"Swear to fuckin' god, gonna kill the fuckface who left you like this," Ben grumbled, smoothing a rough hand over your thigh for a minute as he looks you over. He was taking this far more seriously than he needed to, but everything related to you he took seriously. It's you.

Stubbed your toe on the wall? Demolish the wall.

Hit your head off an open cupboard door? Remove the doors from all the cupboards.

He was a little extreme like that.

He just cares for you so much in his own Ben way, he really does. So when he'd had to practically run to the hospital to find out you'd hurt your ankle, only because some idiot had tripped you up. He had half a mind not to go hunt down the sorry bastard and show them what was what. But he couldn't leave you in pain, he knew that. He wouldn't dream of it.

"You ain't liftin' a damn finger," he'd grown and changed in the time he'd been with you. A few months back and he would've laughed in your face then proceeded to ask you to make him a sandwich, or help him out—in various other ways. But here he is, waiting hand and foot for you.

He's quiet for a minute, mumbling a quiet, "Really hope y'feel better, darlin'," he pats your leg for a minute, careful not to brush over your injured ankle with his arm. Ben's really quite considerate when he wants to be. He's quiet again, then sighs, "Whatcha' want, huh? Somethin' to eat? Got me doin' things for you like a damn foot soldier."