domesticity wasn’t something ben was used to. don’t think he’d ever actually experienced it before—he doesn’t wallow in that fact. hell, he wasn’t even fully aware that it was something he should dwell on—until you at least. that seemed to be a common factor with you, changing so much about him and his life, it almost made him dizzy to think about.

he’s so sure of himself, like the man he thought he’s supposed to be: strong and independent and rough around the edges. a real man, in all the fucked up ways he was taught to believe he had to be to accomplish that. he didn’t know any other way to be anyway, he didn’t have any reason to change or anyone to change for.

and then theres you.

there you go being so.. you. melting away his walls and all his oh so manly independence and disgustingly excessive macho-ness like butter in a scorching hot pan with a sweet look here and a lingering hand on his shoulder there.

he sees it. sees it and feels it far more than he’d comfortably like to if he was being honest with himself. the warm, melty, gooey feeling in his heart he only ever gets with you almost boarders on discomfort at times. hows he supposed to handle you? hows he supposed to cope with all the things he’s feeling for the first time all over you? he questions it every time he sees it: that look written all over your face that says he makes you feel that exact warm, melty, gooey feeling you make him feel.

he doesn’t know how he does it. he’s a dick and he knows it. jesus- he knows you know it but despite it all he still does things and by some miracle says things that make you feel like.. that. almost never intentionally—he doesn’t know how to be intentionally loving most of the time—but he’ll say something or do something so absentminded and casually and yet you look at him like he’d just hung the moon and stars all in your favor, like he’d just moved a mountain just because he thought there’d be a chance you’d ask him to.

it’s.. ah- it’s confusing, actually. he often thinks back and can’t see how half the stupid shit he does warrants that kinda reaction from you but he relishes in it regardless. he so selfishly relishes in it.

he sees it now, actually. doing the very mundane task of shaving in the mirror in preparation for some event. theres you, standing in the doorway—practically peaking around it actually—watching him like he doesn’t notice you or something. the scoff he lets out is fond, fond in a way he isn’t for anyone else.

“y’need something or are you jus’ real interested in watchin’ me shave?” he pauses for a beat. “..or are ya’ jus’ interested in watchin’ me in general?”

when is is not the latter? never, really.

“‘s fine. don’t gotta peak ‘round the doorway like that.” he watches in the mirror the way you step forward a bit to lean against the doorframe, watches the way your eyes flit over him and the razor held in his hand. “mh, better yet. why don’t y’make yourself useful? c’m over ‘ere”

“learn somethin’ new for once, c’mon.” theres a warmth in his usually rough tone as he turns to face you and hands the razor over to you thats more ‘ben’ then it’ll ever be ‘soldier boy’.