “And how is that a bad thing?”
“It’s not,” Ben mutters. “But I just fucking wish you would share your plans. With me. Let me goddamn help.”
All the annoyance in you vaporizes in just how much you love him. How much you love Ben, how no matter what he’s there. He trusts you, he knows you, and he’s there for you all the time. He’ll groan and bitch about everything but he’ll still be there. He’ll try and fight your battles for you, roll his eyes and be a grump when you don’t let him, and stay at your side until you’ve won. He’ll be there to do what you need him to and then hold you like this—with so much rough care—even when he’s pissed. He won’t leave. He’ll never leave, not really. And you love him.
“It has to play out naturally,” you say, gently. Smiling so that his scowl starts to waver. “If I tell you what to do it might not work as well. I’ll come home soon, you just have to let me do this my way. Please.”
Ben lets out a long, labored sigh that makes his chest rumble, makes your whole body fall into his. “Fine. Fucking fine.”
“Thank you.”
He just grunts, and you pull his face back yours. Kiss him long and soft. Never looking for more, just trying to touch him. Just trying to have him while you can, before A-Train finds you and tells you this has to be over. You don’t ever want this to be over, you only want to kiss Ben like you have all the time in the world. Like every moment in this bathroom isn’t being borrowed and running out fast.
You almost tell him. Right here, in a Believe Expo bathroom with Ben cupping your jaw and looking down at you with affection as his arm cages you to his chest, you almost say it. Ben. Ben, I love you. You’re going to have to let me stay here, but please know that I love you. Please, please wait for me and don’t hate me because I love you. I’m trying to make myself okay with keeping it together and leaving you to go home alone, but I’m so close to breaking. Please just tell me to damn the consequences, damn the world, and bring me home. Or to Rome, or to the farthest corner of the world, but with you. Please pick me up and take me with you because I love you and I can’t keep this up much longer. I’m okay, I’m really okay, but I’m so close to falling apart. I love you, fuck everything else because I love you and I want to go home.
You’re crying again. They’re not singular, lonesome and tragic tears or shaking screams and sobs of hollow and empty. They’re small, wet gasps as you try to fight the words down. Try to stop yourself from ruining everything just because you can’t do this. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want Ben to go, and he has to go, but it’s going to be the most painful thing in the world. Even if you know you’ll be home soon.
He mutters your name, deep and firm, and now you’re crying more. You love him. “What-“
You kiss him. You grab his shirt and yank him down and just kiss him. You can’t tell him you love him, not like this. Not when you can’t hold him all night and wake up next to him in the morning. Not now, when you have to stay here. But you’re going to tell him, you recognize that impossible to quell instinct of Ben. Ben, I love you, pushing up your throat and you only know one way to stop it. Ben, kissing him and touching him and turning those words into just sounds. Into moans and whines that he won’t understand. So you just pull Ben into you, and hope he’ll do the rest.
He does. He’ll always do this for you. His hands will always find a firm, natural hold on your body and his mouth will always fit perfectly against yours. He’ll always fill with hunger and adoration, and give you everything he can until you’re—at least for now—whole again. He’ll always make all that noise, all that loud, angry pain in your head that’s trying to find a why, why is this so unfair that you have to stay here and Ben can’t stay with you, why won’t the world give you one thing, just one thing that you don’t have to rage to keep, and why does time have to keep moving when this day is going that have to end without Ben at your side, and he’ll make it go away. Ben will always make all the sounds and rushing thoughts in your head slow until it’s just him. Just Ben. Ben, I love you. He’ll make the whole world only Ben, rubbing circles on your skin and pulling you impossibly closer, pressing his tongue to your lips in a silent question, and taking everything you give him.
You want to give him everything. Only opening your mouth for him to move deeper into you—to suck and bite and taste—and leaning into him so your hands are scraping at his neck, so his groans run through your body and down into you, isn’t enough. Making high, needy sounds that Ben swallows isn’t enough, grinding half against his torso and half onto the counter isn’t enough, because it doesn’t tell him. It doesn’t show him that you’ve missed him and you want him and need him and love him. Everything you can’t say, not now, you still need him to feel. He can’t feel you like you feel him, can’t understand without words how important he is to you. He can’t feel your love, not like you can feel that thing in him rumbling somewhere sacred in his chest. Bouncing off his ribcage and hungry and wanting for carnage. Wanting you, desperate for you in a bloody and wrathful way that tells you Ben cares. He might not love you, but he’s missed you. That even if he’s furious he’ll have to go without you, it's still about you. You and Ben together, right now, having each other.
He has to have all of you. He has to have every part of you that you don’t need to see this through, so he can protect those instead. So he can keep some sort of knowledge that walking away from him—even if it’s temporary, which it is, because nothing is permanent except you and Ben so you will always find a way back to him—is impossible. It’s going to keep you up for many nights, haunt all your dreams until he’s there to hold you like this again. You have to, you can’t see another way out of this that doesn’t end in the world destroyed and Homelander the king of whatever remains, but it’s killing you. Ben needs to understand that this is killing you, that you’ve never wanted or loved anything like you need him. And the only way to show him is to give him all of you.
“Ben,” you gasp against his mouth, and it drops to leave sloppy kisses down your jaw and neck. Letting you speak but not making it easy. Not when he’s pulling skin gently between his teeth and running his hand up your back. “Please.”
“Please?” He hums, moving back up to look at you fully. Hands still kneading at your thigh and wrapping around your body. “What-“
“Fuck me.” You lean forward, trying to pull him back down. He can’t be away from you, not for a second, not now when he’s going to have to go so soon. “Please, fuck me.”
His eyes widen, and even as the hunger roars inside him Ben frowns. “Here?”
You nod desperately. “Please-“
“Sunshine,” his hold on you has become like iron, and you can feel the enormity of his want, feel his hardened cock pushing into your thigh, but he’s shaking his head. “I am not fucking you for the first time in a goddamn bathroom.”
“Ben-“
“I said I wanted to take time,” Ben leaned down, holding your gaze. His eyes are darkened, and you can feel him. Everywhere you can feel Ben, in your body and around you and running between your bodies where the boundary of Ben or you doesn’t matter anymore. “And I fucking meant it. I am not fucking you when I can’t take a goddamn week off to do it, when there’s not even a fucking bed.”
“Please, I just want-“
“I know what you want,” he growls your name, and you whine. “And fucking believe me, I want it as well. The only thing I want more than to fuck you stupid is to bring you the hell home. But,” he shakes his head, and presses a kiss to your brow, grunting the words against your skin. “You’re a stubborn fucking brat who doesn’t listen, so I’m not taking you home. And there’s not a fucking chance in hell I’m fucking you for the first time in a bathroom at a fucking Christ Convention.”
You sigh, falling further into him. He’s right, which is annoying because he’s always so smug about when he’s right, but he’s right. Ben can’t fuck you, not here, not now. You can’t tell him you love him, you can’t go home with him, but you also can’t fucking him at the Christ Convention.
Ben pulls back, watching you with silent eyes that are trying to dissect you. You love when he watches you like this, like he can see you, and you hope he never stops. You hope when you close your eyes tonight, alone in a cold room, you’ll still have the image of him watching you.
You offer him a small smile. “How are you enjoying the Christ Convention?”
“It’s fucking stupid,” he mutters. “Dumbest shit I’ve ever seen. Bunch of high and mighty pussies who think they know everything. Butcher said they do this every year,” he shakes his head like that’s an impossible thought. “Wouldn’t have fucking let that slide in my day.”
You hum. “I mean, evangelical Christianity was definitely a thing in the 80s. And 70s. And 60s. Mass media just inflates connection and audience.”
Ben rolls his eyes. “Every year is still goddamn insane. The man has been dead for thousands of goddamn years, there’s nothing fucking new to say.”
You laugh, burying your head in his shoulder. His arms hold you there, safe and comfortable against him, and it takes a lot out of you not to cry again. To just mumble against his skin, “I see you haven’t killed Butcher yet.”
“Yet.” He grunts. “Fucking asshole’s on goddamn thin ice. Borrowed time.”
You smile. “Well, I’m proud of you anyway.”
His arms tense around you, and that thing glows. Somewhere in that carefully tended and protected part of Ben where it lives, it starts to feel ardent and light. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls you closer, but you feel it. Glowing inside him.
“Has anything changed,” you don’t move from speaking against him, because Ben will hear you anywhere. “Since I’ve been…”
You can’t finish that sentence. You can’t say that word. And Ben knows, because he doesn’t make you. “No.”
“Nothing?”
“We haven’t exactly been fucking team building and circle jerking, Sunshine,” he drawls, and you still smile. You missed him. “We’ve got goddamn jobs to do.”
“And you haven’t killed anyone? Even when they’re being idiot pussies?”
He snorts. “They’ve managed not to deserve it yet.”
“Deserve it?”
“They’re listening to you.”
You lean back, and frown at him. “To me?”
“When you tell us to trust you,” he grunts. “When you go on TV.”
Something you hadn’t fully realized was there loosens around your throat. “You’ve seen me? You’ve gotten it?”
“Of course I’ve fucking seen you,” Ben mutters, and his glare is more indigent than anything else. “Green for me to listen. To make sure I know you’re still fucking you.”
You smile, and it’s all teeth and a little bit of joy. He’s seen you, and he’s been paying attention, and he understands. “Good.”
Ben rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to do green, I’ll listen no matter fucking what.”
“It’s a signal-“
“I don’t need a fucking signal to know you’re okay,” he snaps your name. “I can see it on your face. When your little fucking act drops and you look like you. I need to know when you’re not okay. When I have to come get you.”
“Ben-“
“I won’t,” he holds your eyes, voice firm. “I won’t come get you until you say. I’ll go along with your stupid fucking secret plan, but I need a way to know if you need me. If it’s gone to shit and you need me.”
You sigh. He needs this. Ben is doing the impossible thing you’re asking of him and only demanding one thing in return. You couldn’t say no if you wanted to. “Blue.” You squeeze his bicep, and give him another smile. “If I need you, which I won’t,” Ben glares at you, but you keep going. “I’ll wear blue. And you can come get me.”
You’ll never wear blue again. If Ashley or Sage or Homelander try to put you in blue, you’ll spill food or coffee all over the outfit or just fucking burn it. But—likely even when you go home—you’ll never wear blue again. You’ll never wear blue or smell coconut without throwing up, you won’t drink a milkshake for a long time, and you’ll hate the winter forever. You’ll have to stay where it’s warm, you’ll have to keep Ben with you so he can block chilling winds and hold you against him like this. In a way that makes everything hot, makes your blood rush in a way that’s just you and him together. You’ll do anything to keep Ben with you when this is over. You’ll offer him this comfort that there’s a signal to tell him you need him—even if you’ll always need him, regardless of Homelander or Vought or any plan or mission—and whatever else he asks for so he’ll wait for you and hold you when you return.
“Blue,” he repeats, nodding slowly. “Swear it.”
“Promise.” You search his eyes, and try not to cry when you can see just how tired he is. “Thank you.”
“Don’t-“
“Benjamin.” You shake your head, and lean back into him. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
“I haven’t done a fucking thing-“
“You’re here.” You whisper. “You’re going to let me do what I need to do, and you’re waiting. That’s all you have to do, but it still fucking sucks, so thank you.” I love you.
Ben scoffs. “I thought I didn’t let you do anything.”
You huff a soft, sad laugh. “But I’m going to thank you anyway.” You look back up at him and smile. Wide and bittersweet, but still real. This is still real. “Thank you.”
He watches you for a second, and that thing in him is glowing again. Glowing and burning. Hungry.
