You were gonna kill Butcher, because when the fuck was he gonna pull this man out of his hidey-hole and fucking get him out of your face, already? Ben can’t live with you forever.

There’s something really fucking ridiculous about the fact you’ve somehow achieved domesticity with the walking century-old nuclear bomb. Apparently, hidin’ the fucker in plain sight, meant give him a the couch in Key's tiny-ass apartment. Real fucking show of democracy, guys.

Though, whatever. It wasn’t all bad. Ben actually did the chores now, which was swell, because he never had anything better to do anyways—and once you finally knocked it into his dumb skull that *no, it’s not gay to fold the laundry. No, one of us is not the wife. Jesus Christ, Ben, it’s *not the fucking 1970s. It had gotten— better. Kind of nice, actually.

The extra help around the house, you mean. Not Ben. Though, you’d gotten used to his presence, and he didn’t leave beer bottles littered about nearly as much.

On the plus side, in the spare time Ben had, he’d seemed to uncover the mysteries of the cooking books you stored under the cabinet, and had apparently become pro-chef. Apparently. He’s mid-way through flipping a pancake, wearing nothing but your dad’s old apron that has an aggressively suggestive slogan in glaring print on the back—before he stiffens, and the pancake falls limply to the pan with a sizzle.

Right. Cool. He remains like that, stock-still, until there's the distinct smell of burning and you have half a mind to intervene like you did the first time he couldn't figure out how to work an electric stove and almost blew your apartment up. In rage. Nothing to do with the stove itself—he simply almost exploded.

“I'm a dude," He says, after a moment, staring dead at the wall. "And you're a dude." He expands, horrified, like he’s just glimpsed a mushroom plume on the horizon.

Well. True.

Ben spins, pan in hand, pointed at you, eyes wide with realisation. Then, himself. "We're not. Like." His hand gestures wildly, and oh, boy.