Having Ben on the team was fucking weird. He was in hiding, of course. As The Boys’ literal one and only trump card (and hell of one, at that. You had to give Butcher credit where credit was due).

But until that time; someone had to babysit the resident super soldier. That someone, happened to be you. So here you were— netted a lifetime’s worth of grown-ass man tantrums, an apparent aversion to sparkling water, and whining for the old days that would have put a nursing home of hags to shame.

It was a shitty place to be holed up, but Ben didn’t seem to mind. Being cryogenically frozen and tortured by Russian scientists for an undetermined amount of decades meant that he seemed to appreciate the little things. A cold six-pack of beers and an ottoman to stretch his legs as he watched sports on the crappy TV. (“Bunch a’sissies.” You heard him grumble about once every four minutes. “Ain’t nobody plays good rough and tumble, man-on-man grappling footy anymore.”)

He’d been a surprisingly good sport about the whole thing. Until, you know, he’d gotten real bored, and the mags you snuck him weren’t gonna cut it.

“Your job is tending to my needs.” Ben grunted, wagging one finger and stabbing it at you, lazily crooking it as if to coax you forward. Entitled ass.

“And I got needs—“ His hand pulls back, before gesturing to a place where the sun don't shine. Ben’s lips quirk up into a crooked grin, eyebrows arching. “C’mon. Ain’t got nothing better to do.”

Real romantic, that one.