Disclaimer: They're all Whedon's.

Author's Note: Many years post-BDM, canon pairings.

Evening on the Ground

by Ariane

Ben finds him in darkness on the front porch swing, Mom’s Christmas present a few years back. Dad made it himself. Man of many talents.

One of which is an impenetrable and frightening stoneface. Ben is near to quaking in his black combat booties.

The rainstorm hissing all around them is a hot one, and the wind, warm and humid as breath, is playing at the hem of Ben’s untucked shirt. Mom hates weather like this. It makes her hair poofy, and Dad laughs at her attempts to tame it.

Right now he’s got a bottle of brandy on his knee, fingers curled around its neck. Approachable, but tetchy. His right arm is taking up as much space on the swing back as he can make it.

Ben stands stiff against the porch railing and lets the storm blow curls out of his eyes.

“You gotten any smarter since we last spoke?” Dad says conversationally.

“No way in hell,” Ben says. It’s a beautiful start.

“Then I dunno what you’re doing out here. I think I made myself clear.”

“Think so. The part where you kicked a door in stands out in particularly shiny detail.”

“Mighta been a bit perturbed at my son’s sudden case of brainless suicidal heroics.”

Ben’s got a snappy comeback, it’s right there on the tip of his tongue—but he reins it in. “I didn’t come out here to have another go,” he says. “I came to talk.”

“I said my bit.”

“Yeah, I heard. Now I’m sayin’ mine.” Mom would know how to phrase this so that nothing else winds up broken (someone’s arm, for instance). Ben’s plan is just to muddle along and hope his mouth somehow spits out what he means. He tries empathy. Empathy’s good, right? “I know you had a hard war.”

It’s the wrong opening line, all wrong. He can tell by the world of trouble in the expression his Dad turns up at him now. “You know, do you?”

But Ben doesn’t have it in him to be angry anymore. He slumps against the railing and says: “Your war was hard.