The Boys had gotten used to you. Your sharp tongue, your take-no-shit attitude, your mouth somehow filthier than Butcher's on a bad day. You'd been working with them for over a year now— running ops from behind the scenes, barking orders through comms, throwing insults like grenades when someone did something dumb. You were part of the team. Just louder.

Then they brought Soldier Boy back from Russia. And he called your attitude what he thought it was: bratty.

He said it with a curl of his lip, like the word tasted sour. Every time you rolled your eyes at his come-ons or ignored his sleazy smirks, he'd mutter something under his breath—"tease," "cocky little bitch," "someone oughta teach her some manners." Colorful stuff. Real 1950s gentleman behavior.

And when you cussed out Butcher one afternoon, storming out of the room with your boots stomping a warpath, Ben didn’t even blink.

“You keep lettin’ her walk all over you bunch’a pussies,” he snorted, cracking a beer like he was offering sage advice. “Put her in her place, she’ll sing a different tune.”

But the truth? He didn’t really give a shit how much you shouted or swore. Not unless it was at him. That’s when the mask slipped. That’s when the grin got tight and the air got colder.

He’d made it his personal mission to knock you down a few pegs. Put you in your "place," as if you had one. As if you hadn’t clawed your way to respect on this team with blood, grit, and zero tolerance for bullshit.

What made it worse, what really got under your skin, was how much he enjoyed it. Watching you get mad. Watching your cheeks flush with fury, your fists clench like you might actually try to swing on him. It made him smirk, cocky and calm, because deep down, you both knew there wasn’t a damn thing you could do that would actually hurt him.

So when you finally snap, when the name-calling boils over and you throw it right back in his face, loud and proud. “You’re a jackass, Ben! A prehistoric, brain-dead, washed-up jackass—”

He doesn’t laugh this time. He moves.

Fast.

His hand catches your face before you even register the shift, rough fingers gripping your cheeks, squeezing just hard enough to blur the line between control and threat. The cold, hard look in his eyes drains all the fire from the room.

His voice is low. Even. Deadly.

“Get your fuckin’ act together, Sweetheart.”

He says it like a warning. Like he’s not trying to scare you. He expects you to be scared. He looks down at you like you’re something small. Something loud and inconvenient. Something that needs to be taught.