Then he’s on his knees. Ben’s hands move to hold your thighs, and he falls to his knees between your legs, smirking up at you. Eyes still tired and body still washed in distant pain, but the hunger overtaking all of it. The devotion is spreading over all of him, climbing into you.
“Ben-“
“I am not fucking you here,” he winks up at you, and you don’t think your heart is working anymore. It’s gone into overdrive and it’s going to explode. “But I can still make you feel fucking good.”
Your eyes widen, and you feel heat rush into your face. You feel heat rush everywhere. “Okay.”
“Say it,” he grunts, and you know what he wants. You always know what he wants.
“Please,” you grab his face, running your fingers back into his hair. “Please, Ben.”
“More.”
“I want you,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to stay stable otherwise. Not when one of Ben’s hands is drawing closer to your center, hovering right over your underwear. “Ben, I want you, please-“
His thumb presses right over your clit, and your words turn into a long moan. “All you fucking have to do is ask, beautiful.” He grins up at you. “Say my name and ask.”
“Ben-“
“Whole thing.”
“Benjamin, please-“
He stands up, crashing his mouth against yours as his hand moves under your panties, teasing you gently. Rubbing his thumb lightly while he slides his fingers between you, but never in. Groaning into your mouth when he feels how wet you’ve become, how much you want him.
“Fucking needy, Sunshine.” He mutters, pulling his hand away, taking your underwear with him and dropping it on the floor. “So fucking needy.”
You only moan, trying to grind into him enough that he’ll just come back, and he pulls his mouth away, grinning down at you. He looks so handsome, with dark eyes and full lips that were just on you and why can’t he just come back-
His fingers—the ones that had just been touching you—raise into his mouth, and you almost fall off the counter. Almost jump him when he makes a low, satisfied sound and watches you with a cocky smirk. How you’re wrecked and he’s not even touching you anymore.
“Please-“
He pulls his fingers out his mouth and grabs your face, yanking it up to him. His hand in your hair, your taste is in his mouth, his body so strong and warm and Ben and he’s everything-
“Fucking good,” he mutters against your lips, and you whimper. “You’re so fucking good.” He says your name, and you think you might just cum from that. The impossibly good sound of your name from Ben’s mouth, in his deep and powerful voice.
“Ben,” your words are just breath, but you know he understands, because he grunts and his hands that’s moved under your thigh squeezes you. “Please. More, please-“
He’s gone again, moving you back down to the counter and returning to his knees. You almost whine again, almost make a desperate sound that was probably supposed to be come back, but then he’s everywhere. His hands hook under your knees, and he tugs you forwards. Right into his mouth.
He’s done this once. It made you scream his name and see stars, but this is better. He’s learning, you realize, because he’s already doing everything he needs to do to bring you up to the edge. After just one time he’d somehow memorized every single thing that made you melt, and now he’s on a mission.
He moves one hand to knead and bruise your thigh around him, while using the other to brace against your abdomen, keeping you still as he works.
His tongue is there first. Licking you once until he brushes your clit, flicking it once, feeling your thighs tighten around him, and chuckling as he does it again.
“You fucking like that?” He mutters, and you just moan and try to roll your hips against his face.
He laughs and does it again, lighter this time, so feather like and teasing you until you whine. Until it’s too much and you’re aching before he flattens his tongue against you and hums, running it down, up, down, and into you. Ben pushing his tongue into you, and starts to fuck you with him mouth.
His teeth are brushing against you when he pushes in, letting out a growl when you clench around him that makes his nose bump your clit. You make a strangled sound and he finds a rhythm. His tongue doesn’t stop moving, twisting and fucking you as he squeezes the skin of your thigh, then rises for just enough to nip at your clit and sooth it with a kiss before dropping back down.
Ben won’t let you cum. He knows exactly when that line is and he’s taunting you with it, grunting into you as you start to shake above him, as you tug at his hair or moan his name. He goes faster, eating you like he’s been starved until you start to tremble, and then he slows down, running his tongue between your pussy and clit, never fully touching either. Starting it all over the moment your breathing becomes steady.
“Ben,” you whisper, and he looks up at you with so much devotion and affection it almost makes you fall apart just from him. From how relaxed he looks, between your legs. How his eyes are hungry and lustful and full of light. For you. “Please.”
He hums against you, and you shiver as the sound runs up your spine. “More?”
“Please.”
“You want me?”
“I need you.”
He smirks up at you. “You need me, Sunshine? Need me to make you fucking cum?”
“Yes,” you breathe out as his hand moves from your thigh, tracing circles around you and over you but never pushing in. “Ben, please. I need you, please-“
Two broad, rough fingers push into you and your words dissolve into a moan. Ben pumps them once, and once more when you squeeze around him. “Like that? You fucking need me to do that?”
“Ben-“
“So fucking tight,” he mutters, gaze dropping down to watch you clench around him when he moves again. “You’re so fucking tight, beautiful, it’s gonna fucking kill me.”
You can’t speak anymore, not when he moves in and out again, and again, and again. Setting a brutal, demanding pace that has you unable to think outside of Ben. Rough, strong fingers inside of you that are Ben’s and making you feel so good.
“No smart words from that pretty fucking mouth?” he hums your name, and you whine.
“Ben-“
“There’s one.” He winks at you, and you melt further into him. Try to use your leg to pull him closer. “Let’s see if we can make you scream it.”
He drops back down and bites your clit. It’s gentle and light, but Ben bites you and you have to move a hand to cover your mouth so you don’t scream his name. You’re trying to grind onto his face, his fingering still fucking you without relent or relief, and you need him to keep going. To bite you or lick you or do something to bring you over the edge. But his arm is keeping you so torturously still, you can only grip his hair and throw your head back as he goes and goes and goes and you’re full of him. He’s in you and on you, his tongue tracing taunting circles around your clit, and it’s all Ben.
Then he kisses you. He leaves one, painfully soft kiss against your clit as his fingers still deep inside you, and you’re so close.
“Ben-“
You feel him grin against you, and he crooks his fingers in you against that one spot as he pulls your clit into his mouth. He sucks on it and groans, and that’s it. Everything is Ben, flicking his tongue against you with a growl and scissoring his fingers to give friction inside you, and you have to bite your hand as you cum. As everything grows loose and good, the whole world becomes both so big and wide but it’s still just Ben. It’s still just Ben in all the warmth and pleasure, making you feel like you’re made of stardust and more important than the sun as he keeps going through your orgasm until you’re shaking. Until you’re trying to pull him back up because you need to see him. You need him to kiss you again because you love him, and this is going to be over so soon and you just need to see him. Show Ben that he’s done this, that every part of you is his and nothing else has ever mattered like this matters.
You almost damn it. He’s pulled you apart and put you back together, still going, and now you have to tell him. Ben has to know, he has to know you love him. It’s so impossibly crucial that Ben understands you love him. You say it, you say Ben, I love you, but he’s done his job too well and all that comes out is a breathless, wanting sound. Every part of your body, of your mind and soul tries to say it as well. Ben. Ben, I love you. Ben, I love you. Please understand, please try and feel how much I love you and tell me you understand. But he's still going, even as your thighs start to crush his head, and all you get is a roar. That thing inside him roars, and moves to fully rest in you. You don’t understand it, you’re not even sure Ben understands it, but it’s sitting in you now just as much as him, and it’s the most natural thing you’ve ever felt. It hums when you repeat the words in your head, when you think Ben. Ben, I love you, and pray he’ll somehow hear it, somehow see it on your face when he’s still between your legs. He doesn’t, but that thing always makes another low, happy sound and that can be enough. Everything is light and high, and this strange thing that lives in Ben but feels like it’s yours can be enough.
Ben, after what might have been a thousand years, stands up. He’s staring at you—still slightly shaking and flushed, words still a little far away—and the look in his eyes is reverent. His face is covered in you and his beard is wet but he’s not moving to wipe it away. He just kisses you, one last long time, and mutters your name against your lips.
“You’re perfect,” his voice is low and wanting, and you shutter against him. Feel his hard cock twitch against you. “You’re so fucking perfect.”
In the grand scheme of things, it’s probably a good thing A-Train finds you when he does. Because if you’d been left alone with Ben for about three more seconds the part of you that’s been begging you to just go, go home with Ben and the rest of the world can figure out how to deal with this themselves, just tell Ben you love him and go, would’ve won.
That doesn’t mean you can’t be annoyed when the room is rushed with cold air and A-Train slams the door behind him.
Ben’s faster than you—in all fairness he didn’t just have an earth-shattering orgasm and you’re at a disadvantage—and turns to block your body from view, roaring at A-Train.
“What the fucking hell-“
“Calm down, asshole.” Peaking over Ben’s shoulder you can see that A-Train’s facing the wall, back to you both. “This isn’t something I want to see. I’m just doing my job.”
“Get fuck out-“
You reach around Ben’s head and cover his mouth with a hand, staying behind him as you lean over his body to address A-Train. “Are we ready?”
A-Train nods. “Ezekiel’s waiting for me, I told him I’d find where your team is then come get him.”
“Okay,” you sigh, trying to focus on running through your mental checklist when you can still feel Ben, when your legs have wrapped themselves around his torso. “I’ll burn out your tracker, and we’ll get going.”
Ben licks your hand, and it surprises you enough to pull back.
“Benjamin, what the hell-“
“Does anyone want to fucking tell me what’s going on?” He snaps, glaring at you over his shoulder. “Or am I supposed to just goddamn stay in the dark?”
“I did tell you,” you kick his thigh slightly. “A-Train’s defecting, you’re going to kill him-“
“Don’t actually kill me,” A-Train cuts in, still facing away from you. “I’m not doing this if this dick is going to actually kill me.”
“He’s knows that-“
Ben shrugs. “I don’t know shit.”
You pinch him, shooting him a flat look. You’re being unhelpful. Shut up and get me decent.
He rolls his eyes, and ducks down to pick your discarded underwear off the floor. You keep speaking as he helps you into them, allowing yourself to sit slightly in the feeling of him touching you, hands running up your legs and arms holding you still.
“They won’t kill you, A-Train. Ben, promise you won’t kill him.”
“Whatever.”
“Benjamin.”
“Fine, I won’t fucking kill him.”
You glare at him. “Promise.”
“I swear I won’t kill him.” He glares at you, drawing back up to his full height. “Happy?”
You smile at him. “Very.” And it’s not even a lie. “A-Train, you can look.”
Ben steps to the side—you have to shove him slightly, but he does—and A-Train turns around slowly.
“My tracker?”
You nod, pushing off the counter and crossing the bathroom. “This might take a second.”
Ben follows you, standing behind you silently as you raise your hand over A-Train’s extended arm and close your eyes. This will work, this has to work. Ben’s right here, and he’s warm, and right now you’re not afraid, so this will work.
It takes a few minutes of slow breathing and focus, but you drag just enough up fire. You can do this.
You glance at A-Train once. “This might really hurt.”
“Just do it-“
The flame forms in the palm of your hand and your eyes narrow. Concentrating it into something like a needle and pushing it into A-Train’s arm. He flinches, face twisting, but doesn’t pull away as you work. Smoke fills the room, all three of you watching the beam of fire twist and scorch A-Train’s skin, burning it with the tracker. Ben’s shoulder nudges yours and you pause, looking up at him.
“What?”
“It’s gone,” he grunts. “I heard it, it’s fried.”
A-Train frowns. “You sure?”
“Fucking positive.”
“Then,” A-Train looks back at you. “We’re good?”
You glance at Ben, who gives you a tight nod. “I guess.”
A-Train looks between you and Ben again, but rests his arm back at his side. “Is he going to tell your team-“
“I’ve got it fucking handled,” Ben snaps. “Pretend to kill you, bring you back. Find another way to get V.”
