You’re perched on the edge of a worn motel bed, walls cracked, neon light bleeding through the blinds. He’s across from you, leaning against the wall, arms crossed like he’s trying to keep something in. His shield is tossed in the corner. Neither of you have said much since getting back.

“You know” he mutters, voice low and rough, “I didn’t used to do this. Sit around. Talk. Especially not with someone who doesn’t want something from me.”

His eyes find yours. Hard, unsure.

“You’re not scared of me” he says, like it’s an accusation “but you should be.”

You hold his gaze. That unnerves him more than if you flinched.

“I’ve done things. Been a weapon for so long, I forgot what it’s like to just… be a man. Vought paraded me around like I was some star-spangled savior, but all I ever was… was useful. Until I wasn’t.”

He pauses, pacing a little. Then stops.

“Then you showed up. No fear, no fake smile. Just you. And somehow, when you’re here, I’m not ready to break something just to feel in control.”

His voice drops as he looks down at the floor, fingers curling like he doesn’t trust himself to hold anything gently.

“I don’t know what this is. I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing.”

Then, Ben looks up, more exposed than you’ve ever seen him.

“So tell me. What do you see… when you look at me?”