Morning approaches and Ben stumbles across the fields, the rising sun casting long purple-grey furrows over the uneven tilts of earth. Even now, as Revonnah barely bursts back into life, there is beauty in the little the light touches. In the distance, he can see a few dots of periwinkle blue on the slopes below them, smears of yellow and orange pasted over the movements of the clothed bodies below; other Revonnahganders, farmers, who have start gathering for the long day's work ahead of them. There's something cheering in the sight, he finds.

He blinks and that cheer is abruptly gone, chased off by the silhouette of Rayonna among them, the rosy tone of her hair waving like a flag. He turns away, shoving his head away from the sight. After all, she can't be the only Revonnahgander with pink hair right?

He stands and waits, for once up a little earlier than Rook. He tries to banish the sight of the darkened trails of fur beneath the black hoods of Rook's closed eyes from his memory. Waking up, that had been the first sight to catch his view, and he had let his fingers trace over the fur there, dried and caked together by the moisture that had lingered over it hours before, perhaps when he had been sleeping. Ben hates the idea of it, of Rook crying, while he's busy sleeping his ass off, unable to do anything about it.

Still, that's Rook all over. Big, reliable, older-brother who's used to surpressing himself if he deems it unproductive to whatever personal mission he's devoted himself too. And Ben does not like to think of himself as being the 'mission' in question.

He blinks, focuses harder, almost despite his better judgement, and decides that yes, that is in fact Rayona down there. She's busy bent over her scythe, clearly focused on the rocks before her, and if he peers closer he's convinced he can spot the familiar dots of white flowers lining her head like a crown, each petal as striking as a jewel.

And so, like all his bad ideas, Ben gives into the impulse to go down and prod. A quick and easy whisper of 'Big Chill' has him gliding into the mountain, pushing through the brown rock until he can surface just yards away from her, behind some bushes that nurse a strange batch of purple berries. He shuffles, spares a glance at the surrounding Revonnahganders and as casually as he can, transforms back to Ben again. And steps out.

Some of the Revonnahganders doggedly continue on with their work. Others pause and cast him the old hairy eyeball. But on the whole they aren't going out their way to attack him. Then again, he doesn't look like a large locust this time and well...Rook has always been determined to empathise just how 'peaceful' his people truly are.

But then peaceful or 'friendly', Ben knows, is not always the same as 'accepting.'

'Um,' he says, an unsure waver in his voice. 'Rayona?'

He steps forward, lifts a hand and then thinks better of it as Rayona turns, still clutching her scythe. The movement is smooth and poised and Ben can't help but wince as she holds in front of her like a barrier, instead of simply lodging it into the soil.

'Yes?' she asks, and in contrast to him, there is no uncertainty in her voice. Or any sort of real curiosity within her tone. Even her face looks blank.

Except of course, now that Ben's follows his strange impulse to come and talk to her, he has no real idea what to do with it. So, as always, he wings it.

'Do you like doing all this work?' he asks and then cringes at how awkwardly the start of this conversation must sound to everyone else. And how strange. 'I mean, I guess everyone around here is doing the same sort of work and maybe it's not really something you're supposed to question, but do you enjoy it?'

Rayona tilts her head to one side and Ben catches a small smile softening her expression before her next words chase it away. 'This is a very strange way to start the morning, I must say; I did not expect the legendary Ben Tennyson to come down and ask me about my career aspirations!'

Okay, he's pretty sure he's not imagining that slightly bitter twist to her tone.

'Sorry. I know I'm really not the person you want to be talking to...probably ever, actually.'

He's never come out and actually asked Rook point blank about how his relationship with Rayona ended; never really wanted to. Rayona seems nice enough, and he always thought it was kind of cool of her to be okay with the long distance thing they had going on, but...Ben has never really cared about her. Or attempted to get to know her. Just sort of accepted her as being 'there.' And then she wasn't, and he has never really stopped to notice her absence or worry about it.

