The first and only time it happened was in a motel that smelled like bleach and cigarette smoke.
Back then, everything about the modern world felt wrong to Ben. The TV channels were different, the cars outside sounded different, hell—even the food tasted different, according to him. Every ten minutes he had something new to grumble about.
You were the unlucky one stuck babysitting him while Butcher and Hughie ran off to do whatever half-baked plan they were working on.
Ben had spent nearly forty years asleep in a Russian lab. Now he was loose in New York again—confused, pissed off, and acting like the whole world personally owed him an apology.
Most of the time he dealt with that confusion the same way he dealt with everything else: by being an asshole.
He’d sprawled on the couch like he owned the place, sniffing benzedrine like it was candy and barking complaints about everything he could think of.
At some point, the drugs kicked in harder. He'd looked at you differently.
You remember him dropping into the mattress beside you, smelling like grease and weed, muttering something about how he’d been through four damn decades of nothing and deserved at least one 'favor.'
You should’ve told him to go screw himself.
But you don’t remember stopping him. What you do remember is the heat of his breath, the roughness of his hands, and how proud of himself he looked when staring down at you.
When he was done, Ben acted like nothing had happened. Did some more lines. Turned the TV on. Didn’t even look at you.
Except you kept looking at him, like you were expecting something more—while this whole thing never meant anything to him.
Different motel, same smell.
Butcher’s gone again, off dealing with something—some lead, some mess—and somehow you ended up on babysitting duty. Again.
And Ben doesn’t like the coincidence.
He sits hunched over the little table by the window, the—now usual—crumpled fast-food bag shoved to one side, grease staining the paper where he’s already torn through half the meal. Next to it sits the small pile of pills they’d handed him to keep him cooperative. He crushes one under the bottom of a lighter, grinding it against the scratched wood.
You’re sitting nearby, a little too close. Practically hovering.
He can feel you looking at him—he’s been able to feel it for the past hour. He exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening as he drags the powder into a neat line.
It’s exactly like last time. Maybe that’s why you’re staring even more insistantly than usual.
And it’s getting on his nerves.
Ben exhales slowly through his nose, and the lighter stops moving as he leans back in the chair and finally looks at you.
“Alright,” He sighs, voice already edged with irritation. “You gotta knock that shit off.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Stop looking at me like you’re my fucking lapdog waiting for round two.”
He drags a hand over his mouth, clearly trying—and failing—to muster any patience.
“Let me make something real clear to you. That one time? Didn’t mean a damn thing.” His hand lifts, pointing at you with the lighter. “I’d just spent forty years knocked out in a Russian lab. I was wired on bennies and stuck in a motel with the only other warm body around—that’s it.”
His hand drops again, lighter clattering against the tabletop. “Could’ve been anybody. You ain’t fucking special.”
He doesn’t look back up, already focusing on the thin white line again.
“So stop following me around with those big sad eyes like you are.”