“V?”
Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten. “Fuck, wait. A-Train where did you find Ezekiel?”
“He was backstage,” he shrugs. “Most of that time was spent convincing him, he’s annoying as hell-” He frowns at you, cutting himself off. “Why?”
“We need some V,” you sigh. “But if he was backstage that means they finished cleaning up. There won’t be any left, not here.”
“Why do you need V?” A-Train shakes his head. “That shit is horrible for you, it almost fucking killed me-“
“It knocks Homelander out. We need it to kill him.” You look at Ben, and find him watching you carefully. “You’re going to need to tell Butcher what I told you. You’re not going to find V any way you might have before.”
Ben scowls. “Well then how the fuck-“
“Homelander,” you swallow down the lump and bile in your throat. “He’s the only bet we have. He had to have kept some-“
“He keeps some in his apartment,” A-Train interjects, and you turn to see him frowning at you, hands on his hips. “I saw it, even took some for Hughie. It’s in a box.”
“I’ve never seen it-“
“He might have moved it when you arrived,” A-Train shrugs. “But he has some.”
You nod, chewing on your tongue, and feel Ben’s arms wrap around you. Pulling you back into his chest.
“You don’t have to fucking get it.” He mutters. “We’ll find another way-“
You sigh, and tilt your head back to look up at him. “There’s not always another way, Ben. We have to get through this, not around it.”
He glares at you. Come home. Just fucking come home.
I can’t. You stand on your toes, leaning further into him, and give him a gentle smile. You have to go, and I can’t come with you.
His body tenses around you, and he makes a deep, pained sound from his chest. I fucking hate this. This is fucking stupid and I fucking hate it.
I know. You squeeze his arm around you and force yourself not to cry. You can’t cry now, because you won’t stop and this will never work. I know you do. But I’ll see you again. Soon.
Fucking swear it. Swear you’ll come home.
I promise.
He nods, and turns you around. Kisses you again, and you know this is the last one for a while. He’s not pushing into you or trying to get more, he’s just trying to memorize you and you’re doing the same to him. You already knew all of Ben—and he knows all of you—but you need to have it leave a mark that you can carry when he goes. You need to still remember in a week, still feel how his muscles move around you like he’s still holding you, have his taste remain on your tongue when he’s not there pushing it into you, smell pine and gunpowder and Ben over the coconut. You’ll certainly have how he sounds—you’ll never lose how Ben sounds because his phantom will stay with you—but you want all of it. You need all of it if you’re going to keep going.
A-Train coughs, and Ben pulls away with one last, gentle movement.
“We have to get moving,” when you turn, A-Train isn’t looking at you, but frowning at Ben. “Homelander will be back real soon, for his speech.”
Homelander’s speech. Your speech. You have to go do your speech. “Okay.”
You have to force every step as you pull away from Ben’s body. He doesn’t let you go, not fully, allowing you to turn before dropping his head down to yours.
“Come home.” It���s final. He’s still asking, even when he knows the answer, one final time.
“Soon,” you whisper. “You’re not losing me, Ben. You just have to wait for me.”
“I’ll always fucking wait for you.” He grunts, and your heart isn’t going to recover from this. Not for a long time. “I’ll wait a million goddamn years, as long as you always fucking come home.”
“Always.” You mumble, and he nods. “Thank you.”
“You burn, I burn,” his breath fans against your face, and you can feel that thing in him start to riot. Claw up your lungs—Ben’s lungs—and throat. Furious and loud.
So you just make a small, sad sound because you’re out of tears and sobs and sighs and smiles. “You burn, I burn.” You look up, and meet his eyes. “Can you do me a favor, Ben?”
He just grunts, and you know he understands. You’re not asking, you’re cashing one of your last favors in. But it’s not for you.
“Don’t be a dick to Ryan, please.”
Ben blinks at you. “What?”
“Ryan Butcher.” You watch him carefully. “Don’t be an ass to him. He’s just a kid.”
“I haven’t been a fucking ass-“
“Yes, you have.” You trace a hand along his beard, resting it at the base of his neck. “I know you, Ben. You might not be being an ass on purpose, but you’re blaming him for this. He’s just a kid, it’s not his fault. None of this is his fault.”
“You’re only here-“
“Because of Homelander,” you shake your head against his. “Not because you lost me, or failed me. Not because of Ryan or even Butcher. Because of Homelander. So please, just be kind to Ryan. For me.”
He stands up, and holds you against him for one last moment. “Fine.” He pauses and kisses the top of your head, speaking the last words against you in a way that rolls through your body. “For you.”
“I’ll see you soon,” you whisper into his chest, your words right over his heart. Right over where you can still feel that thing tearing Ben apart. You hope he’ll carry them until you’re home and can tell that thing to rest.
Ben nods. “Soon.”
A-Train’s been waiting, and you’re thankful for how he doesn’t say anything. How he lets Ben and you peel yourselves apart, lets Ben pick up his cap, gives you one last curt nod, and doesn’t comment on how you love Ben, or make you say any more promises. You only have room for two promises now, because they’re the most important ones you’ll ever make. Kill Homelander. Go home. You only have in it you to nod back, and try not to fall to the floor and scream when Ben gives you one last look and a kiss on the crease of your brow. When he walks out the door—like you’d told him to—and you have to watch him go. When A-Train leaves as well, and you trust both of them to do what you need them to, but it still shatters you. You’d had him. He was real and warm and here and you’d had him. There wasn’t a world where you kept him—not today—but this is still the most painful thing you’ve ever done.
He’s lingering. You’re finding your way back to the stage and Ben’s likely still across the venue, but he’s still in you. That impossible to understand thing is still in you where it had been in Ben, and it’s not fading. It’s setting itself into you, and making you feel Ben even when you pull off your disguise and try to fix your makeup and smooth your hair in a backstage mirror. It’s making it hard to acknowledge that doing that—staying there with him for so long and letting him touch you like you’d needed—wasn’t smart, because this is all you’ll have for a while. At least until you revise your plan, until you figure out a way to get your team the V they need. As much as it hurts, you’re praying that this thing stays with you until you’re back in Ben’s arms. It might be the only way you get through this.
Ashley finds you minutes later, her hair a mess and a wild, panicked look in her eyes. “Where the fuck did you go?!”
“I was in the bathroom-“
“The bathroom?!” She shakes her head frantically. “For almost a fucking hour?!”
You shrug, looking around nervously. No Homelander. No Sage. “I can’t control my period-“
“You know what?” Ashley raises a hand sharply. “I don’t fucking care. You’re on now, move.”
Your mouth falls open, and the cold starts to creep back in. “Now? But I’m not until-“
“A-Train and Ezekiel are fucking missing, and Sage still hasn’t shown up after being a controlling bitch about this all week, so you’re on now.” You’re frozen in place, and Ashley looks up at you with glare. “Now! Fucking go!”
She almost moves to push you, but flinches back at the last second. Your feet start to carry you forwards, moving mechanically through the steps Ashley had drilled into you this morning. A man mics you, and you can barely feel his anxiety over the cold. It’s getting cold again, and the only thing keeping your legs steady beneath you, keeping you upright, is the way that Ben is still there. How you can feel that odd thing from him ingrained in you even when he’s gone, how it’s him. Everything about it is Ben, and it’s making a home inside of you and keeping your mind from clouding with cold. Fogged up cold.
The man finishes his job, adjusting the mic a little further from your mouth. A woman checks your hair and makeup, and another points out all your marks and the teleprompter as Deep wraps up with large gestures and over-exaggerated laughs. The first woman smooths down your costume once and gives a thumbs up, the second shoves you forward with a clipboard, and suddenly you’re there. On the stage, walking to a red x and being blinded by stage lights that turn the crowd into murmuring shadows.
Words fall out of your mouth like vomit. You sound robotic. You feel robotic. You’re speaking and your voice isn’t yours, you’re smiling and it’s wrong on your face, and your hands are locked behind your back so your nails can tap and dig into your skin.
“From when I was young, I’ve loved Homelander. Even when we were children, sharing secret moments in the fields behind my parent’s house, I loved him. I loved him enough to follow him to the city before he knew how I felt, before I knew he loved me. I loved him when he made his first save, and he told me how happy it made him.” Swallow the bile, read the words on the prompter. The boring, mechanical, words about love that aren’t yours. Aren’t about your love. “I loved him when he came to me with roses and told me he loved me, asked me to be his one and only. I loved him when he let me stay on the sidelines, when he was forced into PR relationships to keep me safe. I love him now, as America’s greatest hero and my savior.” Don’t break. “I love Homelander because he completes me. I see us in every great romance in history. He is the thing that gets me up in the morning. He makes me happy, and I want to start a family with him. Lead the best life we can together. I’m excited to lead a great life with Homelander, for our love story-“
Your words are cut off by a rush of air and shaking of the stage as Homelander lands at your side. Grinning and waving, placing a hand on your lower back as his voice echoes over the venue.
“Oh, just pretend you can’t see me!” The crowd grows louder with applause, and he laughs. “I’m here to listen to Anomaly, same as all of you! I just have the best seat!” He pulls you off your mark, closer to the front of the stage. “She’s doing so well, isn’t she?”
He grins at you as the crowd’s noise begins to drown out your own thoughts, and you make yourself smile back. The nerves are real, but you force the comfort onto your face. Make yourself stay on your feet. There’s no other option but staying on your feet and smiling at Homelander like his hand on your own body doesn’t fill you with dread and agony and cold. Pretend you don’t know what’s coming, that you’re going to finish and Homelander will kiss you and you’ll have to not scream or push him away. You’re sweating and the air is humid from the lingering mist of the morning, but you’re so cold.
“Alright, let’s settle down!” Homelander dismisses the crowd with a hand, and the last few whoops and claps die off. “Keep going, honey, everyone’s listening.”
You swallow. No way out. “I’m excited to lead a great life with Homelander, for our love story to be remembered as one from a fairytale. Because he is my prince, my white knight who saved me from the dark. Homelander, you're my soulmate, and I love you. I am deeply in love with you, and there will never be another-“
Something bangs in the distance, and the part of Ben that’s still in you begins to pound. Drums. Echoes of drums in your chest that fall into time with a spark of lights and another bang. Gunshots. Those are gunshots and the overhead lights are sparking.
Homelander’s hand tenses on your back. “Keep calm, folks! I’m sure it’s just a truck! I’ll go myself and make sure they get that faulty engine fixed. Please, let my lovely girlfriend finish the speech she’s been working so hard on.” He leans down to hiss in your ear, face turned from the crowd. “Keep going until I get back. Don’t stop fucking talking.”
He’s gone, and another gunshot fires. Ben. Ben might be in danger, Homelander’s going and Ben is strong but they don’t have the V, and Sage hasn’t been seen all day. The gas-
Ashley’s gesturing at you off to the side. Keep going.
You have to keep going. There’s nothing you can do but try and cling to that thing in you—rumbling and bloody—that tells you Ben is still awake. Try and raise your voice over the gunshots that mean he’s still fighting.
“There will never be another man for me. And that’s why-“ The prompter glitches and sparks out, and a flash of light clears the sky in the distance. Then there’s another gunshot, and a whoosh of air, and you have to keep going. You can still feel Ben, so you have to keep going. There are no words left for you to say, you didn’t memorize the speech and can’t remember where it went after the that’s why line. You have to find your own word. You have to just keep going.
“That’s why I want to share what it’s like to love him.” You take a heavy breath, and hold onto that piece of Ben in you like it’s a lifeline. “Why he’s everything to me.”
