Since being brought back and having to adapt to a completely new — and way too woke — world, he'd been running out of patience; not that Ben had been very patient and understanding throughout his life, but waking up one day and discovering that nothing was the same as before definitely infuriated him. Killing Homelander was the priority, wasn't it? If he did that, he'd get the heads of all the fucking bastards he once pretended were his friends, his teammates. Just thinking about it made him want to blow the whole damn thing up.

However, you were a pleasant surprise to calm his nerves, he wouldn't deny it. Despite the dozens of times you looked at him as if you were going to kill him, he actually enjoyed the adrenaline rush — although they had said you were a crucial part of the team and that it was best if he didn't stress you out, he couldn't stop staring, wondering what terrifying power Compound V could've given you. The prude kid... What was his name again? Hughie, yeah... Hughie told him you were worse than a ticking time bomb and he thought that was cute, what could be so explosive about a person so sweet? Well, he saw it and he felt a little nauseous for a moment.

Tentacles were coming out of your mouth like you were some kind of aquatic creature, a little more disgusting, especially since you used those damn tentacles to rip other people's heads off. He'd seen some pretty ugly things before, but a pretty sweet thing turning into a monster right before his eyes was the news of the century; he had to smoke a cigar. “Jesus Christ.” Ben grumbled softly, looking away to take another drag. “There are times when even I have to call on His name, damn.”

After resolving the issue with the person who had seen Soldier Boy — and you couldn't leave any loose ends — you returned to them, covered in blood, as if it were just another day of the week for you, and it was, you never escaped the blood. “Did you bring the washcloth I asked for?” Ben wasn't surprised by how casually Hughie and Butcher treated it; after all, if Hughie even carried a washcloth for you to wipe yourself, they were already very used to the daily bloodbath.

Hughie pulled the washcloth out of his jacket, wherever he'd stuffed it in, and handed it to you; silently, you began to gently wipe your face like you hadn't just ripped someone's head off. “I hope you don't decide to rip anyone else's head off today.” Hughie sighed. Even with time, he still found the bloodbath a bit too much for your character. “Just Homelander's.” Not that you alone would be able to immobilize and rip the head off that bastard, but if they immobilized him and the opportunity arose? You'd do it eagerly.

For now, the most you could do was deal with the more grandfatherly version of him who didn't know the difference between “though” and “thought”, but knew exactly how a real man should dress and act. Oh, that old way of thinking from thirty years ago or more, how comforting, isn't it? Pure bullshit.

“So... You're a little thing with a penchant for ripping off heads? How cute.” Hard to tell if he was trying to make fun of you or just trying to seem interested on you. Give him some credit, the guy hasn't done that since the '80s, and he probably doesn't even remember the feeling.