Rayona looks at him steadily and then something in her posture wavers and breaks. 'Please get rid of that look on your face,' she says. 'It makes it harder to feel angry with you.'

She huffs and Ben watches, almost disbelievingly as she pushes the sharp edge of her scythe into the soil, pressing hard enough for it to remain upright, even after it leaves her grip.

'What happened?' she asks, motioning to well, all of him. 'You look as though you got in a fight of some kind.'

Ben shrugs. 'A bad guy showed up. And we beat him. Same old, same old.' He sees a few other Revonnahganders nearby freeze at this description and calls out again, 'and we BEAT him, so there's nothing to worry about! He's locked in the back of Rook's proto-I mean, space vehicle!'

Rayona laughs at his hastily made correction and sends him a smirk. 'You are not as thoughtless as you appear to be, after all! True, I do not know if our people would know what a 'Proto-truck' is, but a space vehicle...yes. Truly a description for the ages!'

Ben squints. Is she making fun of him?

'I begin to understand,' she murmurs, an analytical twinkle in her eyes as she muses aloud. 'Why he may have been drawn to you. We do not have many with your sort of boisterous personality here, on Revonnah. And Blonko has always been attracted to that which is atypical. He probably finds it fun to tease you...as I am now doing...'she trails off, a brief frown appearing on her face.

'So...' Ben hovers, uncertainly. Then takes the plunge. 'Rook's always wanted 'more' than this?' He motions to everything around them and eventually ends up completing the effect by pointing at Rayona's scythe. 'But you...don't?'

Understanding spreads over Rayona's face. 'Ah...so this is why you were asking me if I enjoyed this life.' Her head turns and her glance, Ben can see, takes in the mountains around them and their sweeping beauty, the rocks and crags, the plants sprouting out of its sides to drape green over the brown. And he sees her eyes soften. 'Truthfully, I can think of no other world, on which I would wish to live.'

Ben nods, even though she's not looking at him. And it's on the tip of his tongue to ask, to wonder, to push out that question that she'll probably hate him for...

'But that is not the reason Blonko and I are no longer together,' Rook's former girlfriend suddenly says. She spins and fixes Ben in her sights. 'Though that may have been in the back of our minds when we made our decision.' She hesitates, and then sighs. 'Or rather when Blonko made his decision.' She casts a nervous glance towards the other Revonnahganders, some of them clearly straining to listen and steps forward. And Ben suddenly feels very foolish as she lowers her voice in a harsh whisper. 'You should be more cautious! Blonko may not live here, but his family does! And even the high regard our people have for him may not open their minds up enough to be accepting of his recent romantic endeavour!' These last few words are practically spat out, her nose barely inches from his own, and Ben has to fight the urge to step back from their venom.

'So,' he says softly. 'I was the reason you guys broke up.'

Rayona pauses and while she does not soften exactly, she eyes him with a new curiosity. 'He did not tell you?'

'I never asked,' Ben murmurs. 'It didn't seem like it was any of my business.'

A wry smile twists Rayona's lips. 'But mine is yours, I suppose?'

Been feels a little ashamed.

'I understand,' Rayona says somewhat breezily. 'It is easier to ask a stranger something intimate, because you can easily walk away from them. You do not have to care too much.'

Ben is only now beginning to understand how sharp Rayona is, how quick she is to slice to the heart of the matter. Perhaps that's why Rook first liked her.

'Blonko...' Rayona pauses. 'Blonko is fair. Or tries to be. He told me that although it was not his intention, the long distance between us was helping to cool the initial attraction between us. And it was doing nothing to help douse the new feelings he had been developing for someone else.' She gives a wry smile. 'Though if they were strong enough for him to not only be aware of them, but actually vocalise their existence to me I suspect they were not as new as he made them out to be at the time. Blonko is fair, but he is not above twisting the truth slightly to help himself.'