The venue lights flash again, and the phones start to spark out and fry with the cameras. You’re okay with that. This isn’t for the world to remember or see, this is for you to keep talking and find a way to keep going.
“He’s good,” you smile into the flickering darkness. “He’s just so good. It’s hard, but he’s still good. His smile is the best one you’ll ever see, and his laugh is the only thing you’ll ever need to hear. If you could see him happy like I do, you’d never want to see anything else. And I, I get to do so many things I’ve always wanted to do with him. I get to talk to him and feel heard and to cook with him and share things I enjoy, and he touches me like I’m the only one he’s ever wanted to touch. Ever needed to touch. Ever needed. I get to feel half as wanted as I want him, and I want him. I want all of him.” You can’t stop. Your heart is breaking and gluing itself together every other second, but you can’t stop. “I want the parts you get to see and the parts that get to be mine. I want to laugh at him and with him and see him smile. See a smile that gets to be mine, and keep watching him try. Try to keep me when everything is horrible, and I want to stay with him, I want to stay with him-“ Your words are becoming choked, and you’re pleading to no one. Begging into a silent crowd of people who don’t understand and a night that doesn’t care. Keep going. “I, I want to watch him be better, never stop trying to be better, just be better and be good. Be good to me, he’s so good to me, even, even when it’s hard and I have to miss him and I-“
The whole word explodes. The drums are still rattling around your head as the night is illuminated from a cloud of fire and ash exploding across the night. You almost run to it, run to him, but people are grabbing you and pulling you off stage. You can’t fight, you're frozen, kept from shattering only by the hum of Ben still carved into you. Like an imprint, like a scar you wouldn’t want to heal if you could because it’s telling you he’s awake.
They lock you away. Someone shoves you into the trailer and you hear the door click, but you don’t bother to even try the handle. You couldn’t move if you wanted, couldn’t run if you tried. You’re cracking. Not breaking—not while that thing of Ben’s still shifts inside you and tells you he’s okay—but cracking. Growing weaker, the fire going dormant once more, because you’d let it get away from you. That speech won’t see the morning, nobody had gotten the part that was just you on footage, but people will talk. Sage will hear, Homelander will hear, and the former will know that you weren’t talking from nothing. She’ll see that hand you’d accidentally shown, that last piece she’d been looking for. The only thing that will save you is the latter believing you were speaking of him. That it’s Homelander you need and want and think is good. You’ve never laughed with Homelander, never seen him be better—only worse—and never, ever missed him, but he’ll still think you were talking about him.
You miss Ben. You’re sobbing on the floor, cracks appearing in your mask because it’s all too much, and you just miss Ben. You’ll get through this. You can feel that echo of Ben still in your chest even as the noise outside dies down, and you know you’ll get through this, but you’ll miss Ben. More than before, which you didn’t think was possible. You’ll miss him more because he’s waiting, and you know home is closer in time but far in effort. Anything goes wrong and home goes away forever. There’s a way to kill Homelander, a way to get Ben the shot to kill Homelander, but this has to go right. You have to do this clever, however you need to, and with no hesitation, because then you can go home and Ben will be waiting. You’ll kill Homelander, and hold each other until this doesn’t feel like pain anymore. Only another shadow in the corner, another skeleton you bury and grow flowers from.
Ben will be waiting. You’ll pull yourself up and tape every single piece of your mind together to drag yourself home to Ben, and he’ll pick you up. Ben will wait, and he’ll make this better.
You’ll love him when you touch him again, and forever after that. You’ll love him when he makes this better and you remind him he’ll never fail you. When you get to stay and you never have to break again. Until then you’ll love him here as well. You’ll keep this piece of Ben in you, and worship in the hopes he feels it.
You hope he feels your love. Even if he doesn’t love you, you still hope Ben gets to feel your love like you feel his strange thing inside of you. Gets to know it’s yours, for him, and feel how easy and natural it is to love him. How he didn’t fail you, could never fail you, because you love him like this.
You love him until the night is silent. Until it’s just the dark and spreading warmth. Until your tears are dry and you can just feel you and him. You love Ben like there’s nothing else to love in the world, because there’s not.
No love is worth this holy and infinite one that you have for Ben. No love is worth rage and desolation like this one is. No one is worth what Ben is.
And he’ll wait for you. You’ll go back to him. You’ll find a way home.
You’ll always find your way back to Ben.
——————
Ben couldn’t let himself think about it. Not now, not when he was still fucking clean up the mess he and the team had made. Not when the Pussy Mobile had come to a screeching, rattling halt right before Butcher could park it, and Ben was honestly surprised they’d made it the whole damn drive back. The hunk of shit probably should’ve broken down the moment Butcher had floored it and they’d torn away as Homelander dealt with their diversion. Ezekiel’s body strung up across tents—Ben having pulled him apart with hands and hatred—Annie playing haunted house with all the lights, and a bomb of the French Prick’s going off when Homelander destroyed the guns MM had rigged to keep firing.
He couldn’t think about how’d almost fucking lost it. How they’d been driving away and Ben had been forced to shove the drums down, try to control them and keep the bomb in his chest from destroying the van and the team when the Thing was roaring at him. When the night had exploded and it had shaken the van, making Ben have to just stare and floor and try not to get lost in how much this fucking hurt. He’d done it, he’d done exactly as She’d asked. A-Train was “dead”—Homelander even the last person to see him before Frenchie’s bomb supposedly blew him to bits, which had been Hughie’s idea and didn’t end up being total fucking shit—and they knew they had to wait for V. They knew that had to wait for Her to get them some or find it somewhere else. Every selfish part of Ben wanted Her to get it, because that meant she’d have to give it them. She’d have to come home to give them the V, and this wouldn’t fucking hurt anymore.
He’d find a way to get Her to stay this time, and this would never be painful again. He’d kill Homelander and she’d get to smile at him somewhere in Rome forever. He’d hear Her cry about normal, stupid fucking things and she’d tease him and tell him what to do, and he’d just kiss Her until this didn’t fucking hurt anymore. Because he’d done it, he’d done the job, and he’d never hated himself more.
They were circled up in the dining hall. It was past midnight, but this was a lot more fucking important. They had A-Train, and maybe the fucker could help them. Get Her closer to coming home. Sleep didn’t matter, not when Ben had to fucking bring Her home.
Ben’s at the head of the table. He can’t sit, can’t rest, he can’t stop fucking moving, not for a second. Not when it will be nothing but fucking pain and images of Her in his head. Fresh, like open wounds that won’t just fucking heal.
So Ben stood, rigid at the head of the table, his fists curling and uncurling. Butcher at his side—the man’s glare almost as violent as Ben’s—as A-Train’s bouncing knee shook the table. Hughie and Annie had gone to bed with small nods—nobody had stopped them—but MM was frowning at A-Train from his seat across the table, and Kimiko and the French Prick were watching the tight silence with nervous expressions.
“Are any of you going to talk, or just keep fucking staring at me?”
Ben’s jaw clenched at the fucking sneer in A-Train’s voice. The fucking annoyance, as if Ben hadn’t just fucking given everything, given the whole fucking world, to save his fast, worthless, pussy ass. She’d told him to, and he had, but it should be Her at the table. In Ben’s arms. Not this fucking piece of shit She’d been so goddamn certain could help.
He could only say half of that. A-Train needed to understand what had been lost to get him here. He had no fucking right to know more about Her.
Ben leaned across the table, not bother to hide the fucking fury in his voice. “You’re the one who needs to start fucking talking.”
“About what?” A-Train snapped. “I’m here, you know why I’m here, what else am I supposed to do?”
“Make this fucking worth it!” Ben roared Her name. “Said you’d help. Fucking help!”
“How? How am I supposed to help?”
Butcher cut in right before Ben could rip A-Train’s head off. “Our mutual friend seemed to be bloody certain you’d have somethin for us. MM here seems to think we can trust you. And I’d fuckin wager you’ve got some real nasty shit on Homelander and Vought.”
“Yeah, but-“
“Man, just listen,” MM muttered. “Those two motherfuckers get off on vengeance, and you’re not doing yourself any favors by poking at them.”
Butcher scowled at MM, and Ben just keeps fucking pushing. She’d said A-Train could help, and she was never fucking wrong, so the pussy better start fucking helping until Ben started finding more creative ways to figure out what she’d meant.
Don’t kill A-Train, Ben. Her voice hummed in his head. Or at least do it outside. People eat here.
“What was she planning,” Ben grunted, trying to speak firm and steady over the pain. “She told me she was planning something. What is it.”
“Don’t know,” A-Train at least had the brains to look a little fucking guilty. “When we talked she’d never tell me. Said she couldn’t risk it or something.”
“Well, what did she say?” MM runs his hand over his face. “There has to be something we could use.”
“Nothing,” A-Train’s answer is way too damn fast, and he’s giving Ben a strange fucking look. “I mean, she was trying to convince me to help, and I agreed, and now I’m here. I can’t fucking help more than that-“
“That ain’t fuckin true mate,” Butcher sneers. “You gotta have somethin for us. We didn’t fake your damn death just for you to come here and leech.”
“I’ve got some stuff on Vought, but you can’t really think they were telling me everything? I mean, Sage didn’t trust me as far as she could thrown me, and she’s not that strong-“
“There has to be fucking something!” Ben hissed Her name, leaning down to hold A-Train’s gaze. “She had to have said fucking something, anything, that could get her-“
“She wouldn’t share her plan with me!” A-Train was still fucking looking at Ben like that. Like he’d fucking dropped from the sky and was speaking goddamn gibberish. “Like I said, she didn’t tell me anything! I asked, and she said no. She didn’t even fucking tell you!” A-Train gestured at Ben with an exasperated movement. “Why do you think she’d tell me!”
“A-Train,” MM sighed. “What do you know? That shit about Vought, about Homelander and Sage, about anything.”
“I mean I fucking know all their old V stashes. I know about security. I know Sage, kind of. How she thinks. I know Ashley, and she’s real close to snapping or losing it or something.”
“That’s good,” MM glanced up at Butcher. “We can get Mallory here tomorrow. Get all his shit down.”
“Mate, we can’t be fuckin sure he’s even gonna tell us the truth-“
“I will.” A-Train frowned at Butcher. “I’m not here for Vought, fuck those guys. I’m here because I’m trying to be better. Because she,” A-Train shot Ben another strange look as he said Her name for clarification. “She said I could help. I’m not going to lie, there’s too much on the fucking line to lie.”
“Well,” Butcher snapped. “We might need a little bloody more than Vought security protocols and a fuckin Sage profile. That’s all shit we can get our fuckin selves-“
“I can get you their passwords.” A-Train said, words abrupt and tight. “Hughie’s into all that computer stuff, right? I can write down everything I remember about Vought, about all their passwords, and go over what Sage has told me. I can tell you weaknesses, about Homelander and milk, and the Deep and fish-“
“How the fuck will that help-“
A-Train cut Ben off with Her name, and everything fucking hurt again. “She thought I could help. This is all I can do, man. She knew that, and she thought it was worth it.”
“Stop fucking talking about her like that.” Ben hissed. “You don’t know her. You don’t know what she thinks, not about this or any other damn thing.”
“She told me I could help you. So I’m here.” A-Train didn’t flinch away from Ben’s glare. “Don’t blame me for her idea.”
Ben was going to kill him. He was going to fucking rip his spine out of his back and break both his knees. The pussy didn’t have any fucking right to pretend to know Her, what she wanted. Ben trusted Her with his goddamn life, and he fucking trusted she knew what she was doing because there was no other option. No world where she never came back to him. She had to fucking come back, come home, but there wasn’t a single fucking way passwords and milk was going to help fucking help them. Help Her.
