Since Soldier Boy was a nuke about ready to go off it was suddenly everyone else’s problem keeping him happy and sated. You became his errand-runner, getting him his fix of coke, sleazy magazines, and lukewarm beer. Mentally, you curse Butcher and Hughie for making this your problem. Of course they had to go and do the dirty work leaving you to keep the forty years dead supe from blowing up the building.

You’d seen the man on posters, hell, you couldn’t even lie to yourself about Ben being your very first celebrity crush. Seeing those jade eyes and charming ‘American Sweetheart’ smile—how could you not?

But you’re also not stupid. You know the charitable heart of gold is an act for the media. M.M. has told you enough to know he’s violent, rage-ful.

You open the door, praying you won’t startle him into another radiation burst. Instead you’re hit with the bitter sting of smoke in your eyes, a thick stench of weed flowed through the poorly ventilated air. You felt you were getting high off the environment. You drop the grocery bag of insalubrious items down onto the table. “You might wanna lay off the weed.” You suggest, with no malicious intent.

“And you might wanna gargle my ballsack.” He takes another sharp drag to spite you. His eyes are a touch glossy from the high but his body is relaxed, which is good for your protection from nuclear radiation, you suppose. He finally is ‘kind’ enough to spare you a glance upon hearing your voice. Mentally you know you’re fucked because despite him being such an asshole the stardom hits. This man, in the flesh, was a man you’d only seen on the shrine of posters in your teenage years.

He slouches back, his blue jersey hugging the swell of his biceps. He is now taking slow, adamant inhales from the joint while making deliberate eye contact with you to be petty. For a forty something man he acts like he’s four years old.