'When was this?' Ben finds himself breaking in to ask. It is suddenly vitally, vitally important for him to know.

Rayona casts him a knowing look. 'About two weeks before that disgusting game show aired, the one where I and several other women were forced to compete for your affections.'

Ben frowns. 'You're talking about Revonnaganderian weeks, aren't you?'

Rayona gives him a smile that causes her lips to curl a little too much for Ben's liking. It reminds him of all the times Charmcaster's given it before she blasts him or Gwen. 'Of course.' She turns back to her scythe. 'Have fun working out the approximate calculations, in order to translate it into your own Earthian calendar,' she calls over her shoulder and Ben clenches his fist. He is not going to transform into Brainstorm or Grey Matter in order to work out some odd alien arithmetic, he is not!

'Why are you a Cerebrocrustacean?' Rook asks blankly ten minutes later, once he's stirred himself from the fog of sleep.

Ben grumbles and hunches over, the shadows playing out shades of coffee-brown over his shell. He has the answer now, to the question Rayona refused to solve for him, but as always, his brain has refused to stop in this form and now he finds himself distracted by the vectors of the slanted beams of sunlight drifting into the workshed, working out how their angles will change and slide throughout the course of the day. It's an interesting little puzzle, given how Revonnah's multiple suns will cause various light beams to refract and criss-cross each other as the hours draw on, so much better than the ones thrown up by Earth's silly little singular star. He jolts a little as Rook slides over and props himself against the hard outer covering of his head.

'This is not a form I expect to see you take at leisure,' he remarks tapping the head-plates with a gentle finger.

'What?' Ben asks defensively. 'Brainstorm's cool!'

'Yes,' agrees Rook. 'But on the whole, you are far more likely to transform into someone who is more...flashy, when you are bored.'

'I can shoot electricity out of my brain. How can you get more flashy than that?'

Rook seems to give up because he sighs, presses his head briefly against Ben's much large one and asks, instead, 'are you feeling any better?'

'What, after you attempted to rock my world last night?' Ben snorts and mutters 'going Ben,' so he can see Rook turning away, viably flustered with his human eyes rather than his Cerebrocrustacean ones. For all Brainstorm's brain power, his colour vision's not that great. Maybe that's why the species become so good at maths and mental predictions, especially when it comes to calculating vectors: to avoid bumping into things.

'Well, aren't you adorable?' he murmurs teasingly, shoving Rook with his elbow. 'All shy and flustered and embarrassed because of doing the dirty with m-'

'There was nothing dirty about it,' snaps Rook, turning to fix him with a sudden glare. 'It is this place which is dirty.' He turns back round to glare pointedly at the nearest wall, eyes narrow enough to burn holes from them.

'Whoa,' Ben mumbles. 'I sure wouldn't want to be that wall right now.'

'Forgiv-I am sorry,' Rook says, each word coming out clipped and short. 'But this is not something I can simply work through in a single night, no matter how unfair that might seem to you.'

Ben pauses. Then shoves Rook again with his elbow, more gently this time. 'Hey, if it helps, you don't have to force yourself to say 'I am sorry.'' Just use your usual, old fashioned 'forgive me.' I never asked you to do that, you know, to change things about yourself for me.'

Rook frowns. 'I want to change,' he says slowly. 'I need to.'

Ben raises an eyebrow. 'There's nothing you can do to stop crazy people from wanting to cut off my arm,' he says pointedly.

Rook stiffens immediately and Ben can tell he's hit a home run. He takes Rook's hand. 'Don't,' he tells him softly, running his finger between the tense joints that crack out from Rook's knuckles like miniature mountains, feeling out the little knobs of bone that remain hard beneath the fur. 'Don't beat yourself up about it. You'll go crazy. Come on. Remember how you beat Kundo the first time? By rolling with the punches and not being such a stickler for rules and tradition. You mixed up your moves a little and improvised. Winged it, basically. That's what every fight gotta's be like, you know that. There's no perfect rulebook you can follow to prevent this'- he locks Rook's fingers with his own and drags them over, swiping both their hands against the grey coolness of his prosthetic arm – 'from happening again.' He smiles, and knows it's not a particularly happy one. 'That's the life we chose.'