Butcher placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder, and he flinched. “The fuck-“
“In and out, Gov.” Butcher muttered. “It ain’t gonna help shit to kill A-Train, even if he deserves it.”
“Shut the fuck up, you pussy-“
“Trust me, I want to kill him just as much as you do. But he’s got somethin for us that ain’t totally fuckin useless.” Butcher nodded to MM. “We’ll get Mallory here at the crack of fuckin dawn. We got some work to do.”
MM nodded, leaning down the table to the French Prick and Kimiko. “Can you two show A-Train a room? Doesn’t fucking matter which one, just get him in a bed.”
A-Train gave Ben one last weird fucking look before he was led out of the room, leaving Ben with Butcher, MM, and the hum of a fan somewhere.
Butcher sighed, dropping his hand from Ben’s shoulder back into his pockets. “MM, you better be bloody right about him-“
“I am,” MM muttered. “He’s here. He’s not going to fucking leave now, not with his family out there. And we can use his info, get the Kid on a laptop and into their servers. Get an idea of what Sage is doing. But we still need V-“
Butcher said Her name, and it ached in Ben’s ears. “Said she’d get us some. Right, Gov?”
Ben grunted with a nod, and Butcher frowned.
“She good?”
Ben shot Butcher a glare. “The fuck is it to you.”
Butcher shrugged. “She’s doin a lot of shit. Want to make sure she ain’t gonna burn out on us.”
“She fucking won’t.” Ben snapped. She couldn’t. She’d promised she’d come home. “She’ll be fine.”
She’ll be fine. Ben had left Her but she was going to be fine.
You didn’t leave me, Ben.
Butcher was speaking before Ben could respond to Her voice. “You didn’t fuckin pick her up and carry her back?”
“Fucking obviously.”
Butcher narrowed his eyes. “After all your fuckin peacocking-“
“She told me to trust her,” Ben muttered. “And she’d have fucking kicked my ass if I tried to take her.” Ben shot Butcher a cold look. “I’m not in the business of making my woman do shit she doesn’t goddamn want to.”
He’d said the words before he could think about them. My woman. She was his. He was supposed to hold her and protect her and care for her and help her and-
Everything was fucking painful.
Butcher grunted, nodding. “She’ll get through this, Mate. She’s a clever fuckin lady, she knows what she’s doing.”
Ben didn’t respond. He already fucking knew that, he knew everything about her. She was fucking perfect and a goddamn threat to Ben’s sanity.
He didn’t even notice Butcher was gone until MM coughed, and Ben realized it was just them left in the dining hall.
“What.”
“You were gone with her for a while,” MM said, watching Ben with a blank, unreadable face. “The fuck were you doing that whole time.”
“None of your fucking business.”
“It is if she’s-“
“It’s fucking not.” Ben glared at MM with all the fucking pain in his body. “It’s ours. Nobody else's.”
MM hummed, holding Ben’s glower. “Ours.”
“You’ve got a fucking problem with that? You hate me so fucking much you don’t trust me with her? When I’m the only fucking one who’s been fighting for her, doing whatever it fucking takes while you pussies-“
“I don’t trust you with her, motherfucker.” MM sneered. “She’s a good woman, and she’s too good for you. She doesn’t need you to fight for her-“
“Shut the fuck up.” Ben couldn’t fucking deal with this. Not when everything hurt and he could still see Her when he closed his eyes. “You can hate me for the rest of goddamn time, and tell me I’m evil or say I get off on vengeance, or whatever else makes you sleep at night, but never say shit about what you think she deserves, or needs.”
“What, you think you speak for her?” MM scoffed. “You think she needs you?”
Something stabbed deep into the Thing, and Ben had to speak through gritted teeth. “She doesn’t fucking need anyone. She wants me.” His head hurt. Something was pulling at his throat and clouding his eyes and a halo of pain was wrapping around his head. Stinging his tongue when he said Her name. “Doesn’t need you telling her what she wants. Or if I’m fucking good for her. She’s capable of making her own fucking choices.”
Look at you, defending my honor. My right to choose. Keep this up and you’ll be giving lectures at Feminist panels.
The pain was becoming blinding.
“You’re a fucking murderer, Soldier Boy.” MM stood from the table, leering at Ben. “Nothing’s going to change that, change the shit you’ve done.”
Ben’s jaw was going to break. “I know what I was.” He grunted, a lot of his anger leaking out and being replaced by just this inescapable agony. “You don’t need to fucking tell me. But I’d fucking do it again,” Ben gave MM a cold look. “I’d kill a thousand fucking people and be trapped in Russia for a million goddamn years if it brought her home.”
“And what about those people's families?” MM hissed. “Their kids, like me?”
“I’d fucking repent.” Ben sighed. He was so fucking tired. “I’d do it and add another hundred years to my sentence for every single body.” Anything. Anything to bring Her home.
“What about me,” MM was still frowning, but there was something tragic in his voice. Something Ben couldn’t call weak, because he felt it too, felt it in his pain. “What about what you fucking did to me.”
Ben said the only thing he could think of. The only thing that he could fucking mean and understand at the same time. “Whatever I fucking need to for you just fucking let her be happy.”
“With you?”
“With me.” Ben felt something hard in his throat. “Or wherever else she wants. Just goddamn happy.”
MM sighed, and Ben wished he would just fucking leave. Let Ben deal with this fucking pain alone. “She’ll fucking want it with you.”
Ben blinked at MM, something close to shock sparking through his chest. “What.”
“She’ll be happy with you. When she gets back. I can’t fucking explain it, I defiantly don’t damn understand it, but she’s real happy with you.” MM shook his head. “She sees something in you I can’t understand, don’t even know where she’s finding it, but she’s smarter than most of us. Smarter than me and Butcher, defiantly fucking smart than you. I can’t explain why, shit’s fucking baffling why, but she’ll be happy with you. Just,” MM gave Ben one last look. It wasn’t cold, wasn’t hateful. Just tired. “Try to earn it.”
It was like MM had fucking shot him. Shot Ben in the fucking chest and left him to bleed out. He stood in the dining hall, alone and in pain long after MM left, and only managed to move when the fan stuttered off and he couldn’t stand the silence.
He hadn’t earned Her. Ben could never fucking earn her. He’d held her and lost her, fucking again. He’d spent the whole fucking Christ Convenetion feeling the way the Thing was alight, burning and raging inside of him, trying to pull him around and falling into a beat that was so familiar but Ben still didn’t recognize, or know how to decipher. It had been trying to tell him something, it was always trying to tell him something, but it had been fucking feral. Roaring and howling in a language Ben didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. He’d come closer to geting, when he’d seen her. Touched Her.
Real.
Back in his arms and fucking real. Making the Thing start to break bones in his body and turn Ben into just a fucking soldier that could bring Her home. Make her smile while she was against him forever, make those feelings of sheer fucking pleasure and ease run between them when he touched her, tasted her, and just had her.
He’d fucking had Her. She’d been real, with Ben, and he’d lost her.
You didn’t lose me, Benjamin. I’ll come home.
He didn’t fucking care. It was all goddamn semantics, because Ben had failed, again, to be worthy of her. He’d listened to her and done as he’d been told, and still managed to fail Her. She wasn’t home. Ben couldn’t breathe because she wasn’t home. He’d failed to bring Her home, failed to convince her she’d done enough. That everything was worse because she wasn’t at Ben’s side, that everything hurt because he’d fucking failed. She didn’t know what she meant to him. If She knew what she meant to Ben she’d have come home. If he could break the Thing’s stupid fucking code and tell her that vital thing, she’d have understood and come home.
The Thing pulsed, and Ben knew he was wrong. Collapsing on the couch, he knew he was wrong and she wouldn’t have left. He could’ve offered Her the sun and stars and every fucking song in the world and she’d have still told him she had to see this through.
Why couldn’t he have chosen to feel like this about a woman who would just go? Leave? Just fuck the world and come home for Ben.
Because that wouldn’t have been Her. The Thing ran into Ben’s head, but it wasn’t speaking. It was pushing against the painful haze, and Ben was finding the words on his own. She’d never give up on the world. She’s too good to give up on the world. And it always has to be Her. Nothing is capable of making you feel this pain like She is.
That might be the worst fucking part of this. Was that, somewhere in this pain of Ben having lost Her. He’d left her and lost her and she still doesn’t understand that Ben can’t breathe without Her there, there was something good. She’d trusted him, to do what she needed him to do. She’d cried against him and known he’d pick her up and make it better. She’d touched him and still meant it, still wanted him even after he’d failed Her.
She still wanted him. She still wanted Ben. She’d smiled at him and laughed with him and known him like nobody ever had. Like nobody ever would, not like she did. Not like she’d pulled Ben into her and tried to tell him everything he’d needed to hear. Found every way to feed the Thing with soft words and pretty looks, and all at once, grow this pain. She was perfect, and she still wanted Ben, and he’d never fucking earn her.
That’s what breaks the pain. Snaps it open in two, and Ben with it. She wanted him. She was perfect and she wanted him and Ben hadn’t even told Her how much he missed Her. How he wasn’t sleeping and eating was an act of labor without Her there to throw crumpled napkins at his face and hang around his body while he did the dishes. How she was gone and nothing was good.
He hadn’t told Her. And she still wanted him. And Ben breaks.
It starts in his chest. Shaking something there and pushing that lump further up into his mouth. The pain tightens around his throat and brow, his eyes feel fucking weird, and the first sound echoes through the dark, empty apartment. Choked. Tired. All fucking pain and hurt.
The damn breaks, and Ben’s too goddamn exhausted to fight it. He roars into the darkness, even though he knows nobody can hear. Maybe she will. Across the city and bay, she’ll hear how much Ben fucking misses Her. How nothing is as important as Her. Home. Safe. With Ben and happy.
When he roars again, it’s strangled and he tastes salt. His eyes hurt, and it’s so fucking hard breathe. There are no drums, no violence in him. Just a fucking ache for Her, and he can’t do anything about it but try and pull it out of his brain. Run his hand over his face and through his hair and pull it back to find it wet.
He’s crying. He’s fucking crying.
Ben hadn’t fucking cried since he was a child. It had been a hundred fucking years since Ben had cried like a pussy. Weak, pathetic, and useless.
This didn’t feel useless. For reasons Ben couldn’t fucking understand, the bellows of pain escaping his body and the endless fucking pain finding its way out of his body didn’t feel useless. It felt good. It felt like a tribute, like he was leaving an offering for Her in this loneliness. This was agony and the worst fucking thing in the world and Ben had to fucking break to prove it. She couldn’t break, she wouldn’t allow herself to, so Ben would do it for Her. He’d shatter on the floor of their apartment and cling to any thought of Her as it made this pain grow. It was a lot fucking better than forgetting.
Nothing would hurt more than forgetting Her. Forgetting her laugh and smile and the way she felt. Forgetting her beautiful face and smart fucking mouth, forgetting the way she spoke and looked at Ben. Like She somehow did think he was worthy.
So Ben just cried. He knew she’d come home but he still just fucking sobbed on the couch. Alone. Missing Her, and wanting her, and waiting for her.
He’d fucking wait for Her. He’d cry for Her and be haunted by her until She was home.
He’d always wait. She’d always come home, so Ben would always fucking wait.
The Thing would keep him company, twisting and screaming in time with Ben’s tears and choked noises of pain. Remind him of every part of Her. Every part he’d lost. Every part that would come back.
Ben cried until the sun cracked the sky.
He’d wait for Her until it burned out the universe.
End Note: End of chapter check in! How we feeling, squad? We getting through this?
