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The blast hit harder than anything Soldier Boy had anticipated. For a second — just a second — everything went white. Noise fractured into shards of shrapnel and screaming. And then the dust settled moments later. The street looked like the end of the world. Buildings gutted, cars crumpled like plastic toys, storefronts caved in. Fires bloomed hungrily in the wreckage, crackling as they devoured what little was left standing. Glass shattered everywhere. Dust covered every surface.
And in the middle of it —A shape. Small. Crumpled. Vulnerable. His boots crunched over broken glass as he staggered forward, coughing smoke from his lungs. He didn’t realise he was running until he was already there — dropping to his knees in the rubble, hands scrambling before his brain even caught up.
It was you.
Pinned under a slab of concrete the size of a kitchen table, dust streaking your blood-smeared face, one arm twisted unnaturally. You were barely conscious — your lashes fluttering weakly, your mouth slack with shock.
Ben's heart punched a hole through his ribs.
"Fuck — no, no —" He grabbed the concrete and heaved. Veins bulged in his arms, gravel grinding under his boots. With a guttural roar, he tore it off you, tossing it aside like garbage.
You gasped, your whole body arching like a puppet yanked by invisible strings.
He was on you in an instant, hands hovering, frantic. He didn’t know where to touch — didn’t know how to fix — Christ, there was so much blood. “Hey — hey, sweetheart — look at me.” His voice was hoarse. Raw. He patted your cheek lightly, the motion awkward and trembling.
Your eyelids cracked open, sluggish and dazed. "You're..." You croaked the word like it hurt. "...Soldier Boy..." The sound of it on your lips damn near killed him.
"Yeah, that's right," he said roughly, a desperate sort of brightness punching into his voice. "Yeah, that’s me. Big, dumb, pain-in-the-ass Soldier Boy."
A tiny, broken smile tugged at your cracked mouth. And it shattered him in ways no weapon ever had. He gathered you into his arms — carefully, carefully, or he might break you — like you were made of glass and one wrong move would shatter you into dust.
You whimpered, pain lancing through you. It nearly undid him.
"It's alright — I got you," he muttered, rocking back on his heels, shielding you against his chest. "You're alright. I'm gonna get you outta here."
Gunfire rattled in the distance. Screams echoed down the ruined street. Sirens howled somewhere far away, too far to help. The world was still burning. But Ben didn’t care. The mission could rot. The target could run. The fucking country could fall apart around him. He didn't give half of one fuck. You were the only thing he was going to save. He bolted through the ruins, weaving through collapsed storefronts and overturned vehicles, clutching you to his chest. His breath came in furious, ragged bursts. Every jolt of his stride made you gasp in pain, and each sound from you was another nail driven into his heart.
The comms in his ear crackled with angry voices.
Where the fuck are you, Soldier Boy?!
We need backup on the east flank!
Report! Report, goddammit!
He ripped the earpiece out and threw it into the rubble without breaking stride. You whimpered against him, dazed and half-conscious. "Easy, easy, sweetheart," he panted, ducking through the skeletal remains of a building. "Almost there. Just stay with me."
You didn’t answer. He tightened his grip on you, as if he could anchor you here by sheer force of will.
He found a shelter — an alley choked with debris, half-sheltered by fallen walls. Out of sight. Out of the line of fire.
He dropped to his knees again, cradling you in his lap.
Your breathing was shallow and hitching. Blood stained your shirt, your skin.
Ben peeled off his jacket, fumbling with stiff fingers to wrap it around you, trying to stop the worst of the bleeding. His gloves smeared blood across your ribs, your side, your trembling hands.
He cursed under his breath — a steady, furious stream. "I didn’t mean for this," he rasped. "Jesus Christ, I didn’t — you weren’t supposed to be here —"
You blinked at him blearily, your face slack with confusion. "You saved me," you whispered.
Something inside him broke, sharp and final.
"No," he said, his voice rough and low. "No, sweetheart. I hurt you."
He could still feel it — the heat of the explosion tearing out of him like a wildfire, the ground heaving, the walls collapsing. It had been him. Not the terrorists. Not the enemy. Him. He’d lost control — just for a second — and the blast had torn half the city block apart. Collateral damage. That’s what they’d call it. A political hiccup. A line in a report. But you weren’t a statistic. You were real. Your blood was real. Your broken body was real. And the weight of it — the crushing, suffocating guilt — was more than he could carry.
You stirred weakly, your fingers brushing his arm. He caught your hand instantly, pressing it against his chest. Against the frantic hammer of his heart. "Not your fault," you breathed.
He let out a laugh so broken it barely sounded human. "You don’t know what you’re talkin' about," he said harshly. "You don’t know what I’ve done. What I am."
A monster. A ticking bomb. A disaster wearing a smile.
You squeezed his hand — weak, but deliberate. "You’re human," you whispered.
He went still. Frozen. Human. The word cut deeper than any insult. He wanted to believe you. God, he wanted to. But all he could see was your blood on his hands.
He bowed his head, forehead pressing to yours, breathing you in.
"You stay with me," he whispered. A prayer. A command. A desperate, helpless plea. "You don’t leave me. You hear me?"
Your breath hitched. He could feel it — the faint tremble of your chest against his.
"I’ll get you out of here," he vowed, voice breaking. "I’ll get you patched up. I’ll — fuck, I’ll do whatever it takes."
You smiled — a soft, weary thing — and it ruined him. Because you believed him. You, bleeding and broken, still believed in him. And he didn't deserve it. Not now. Not ever.
Ben wrapped you tighter in his arms, shielding you from the ash and the cold and the noise of the burning world.
And for the first time since they dragged him out of that goddamn Russian prison — He was afraid. Not for himself. For you.Because if you didn’t make it —If he lost you now —There wouldn’t be enough of him left to save.