seven

. . . 2022 . . . 

Brooke is faced with the sick certainty that she needs to get out of here. It's, unfortunately, paired with a second certainty that Butcher can tell. He won't take his eyes off of her. They're burning her, his own set of lasers in the form of relentless, awful focus.

It takes a split second for the thought of bolting into the trees outside of the Countess' extremely, borderline ridiculously, humble abode to cross her mind. Brooke takes exactly one step in that direction when a woman is walking up the gravel steps, looking between all of them in varying degrees of shock.

The shock levels out when she reaches Brooke. She can't help it; she cocks her head, staring right back at the blonde. They're about the same height, the woman dressed in plain clothes yet her heart and blood pound like Brooke's – abnormally fast, altered.

"Hughie," she says, voice low like that will stop Brooke from hearing it, like it will cover the rage of it in thick coatings of honey, "what the hell is this?"

Behind her, leaned against the vehicle, Hughie lets out a shuddering, "Uhh," and after another few seconds of deliberating on it and the stranger not moving an inch, not even to blink lest Brooke move out of her sight, Hughie adds, "what part are you– what part are–"

The woman laughs humorlessly. Brooke knows that laugh. Ben's been on the receiving end of it so often that she used to try and keep count and lost it. Usually before she launched a shard of crystal at his skull. Usually before he then knocked her against the wall and told her to do it again. This doesn't seem like the case with them, though, with Hughie so breakable and vanilla.

"Hughie," she says, slower her nose even twitching like an angry rabbit, "I am talking about the part where you have Rose Quartz standing outside of Crimson Countess' house."

Butcher stifles a laugh from the other side of the car. Well, if he can laugh, can't she? She presses her lips together to try and avoid it. It's truly like watching a child be scolded. If Butcher wasn't so Butcher, she was sure they could be standing next to each other, making quips about how ridiculous this was. But he was, and she would rather pull out her own teeth.

Hughie stumbles over his words again, but only for a second. Surprisingly, he's got confidence in his voice this time. Brooke is proud of this little twink boy! "Yeah. We do."

"Why?" Okay, the pride dissipates quickly, because Brooke feels bad for this woman. She deflates like the exhausted mother that she must feel like, talking to this man that might be her boyfriend, scolding him like she shouldn't have to. Brooke goes to say something, to argue her case because she isn't a prop, but the woman shakes her head. "I don't– I don't want to hear it. Not from you."

"Why from him, though? He hardly knows what he's saying." She spares a glance over at Hughie, who – what do you know – is blinking like that is an out of line statement.

The woman doesn't argue, and Hughie manages not to interject, so Brooke continues on. "I really hate to defend them, trust me, but it wasn't like they had much choice to have me." She raises her eyebrows at Brooke. "They stole my boyfriend. I'm here for him back."

"Soldier Boy's your boyfriend." The woman does not believe her. Brooke can hear it on her; the way her heart increases like she wants to laugh, her lips twitching. She wants to destroy Vought for keeping her caged, for bringing them to this. For making her look crazy. "Isn't his girlfriend right inside?"

Brooke realizes, though, that she doesn't have to explain her case. That both her and the woman don't have to argue about this and don't want to. That this isn't the point.

"Go on," she nods toward Hughie, holding out a hand, "go explain. I'll hold your clothes."

Hughie blinks. Once, twice. "Wh–"

"Don't play stupid with me, Hugh, my patience is so thin with you people. I can smell it in you." She snaps her fingers, and even offers a sympathetic smile toward the woman. She doubts that she knows. This is all such a slap in the face to her, isn't it? She wears her pain so evidently on her face. Maybe, if this all works out, Brooke will help her shield it better.

It takes only another blink for Hughie to be gone and the woman with him, his clothes hovering in the air for a second. The sleeves and legs fluttering and dancing in the gust of wind. Brooke snatches them, holding them close to her chest. Honestly, she just needed something to occupy her hands. They were beginning to fidget. It's been decades since she touched drugs, aren't you proud of her? But the acknowledgement of that thought is hitting her like a freight train in light of everything revealing itself.

"Your boyfriend's going to work with us," Butcher says from over the car hood. She almost forgot he was there. He reeks of superhuman too. Not like her or Payback or anyone she knew, but altered. Sickly. "Came up while you were in there."

"Where's he now?" She asks, staring straight ahead, unmoving.

Butcher props himself up on both elbows on the hood. "Where do you think?"

Finishing her work of the Countess, she imagines. Brooke doesn't acknowledge that Butcher said us, doesn't really want to. Is there a them? She didn't even consider that. Her goals do not include anything to do with whatever is wrong with this era in time, as selfish as that is. They include Malibu, Stasiya, and Ben, if he behaves.

So that must mean that there is a them, if Ben agreed to help them out. She can't steal Ben away from his commitments. It will only make him double down.

Brooke does not want to talk to Butcher anymore, and is about to go intercept Ben on his way out of the Countess' shoddy house when the entire thing bursts.

Explodes.

A ricochet ripples through the air, knocking Brooke off of her feet, sending Butcher back a couple of feet before he too falls. Heat scorches across her face and the exposed parts of her hands, but doesn't burn. Like he knows she's there, he would never hurt her.

Or maybe he's just centralized the blast to the house. He wasn't thinking of her at the Russian lab.

She can see him. There are no walls or windows or doors to guard him from her sight with them laying in burnt, charred rubble. He wears his stupid suit, the thing that mattered more than her, holding his shield, even his beard is trimmed neatly to his chin.

Liquid fire is coursing through her veins. Rage, burning hot, kindling at her center and spilling through her blood. She can feel it climbing the rungs of her bones all the way to her palms, begging to be used.

It's then that he turns. Can he feel her glare? Those furious, burning laser eyes she's got now? Or is he just a soldier awaiting his next command from the commandant he's under?

She chooses to believe it is the former, because his eyes land straight on her. They don't even dare to venture toward Butcher's side of the car.

Brooke is so angry by the way that he melts when he looks at her. Those green eyes, visible even from where she stands, turning to liquid emeralds, his face softening into longing instead of contempt. Ben's mouth hangs open like he's at a loss for words, and why? Why does nothing come to mind when sorry is right there, in the begging and pleading and groveling sections of the dictionary?

"There's my girl." He takes a step forward, undeterred by the way her palms and her eyes and everything on her seems to be glowing vibrant rose, that her hands are shaking so violently that she doesn't know where the blast will go when she lets it loose.

She cocks her head again. This time animalistic, her lips pulled around her teeth in a snarl. "Here she is."

And she explodes.