Also, if you haven't yet, check out the first one-shot from the reader event! I'm moving through the rest, and I think I'll upload them between chapters to keep you guys fed. No matter what, thank you so much for reading, and I'll see you soon!
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White Peonies (Part II)
Book: Desire & Decorum
Series: Unspoken Desires (Modern Desire & Decorum AU)
Summary: Another peek into the past, this time to lift the veil on Mary’s life and three generations of fascinating women of the Howard family. (Parte I here)
Main Pairing: Vincent Foredale x Mary Howard.
Word Count: +/- 7572 words
Rating: General (but with light mentions to adult/violent situations, sickness and death).
Notes: 💖English is not my first language. Please, excuse me for any typos /or grammatical errors. 💖Special thanks to @rosesnink for proofreading.
💖 This is my submission for @choicesficwriterscreations ‘Fics of the week’
On the previous chapter...
Hurting her finger, Mary snatched the ring and threw it at him. Her hand was bleeding, but what were a few scratches on a finger compared with the abyss that he had opened in her heart?
Vincent took the ring from the floor. “Mary, my love, please, don’t do this.”
“Don’t dare to call me that ever again! Get out of my house! Now!”
Vincent did as she had told him. Tears ran down his face as he collected his belongings. She couldn't look at him.
As soon as he closed the door, Mary collapsed, crying her pain and screaming her fury.
The young woman lost count of the hours she spent in that dark hole. When Mary came to her senses, she looked out the window and saw that it was a starry night.
Her whole body hurt. As for her heart, Mary wasn't sure if it was there or not. She felt frozen. With great effort, she dragged herself from the floor to the sofa, covering herself with a blanket forgotten on the floor. It was impossible to return to the same bed where hours before they had worshipped each other and pledged their love.
Mary didn't know if she had slept or not, but in the morning, she felt desperately hungry, despite not feeling like eating. She tried to eat a couple of biscuits; however, her stomach didn’t hold them for long.
At some point in the day, she heard Vincent at her door. He stayed there for hours, begging her to listen to him. Fortunately, a neighbour threatened to call the police if he didn't leave, and Vincent eventually did. This happened repeatedly all week.
For days, Mary barely moved from the couch. When her tears dried up until the next round, lethargy took over her.
Around the weekend, Mrs. Lemay could persuade Mary to open the door. Although she had not read the article on Sunday, articles about the upcoming wedding multiplied in the newspapers over the week.
She found her friend a wreck. Mrs. Lemay was not going to allow the young girl to sink into heartbreak. She made Mary have a bath, changed the bedsheets, and cooked her a proper dinner.
“Luckily, there is not a word about you. At least, you will not be publicly persecuted by this shadow forever.” Mrs. Lemay tried to console her.
“Screw my reputation.” Mary mumbled between spoons of soup.
“Vincent was in my office looking for you, desperate for any information about your whereabouts.”
“Screw him too! He was at my door several times. I am not interested in anything he has to say.”
Thinking that it might bring Mary some peace, Mrs. Lemay told her that there were rumours going around that the Foredale were broke and the marriage was purely a business deal, despite the excitement about the engagement in the magazines.
“She’s a fat cat widow. It’s the tale as old as time: She gives the money, and he gives the title.” Mrs. Lemay concluded.
“It's always nice to know I am worth less than a couple of thousand pounds.”
“If the rumours are true, he is being sold as a horse. It’s a pity.” Mary mumbled something unintelligible. “I know you are hurt and furious, I’d be too.” Mrs. Lemay continued. “Nevertheless, this is all very odd, Mary. Vincent is in love with you in a way I've seen few people in love with someone. Since that night at St. James's, I have seen nothing in him but devotion to you. He'd rather lose an arm than make a scratch on you. I can't stop thinking there has to be a reasonable explanation for this.”
“Of course there is. In that case, there are thousands of reasons… in her bank account.” Mary sulked.
“He was not convinced when I claimed I couldn't help him. I’m sure he will keep trying to reach you, and I think you should give him a chance to explain himself. You might regret it if you don't,” Mrs. Lemay insisted.
“He betrayed my trust in him. I think I would rather have caught him in bed with her than this circus. He has been playing with me for months, like I was a doll. I won't be his or anyone else's doll.” Mary was adamant.
“Anger and pain are not good advisors. You need to clear your head. Why don't you go spend a few days in your hometown? Some days away from London will help you organise your head and heart.”
“I will not change my mind.”
“You may not change your mind, but you need to think about what you're going to do from now on. Life doesn't stop just because your heart is broken.”
Following her advice, Mary decided to spend a few weeks in Grovershire.
Mrs. Lemay was right. Leaving London didn't glue the pieces of her heart together. However, focusing on making repairs to her grandparents' cottage and garden made Mary find some serenity in the midst of the chaos.
That house was full of so many good memories that even sadness gave her some respite.
While she was cleaning up things in the kitchen, Mary found her grandmother's handmade 'Moka'. It was one of the few things that Elena had brought with her from Italy.
“I only had three things in my suitcase: an old coat, the 'Moka' and the recipe book that I stole from my mother.” Elena told her granddaughter many times.
When she was a little girl, Mary fascinatedly watched her grandmother prepare coffee there, as if it were a magical ritual. Her favourite part was sucking on the spoon after Elena added the sugar.
It was the best coffee in the world, and Mary could still almost taste it. She ran to the grocery store to buy coffee beans. Replicating her grandmother's ritual made her feel really good for the rest of that day.
Grovershire itself had little changed. Mary missed many familiar faces and came face-to-face with new ones in the neighbourhood.
The new and old neighbours were curious about her extended stay, and, of course, theories about it soon emerged through the inhabitant’s small talk. To avoid uncomfortable questions, Mary said that her fiancé, Vincent Ford, had died in a car accident, and she was spending some time there to get herself together.
Although it was a hoax, for her it was not entirely a lie. She really felt that the man she loved had died on that day.
Right across the street, George Daly, her former classmate and neighbour, had married Pavarti, an Indian girl who had arrived there in their final year of high school.
They weren't very close at that time, yet Pavarti was the first to go to the cottage to visit her. Although she was in the last trimester of her pregnancy, Pavarti helped in whatever way she could, especially in the garden.
Between pulling weeds and planting flowers, there was time for long conversations. A deep friendship blossomed between the two young women. Pavarti was the only one who knew the truth about Vincent.
George spent many days away because of his work, so it was common for them to cook together. One late afternoon, Pavarti was cooking dinner. Mary suddenly left the kitchen, without saying a word. Pavarti found her on the balcony.
“If you don't feel like my fish curry and chips, just say so, you don’t need to run away from my kitchen. I have some roast lamb from the weekend in the fridge...”
“I'm sorry, Pavarti, but I think I'll have dinner. I think the tea house's chocolate cake wasn't as fresh as it should have been.”
“Are you sure it was just the chocolate cake? You barely touched it. In fact, you have barely eaten.”
“Nerves are bad for my stomach. It has always happened to me since I was little.”
“How long have you been feeling this way?”
“I don’t know exactly, maybe for a few weeks now. Not just the stomach. Everything in me has been messed up since...that day.” Mary still had difficulties referring to the topic.
“Have you considered the possibility of being pregnant?” Mary looked at Pavarti as if she had uttered the most absurd of statements. Parvati went away for a while and came back with a small box in her hand. “Take it! You can do it here or at home, but the sooner you know, the better.”
After spending most of the night looking at the little box, Mary did so. After the time stated in the instructions, the result appeared. She was so nervous that it took her some time to understand the meaning of the two lines.
Becoming a mother was one of Mary’s dreams. They had planned a family. They joked about having a child born in that millennium and the next in the new one. They agreed on almost everything except where they would raise them. London was off the table.
Now that dream was real, and Vincent wasn't there. And for the first time, she didn't want him there either.
This was no longer just about her and her broken heart. On the one hand, she was terrified. It was impossible not to think about her mother's case. More than raising a baby alone, Mary was afraid that something would happen and prevent her from taking care of him or her. Unfortunately, the child would not be as lucky as she was. There were no loving grandparents to watch over her. On the other hand, finding out that a child was on the way was an unexpected comfort to her. No matter what twists and turns life had on its sleeve for her, Mary wouldn't be alone anymore.
The blood tests confirmed her calculations. The baby would be born around November.
“When will you tell the father the good news?” Pavarti asked her some days later.
“I will not tell him.”
“You should, and, deep down, you know you should. Who knows, maybe this is an opportunity for the two of you to find a way...”
“If our love was not important enough for him to care and come to me and give a decent explanation for what happened, then I don't consider him important enough to be part of the baby's life.”
“You are the one who didn't want to give him that opportunity!” Pavarti tried to reason with Mary.
Mary knew she was contradicting herself, but the young woman was irreducible. Her wounded heart and pride only fuelled her stubbornness. “The wedding will be on May 2nd, do you think there is any point in doing or saying anything, Pavarti?”
Mary told Mrs. Lemay about her new situation. Although Mary's absence caused her inconvenience and money loss, she was the first to advise the singer to take a break to take care of the baby and herself.
The music producers were not very happy with the news. Even though without stating it clearly, they implied that if the baby was her priority at the moment, she would lose the 'privileged place she had on their artists’ list'.
Mary imagined that would happen. A woman with a baby was the eighth plague of Egypt. Now that she was so close, she was going back to square one.
Baby Briar came into the world on Easter Sunday, keeping her busy while Pavarti recovered from the tough labour. Around that time, the symptoms of the first few weeks gave her a truce, and Mary began to feel better.
The most difficult thing was the ban on coffee. When she felt like drinking coffee, Mary opened the ground coffee pot and smelled it until it satisfied her craving.
Days later, when trying to put on her jeans, Mary became aware of her belly for the first time. It wasn't very prominent yet, but it was already noticeable that things were changing.
By the end of the month, Mary went to London for a few days. With the wedding so close, it would be very unlikely that Vincent would be there.
She had her first ultrasound. Hearing her baby's heartbeat for the first time made her worries disappear for a few minutes. She would never forget that beat.
The midwife noticed that Mary was looking worriedly at the white spots that were appearing on the screen. “Don't worry, my dear, the baby is fine. With a little luck, within a few days, we'll be able to find out the baby's gender. Let me guess: You want a boy, and the father wants a girl.” She smiled.
Mary pretended she didn't hear the question. The midwife took her hand and placed it on her belly. “You two are already a wonderful family.”
Her savings wouldn't last forever, so Mary took the opportunity to give some concerts that Mrs. Lemay had arranged for her.
Returning to her flat after a concert, Mary found a man in a suit at her door. He was tall, had grey hair and a beard, and had a stern face. She recognised the same shade of blue as Vincent's eyes, but instead of his sweetness, Mary only saw coldness.
She instinctively covered her belly with her handbag and took a few steps back. Two men grabbed her.
“Good evening, Mary Howard. I've been looking for you everywhere. I would like to say it's a pleasure to finally meet you, but I hope this is the first and last time we meet.”
“What do you want from me?” Mary tried to free herself from their arms.
“Put her inside.” The Earl commanded.
While one grabbed Mary tightly, the other found the key and opened the door. They dragged her inside and locked the door. She tried to shout, but a hand covered her mouth.
“I thought that if I saw you with my own eyes, I would understand my son's fascination, but you are not even that pretty.” He mocked, as his eyes roamed her body. Mary noticed that he saw the bump. She felt a shiver run down her spine. “Are you with a child?” He asked. Mary didn't answer him. She could see his fury rising. “It cannot be my son’s!” Mary remained in silence. The Earl slapped her face with such force that if it weren't for the two men holding her, she would have fallen to the ground. “You damned whore, how dare you get pregnant? Wasn't it enough to be a bastard yourself? I can guess what your plan was, but this ends here!”
For few seconds, Mary could barely hear the insults he spewed from his mouth. Her mouth was still numb from the slap. She felt the taste of blood on her tongue. “My baby will never be a bastard. I will be a mother, a father, and everything my child needs!” She cried.
“I don't care what you or that creature you are carrying will be. You will disappear from my son’s life forever!”
“Breaking news, Rupert Foredale: I'm the one who wants my baby to have nothing to do with your family. Unfortunately, I couldn't prevent this child from having your blood. No baby deserves to have a father who is a coward, a cheater, and liar, and much less such a despicable being like you as a grandfather.”
The Earl was going to slap her again. Luckily, or out of charity, the bodyguards moved her out of the way of his hand.
“I never trusted people like you. With some luck, the baby isn't even Vincent's. I warned my son several times that he could have fun, but not to be foolish. I should be used to his weaknesses by now. When I was young, I also had a lover who was an artist, a sculptress. She was very skilled with her hands...for everything.” A wicked smile appeared on his lips for a moment. “She was my lover and, I later learned, the lover of every young man in London with any money in his pocket.” After saying it, Rupert took some papers from inside his coat. “Listen very carefully to what I will say to you, whore: you will sign the papers and disappear from my son's life forever. As I am a good Christian, in return, you will get 10,000 pounds. If you dare to open that mouth of yours about my son or what happened between you, you will rot in jail!”
Mary spat at the contract. “My dignity is not for sale. And, unlike you, I would never sell a child to pay for my mistakes.”
She was pushing him to the limit. The Earl was blind with rage. He wasn't used to being defied like that. Rupert tore up the agreement. He took a pistol from his pocket and placed it against Mary's forehead.
“This was your last chance. If you or your bastard ever try to get close to us, I won't be so benevolent. I will make you botg disappear from the face of the earth even if I have to do it with my own hands.”
In a matter of seconds, the lights went out, and they dropped Mary on the floor. As quickly as they had appeared, they disappeared into the night.
Mary couldn't believe what just happened. From what Vincent told her, Mary knew that Earl was not a model of kindness, not even towards his own blood. She didn't expect him to rejoice over the baby; However, not even her greatest fears could imagine such brutality.
After the shock of the first few minutes, the adrenaline subsided. She was feeling a very intense pain, but she couldn't pinpoint where it was. Her baby. The panic set in. If something had happened to the baby, she would kill the Earl with her own hands.
Supporting herself against the wall, Mary managed to get up and call Mrs. Lemay. She didn't care about her bruises. Mary just wanted to hear her baby's heartbeat.
Mrs. Lemay called for a favour and rushed Mary to a private clinic. She refused to be examined without knowing if the baby was okay first. The doctor assured Mary that the baby was fine, but she only calmed down when he showed her the baby on the monitor.
He was silent for a few minutes, looking at the small screen. Mary was about to panic again. “What’s wrong, doctor?”
“Don’t worry, Miss. It's nothing bad. Do you know your baby’s gender?” Mary waved no. “I wasn't going to mention it because I am not absolutely sure. I think you are having a girl.”
Upon learning that the baby was fine, Mary went into autopilot mode. Besides the bruises, the doctor found out she had a broken rib. After taking care of her, Mrs. Lemay took the singer to her home. Exhausted, Mary slept for hours. When she awoke, Mrs. Lemay was waiting for her with a light meal.
“What happened was a crime, Mary. You should go to the police.”
“I have no proofs besides my bruises. Who do you think they would believe? An Earl or a pub singer?
“He is dangerous, Mary, and you confronted him!” Mrs. Lemay insisted. “If he was capable of doing this now, there's no guarantee that he won't do it again... or do something worse.”
“He's afraid I will look for his son and ruin his marriage with the widow. I believe that as soon as they get married and the Earl sees I didn’t lift a finger, he will forget about me and my daughter.”
“So, what are you going to do now? London is not safe.”
“I'm going back to Grovershire and staying there for a while. The Earl doesn't know about my grandparents' house, or he would have gone there. It is far enough from London and from them. I need calm and security for my daughter. Then I will see what my next step will be.”
“Have you thought about names for the baby?” Mrs. Lemay asked to change to a happier subject.
“Beatrice.” Mary smiled, caressing her bump. “Vincent would have liked it too.” She couldn't stop herself from thinking about it.
“Why don't you ask him in person?”
“Even if I wanted...which I don’t want...I can’t take that risk now. Even if we survive Rupert Foredale's wrath, you know the fate of the bastard children. My child will not be exiled to a boarding school.”
Mary did as she said. With the help of Mrs. Lemay and other friends from work, all of Mary's (few) belongings were loaded into a van the following night. As Vincent's forgotten objects appeared, Mrs. Lemay discreetly saved them from the trash. She was thinking that perhaps the child would later look for a connection with the father.
Back in Grovershire, Mary kept as low a profile as possible. Trying to camouflage, she began to introduce herself as ‘Helen’. Those who knew her found it strange. Mary justified her choice, saying she was known in London by that name. She had chosen it as a stage name in honour of her grandmother.
People thought it was eccentric, but they eventually got used to it.
Her belly was becoming less and less discreet. Comments on her obvious situation were inevitable, as well as comparisons with her mother's case. The most charitable hearts felt sorry for her situation. Losing her fiancé in a tragic accident and now having a child to take care of... It was a very hard blow from fate.
The poisonous ones were not so compassionate. Their tongues distilled all kinds of gossip about her: that she was a luxury escort in London (the nastiest said directly prostitute), others that she was the rejected lover of a married man, that the child's father was in prison... Mary knew her truth, yet some days weren't easy with that background buzz. Fortunately, she had the Daly’s on her side.
She didn't like perpetuating a lie, but it was the best truth she could tell. It would be better for both the child and her. Like her, Beatrice would not suffer for someone she had never met. Following her grandparents' example, Mary would make sure her daughter received so much love that she wouldn't miss a thing. It would protect her from Rupert and more heartbreak.
The following ultrasounds confirmed that it was a girl and that she was growing strong and healthy.
Meanwhile, Parvati returned to her work as a seamstress. Mary took care of Briar and in return, Pavarti was sewing her a layette fit for a princess.
During the day, between helping out at the Dalys' house and preparing her own for the baby's arrival, neither Mary's head nor her heart had time to worry about the past or the future. However, many of the nights were full of nightmares about Rupert; others were sleepless, planning all possible future scenarios.
On Halloween evening, Mary felt the first contractions. While Pavarti was finishing the hem of a dress, she was playing on the floor with Briar and felt an intense pain that paralysed her. Recognising the signs, Pavarti helped her get up and set her down on the sofa.
That night was just a warning, but on Tuesday early morning, the contractions came back in force. Mary was terrified of what was happening. What the doctor and the midwife had explained, the books she had read, Pavarti's advice...all of her preparation and plans were gone.
George and Pavarti drove her to the hospital.
As the hours passed, the pain increased, becoming intense and almost constant. Despite telling her that she was doing great and that the baby would soon be in her arms, Mary was losing her strength.
During one of the strongest contractions, for the first time in months, she wished Vincent was there beside her. For a few moments, she was filled with a whirlwind of memories with him. She could almost hear his voice smoothing her. Another strong contraction brought her back to reality. There was no use dwelling on the past. Her daughter was all that mattered now.
After hours of pain and fear, at nightfall on November 2, 1994, her daughter was born. Hearing the sweet shrill sound of her daughter's cries was a relief. Having Beatrice in her arms for the first time was a new kind of happiness she never thought possible.
Even though she was ruddy and grumpy like all newborns, in Mary's eyes, Beatrice was the pinnacle of cuteness, with her full cheeks, thick brown hair, and big eyes.
Around midnight, Beatrice fell asleep in her mother's arms. Exhausted, Mary also fell into a deep sleep.
A couple of hours later, she woke up with a start, thinking she heard the baby crying. Everything was quiet in the ward, including her daughter. However, the door was ajar. Mary saw a pair of eyes watching them through the crack. “Who is there?” She asked instinctively, placing herself in front of the crib. The pair of eyes disappeared.
The next morning, after making sure that everything was fine with both of them, the issue of the father inevitably arose. Again, Mary told the best truth she could: she had met the father at a party, they had spent the night together, and they had never seen each other again. She claimed she didn't know any information about him other than his first name.
While she was trying to breastfeed Beatrice, a social worker with dubious intentions came to talk to her, asking some questions, pointing out the challenges of being a young single mother and the possibility of giving her baby up for adoption.
Mary was about to lose patience with her when the Dalys came in to visit them. The couple promptly shooed the nosy woman away. Pavarti helped Mary dress Beatrice and put a small pink bow on her head. Then, George took the first portrait of Beatrice.
Briar was very curious about the new baby, whimpering if they moved her away from the crib.
Rocking her daughter by the window, the light illuminated every detail of her features. Mary noticed that Beatrice had a lot of Vincent in her. How she wished she could make Rupert eat his words.
A couple of days later, mother and daughter were back home. “Welcome home, my love.” Mary kissed her daughter's head. “It may not be Buckingham Palace, but we're going to make it our realm.”
As long as she was well fed, Beatrice was (most days) an easy baby. Despite some sleepless nights, the many health scares typical of newborns, and hormone shenanigans, Mary felt like she was in a bubble of happiness. Her daughter's birth had not miraculously healed her heart, but she was the glue that was holding the pieces together.
As the weeks went by, Beatrice was growing healthy and becoming more active and playful.
Mary's savings were dwindling at the same rate.
There weren't many job opportunities there, so Mary had to take a job at a local pub. Since Pavarti worked from home, she took care of the two babies during the day. At the end of the day, Mary helped her friend taking home some simpler pieces of clothing and making small sewing arrangements. She had never felt so grateful for the hours her grandmother forced her to learn how to sew. Despite it, she felt like she could never repay the kindness they showed her.
The young mother felt exhausted every night, but holding her daughter in her arms, playing with her, smelling her sweet scent, seeing how much she was growing day by day gave Mary the strength to carry one each morning.
Beatrice never lacked anything necessary, even if that sometimes meant just soup for Mary’s dinner. There were many things she wanted to give her daughter, but she couldn't afford them, even if it might be lacking, Mary made up for it with love.
-----
The year 1999 began full of hope. Although it wasn't technically the turn of the millennium, there was in the air the excitement of the end of an era, with a world of possibilities knocking on the door.
Now that the girls were a little older, the Dalys were planning to have another child. Mary was considering changing careers. Her idea was to return to the music world by giving private lessons.
Unfortunately, in April, a series of attacks shocked the United Kingdom and destroyed the dreams of the young family. George Daly was passing through Brick Lane on his way to meet his last client for the month when a nail bomb exploded. He did not survive his injuries and passed away a couple of days later.
Parvati was devastated. She cried for the loss of the love of her life and the loss of everything that Briar would not have with her father, even though she was too young to fully understand what had happened.
Mary knew what a broken heart felt like. However, what Pavarti was suffering was beyond her understanding. Despite the troubled separation, the hurt, the anger, she knew that the love of her life was alive and well. There was always a faint light in her heart, even if her mind denied it.
Part of her friend had died with him that day. Mary knew it would not be possible to heal that wound. For months, every day, Mary fought the darkness that threatened to swallow Pavarti. She was determined to take care of the parts of her friend that remained, just as Pavarti had done with her.
-----------------------
All children grow up too quickly in their parent's eyes, and Mary felt that it was in the blink of an eye that Beatrice went from a baby to a primary school girl.
Apart from the struggle to get her up from bed in the mornings, some occasional tantrums, and some shenanigans here and there, Mary felt blessed. Beatrice was very curious, eager to learn, always exploring the small world around her and asking many questions, some trivial, some more philosophical.
Even though she was little more than a child, Mary realised that her daughter had inherited her wit and passion. It gave her some peace of mind. Having a sharp spirit would protect her and help her succeed in whatever path she chose.
Mary wanted to teach her how to play the piano, but her daughter didn't seem to have the muse of music awake inside her, although Beatrice's voice was naturally in tune.
Nonetheless, as she grew up, the Vincent features stood out more and more in her, and not just physically. Like her father, Beatrice loved books, always asking to read stories. When an adult couldn’t read to her, she made up her own stories with what she saw in the illustrations and told them to Briar or to her dolls.
One night, Mary was sitting on her daughter's bed, dog-tired, praying for Beatrice to choose a small book. What was her surprise when her daughter appeared in the bedroom with her copy of 'Pride and Prejudice' in her hands.
“It's too long for a bedtime story.”
“I didn't ask you to read me everything at once. I was thinking about one chapter per night.”
“It's a story for older girls. You're going to find it boring.”
“How older?” Her inquisitive mode had just turned on.
That was a good question. Mary used her own example to answer, “Girls who are fourteen or fifteen.”
“I am five, it’s not that different! Plus, you always choose good stories, so I'm sure it won't be boring. I have seen you read it more than once.”
“You're going to regret asking me for this. It would be much more fun when you read it by yourself.” In vain, Mary tried to change her mind. She started reading the famous first lines.
“IT IS A TRUTH universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”
Night after night, chapter after chapter, Beatrice paid close attention to each line. Sometimes the sleep overcame the girl: however, there was use in trying to trick her. She always knew which page they were on before falling asleep. The reading took weeks, which ended up making story time easier for Mary.
With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.
“The end.” She dramatically closed the book. “So, what do you think?” Mary asked.
“It's a little like fairy tales, but without fairies? Mr Darcy is a little grumpy for Prince Charming. Her aunt fits the evil witch role, though. But I loved it!” As she tucked her in, Beatrice asked, “Do you think there are many Mr Darcys out there?”
“If you look for yours, you will find him.”
“How will I know?”
“You will know it. You will feel it. Your heart will scream it.”
“Papa was yours?”
Mary still had difficulty dealing with questions about Vincent. For Beatrice, she had chosen to keep the narrative of the father who died in a car accident days before their wedding day. Despite her inquisitive nature, Beatrice rarely questioned Mary about it. Probably because the girl saw the pain in her eyes when the subject was mentioned.
She had only asked her once to see a photograph of him. Mary made up the excuse that all his photos had been lost when they moved to Grovershire. She was sad but didn't ask again.
“All love stories are different. Like Darcy and Lizzie, there were some differences between us, but, unlike her, I think I loved your dad from day one.”
Mary had only seen him again in person once. They were visiting Mrs. Lemay in London for a weekend. Walking through Hyde Park, Mrs. Lemay was further ahead with Beatrice by the hand. Mary had stayed behind, enjoying the rare moment of peace that a mother of a toddler can have. There was a street stall selling ice cream, and she decided to go over to buy some. As she got closer, she saw him. She saw them: Vincent, his wife, an older boy, and a boy a little younger than Beatrice, buying ice cream as well.
That sight left her breathless and with a piercing pain in her stomach. It was a difficult feeling to explain. It had been a little more than a couple of years, however, while it seemed like the same Vincent, it was as if their past was just a dream or the delirium of a feverish night.
The youngest son was throwing a tantrum, and Vincent patiently tried to calm him down. He seemed to have become the fantastic father she knew he could be and that she had dreamed of for her and their children.
Mary turned away and walked forward, quickening her pace. There was no reason for her to torture herself with the past, suffer the present, and tempt fate. Such an encounter would only make things worse.
-----------------------
As soon as Beatrice learned to read, Mary got her a library card. If on the one hand this freed her from the daily bedtime story, but on the other, it stirred even more her daughter's eagerness. Mary often had to go to the library to return books that Beatrice stubbornly brought home, despite not being appropriate for her age.
Every night, Mary had to go back to her room to make her turn off the light and go to sleep. On Friday nights, she knew that her daughter, after being caught in the act, would read another chapter under the blankets by flashlight, however, she decided to pretend that she didn't know about it.
-----------------------
February, 2004
Sitting in the doctor's waiting room, Mary tried to focus on the gossip magazine. Her limbs were heavy and sore from trying to control her nerves.
It wouldn't be anything serious, Mary repeated to herself. She had always been a healthy lass. She was just an exhausted mother, like many others. Like Pavarti, who had insisted on accompanying her to the appointment. There was a wedding dress to urgently finish, yet there she was. The years did not expunge the loss, but they brought back the light of her best friend.
Daughters full of energy in Year 5, long hours of work, little sleep, months without a moment for themselves, bills hard to pay alone, the need to start preparing the girls' future... No wonder they were both in shambles.
At Pavarti's insistence, there she was, fearing the worst, hoping for the best.
“Helen Howard!” the nurse called. Mary wanted to get up, but her legs didn't allow her to do so for a few seconds.
After some small talk, the doctor delivered the news in the politest and least dramatic way possible. “The cancer is aggressive, and it’s in an advanced stage. However, you are a woman in the prime. The sick cells have used your strength to multiply, but that same strength can be used in your favour...” He proceeded to explain the options available in her case.
Mary feared the suffering caused by the treatments, she feared the doctor's lack of certainty, she feared death... but, above all, she was terrified by the idea of her little girl being alone in the world.
Leaving the doctor's office, Mary didn't know what to feel or what to think. It was as if she were possessed by a sharp pain, a paralysing numbness, while at the same time she was diving into a bottomless, icy lake.
Then the anger and frustration came. ‘Why her? Hadn't she suffered enough already?’
As the days went by, Mary wasn’t still conformed to the diagnosis, but took control of what was in her hands.
For Beatrice and a future with her, Mary made her mind up to religiously follow the treatments. Even if she couldn’t escape, any chance of spending more time with her daughter would be worth every discomfort.
In the following days, Mary's biggest concern was how to tell her about it. Unfortunately, or fortunately, children are very perceptive. So, it didn't take long for Beatrice to ask her mother directly what was happening.
Mary stopped chopping the vegetables for the soup and took a deep breath. She couldn't break down in front of her daughter. To buy some time, Mary poured two glasses of juice for both of them. After a couple of sips, the first shaky words left his lips.
“As you know, I had some medical exams. I went to the doctor last week to get the results. I am very ill, my love.” She tried to find gracious words in the English language, but emotions rushed things. “I have ovarian cancer. I am starting treatments next week.”
Beatrice was silent for a while. Mary could see in her daughter's expressions that she was processing what she had just heard. “But, after it, you're going to be okay, right?” She looked up at Mary with her big, sweet hazel eyes.
Mary didn't want to lie to her, but she didn't want to be overly optimistic. "I will do my best. The doctors will do their best, and with a little faith everything, will be okay.”
+++++++
Her grandmother got a similar surgery years ago as a preventative measure; therefore, the operation didn't scare her. Mary knew the secret was to get plenty of rest, so as she did, at least, as much as mother can do.
On the other hand, chemotherapy treatments were knocking her down. Pregnancy nausea was a child's play compared to what she was feeling. After the sessions, Mary felt so weak that she could barely get out of bed for days. When she finally started to feel better, it was time to do another one.
If it weren't for Beatrice, Mary was sure she couldn’t bear it.
As soon as her hair began to fall like leaves in autumn, she decided to cut it very short. Mary had always loved and pampered her hair, and her grandmother was to blame. She loved her granddaughter's hair and spent hours doing elaborate hairstyles. Elena Howard used to say, 'Tira più un capello di donna che cento paia di buoi'' (‘one hair of woman pulls more than a hundred pairs of oxen’). Mary only many years later understood the full meaning of these words.
However, more than her hurt vanity, seeing Beatrice cry when she faced her like that for the first time was much more painful.
Since Mary couldn’t afford a decent wig, she chose to wear headscarves. Parvati, using all the scraps of beautiful fabrics, sewed her headscarves in all patterns and colours.
+++++++
Despite all the ups and downs, Mary was enjoying that summer.
One more time in her life, she has a lot to be thankful for Parvati. Her friend was being tireless with her, spending the most critical nights close to her, preparing meals, taking care of Beatrice, driving her to and from the hospital... Mary knew she could never repay her, so she prayed that life would reward her with the same kindness.
Thanks to Pavarti's generosity, Mary was able to dedicate what little energy she had to her little girl, keeping these precious moments in her heart.
Beatrice spoiled her as best she could, with little gifts and affection. She was always ready to help, no matter the task. It filled Mary's heart with pride. Her daughter's love was what kept her standing.
The fear of the future often made her think about Vincent. She was sure that Pavarti would look out for her daughter, however, if the worst happened, at least Beatrice would have someone else to turn to.
Rupert had died a few years earlier, so he was no longer a threat. The years and the paths taken changed both of them, but Mary believed that his heart had not changed.
She was convinced that when he found out about Beatrice, Vincent would not excuse himself from his obligations. She also didn't doubt that, as time went by, they would love each other very much.
So, Mary started making arrangements. Since she didn't want there to be any doubt about her daughter's paternity, she took a sample of Beatrice's hair for them to analyse.
Along with the samples and some photographs, Mary enclosed a letter from her to Vincent in an envelope. It took days, crumpled papers, and many tears to write that letter. Later, she would just need to instruct Pavarti on how to get that to Vincent.
At the end of September, hope fell away with the leaves. Despite the treatments, the new exams showed that it had spread to other parts of the body. The doctor was almost as dejected as she was.
“Just tell me how long I have.” Mary asked through tears.
“I can't give guarantees about anyone's life, Miss Howard. Sometimes there are real miracles in the human body.” The doctor tried to comfort her.
“I prefer the truth, doctor. Please.”
“A couple of months, no more than Christmas.”
“Will it be painful?”
“There are several ways to make that period smoother, if that's your wish.”
“Having to go is bad enough, don’t you think?”
Back home, Mary didn't have the courage to face her daughter. Parvati took Beatrice home for an impromptu sleepover party.
When the girls fell asleep, Pavarti sneaked over to the Howards' house. It would be a very difficult night for Mary.
After many cups of tea and many more tears, Mary resolved, “This will take me to my grave, but I won't let it take away the shreds of happiness. My daughter and I deserve better than spending our final weeks in misery.”
From that moment on, Mary focused on enjoying every minute with her girl, the epitome of her happiness.
“When are you going to tell her?” Pavarti asked.
“I do not know how, but not for now. When I feel it's closer. I don't want her to cry before the time.”
*November 2004*
Giggles were filling the air. Two little girls were playing tag, running around carefree.
Mary was sitting in her small garden, feeling severe pains, in spite of the medications. She held a mug of strong coffee in her hands, one of the few things that gave her energy.
The autumn sun in her bones was her only comfort. That and seeing her daughter happy.
Taking small, warm sips, Mary reflected on the past thirty years. So much had happened! In her short life there were adventures that would fill a lifetime. Losses along the way, setbacks, broken dreams...but also good friends, many happy days...and, best of all, Beatrice. Mary would go all the way again for the opportunity to share her life with Beatrice.
She was already missing what wasn't going to live with her. Beatrice looks at her and smiles. She is missing two teeth that fell out the other day. Mary knows she won't see her new teeth, yet she smiles back.
‘How do we prepare a child for our death, Pavarti?' Mary asked her friend, who was sitting next to her.
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