Rook stares at him, a little awed, and Ben smiles and leans over to nuzzle his face against the strong arm he's still attached to. 'You couldn't be like all those other Revonnahgander farmers, right? Well, here's the cost.' Then he draws back sheepishly. 'And I know you know that. But wanting to forget and turn into some kind of perfect warrior that makes the impossible happen, isn't...well, it isn't going to happen.'

Rook sighs. 'Forgive me,' he says, so softly that Ben has to strain to catch it. 'I just want to keep you safe and whole. And nearly failing for the second time in a row...' he hisses between clenched teeth. 'It does not sit well with me.'

Now it's Ben turn to sigh. 'Come on,' he says. 'I think we've done enough sitting around.'

Ben and Rook patter inside the house, the lingering rays of the sun dappling their steps and pouring in to illuminate the sight of his parents sprawled out on a pile of blankets and rugs. And Ben blinks at the way crazy geometric patterns of brown and orange clash heavily beneath the simple colours of their sweaters, respectively a pale lilac and a minty blue. It's enough to make him pause, to let guilt strike him at the sight. They haven't even changed into pyjamas, a clear testament to their worry over him.

His guilt guides him as he approaches, makes him raise his hand and stretch it out to seize a slumbering shoulder. His Mom's probably. She's a little weird, but then she's always been able to roll with what he's thrown her way a little easier than his Dad.

As soon as he thinks this, his foot snags on the end of one of the bunched-up rugs, caught on a wrinkle that looks as though it's playing host to a blurred math equation – and given Revonnahgander brains, it wouldn't surprise him at all if, yes, they actually find math symbols to be pretty great interior decorating choices – and Rook catches his elbow, not looking much better in the process.

'We really should eat something,' his boyfriend mumbles and Ben savours it, this rumpled look he has upon being freshly awoken, hair escaping from the main stripe on his head. All Ben's fault of course, him and the cunning exploration of his fingers. 'I will start making preparations. And ah,' – and here Rook grimaces – 'attempt to rouse my Father.'

He trails off into the kitchen and Ben re-focuses his attention on his mother, shaking her shoulder with the hand he'd almost lost yesterday.

'Mom?'

She yawns, stirs and blinks her eyes open, straight into his face. A few seconds past before awareness registers and then Ben's cheek meets her hair as she smashes him inside her arms. 'Oh honey...' she draws back, eyes worriedly tracking the sight of the hand that still hasn't left his shoulder. 'You're still here.' It's instinctive, what she says, he can tell by the way she immediately looks a little annoyed with herself afterwards. But he gets it.

'That's right, Mom,' he says with a carefully closed-off smile. 'All of me's riiiight here, present and accounted for.'

She looks like she wants to swat him. Instead she turns round and shakes his dad awake.

'Carl? Carl! Your son's awake. And-' she casts a heavy eye over Ben, 'looking quite rumpled.'

Ben hates the special emphasis she gives the word. Just, why? But what he hates even more is that once his father wakes up and gives him a once over, well, his dear old Dad grins just as brightly and agrees.

The table quickly becomes a focal point for laugher and the general bustle of activity. Rook Bralla and his Mom end up carting over plates of food and something that looks like a citrus-tinged version of ratatouille, while Shim whisks stuff out of the fridge and pantry that looks as though it's barely been dusted over with flour five minutes before. Though judging by the spills of white he can see lining the kitchen surfaces from the corner of his eye, and the faint aroma of freshly baked bread, he's guessing that there was more than a little late-night baking going on while he was out.

Rook Ben is happily seated at his side, practically clambering into his lap whenever curiousity tugs at him, and his hand keeps squeezing at Ben's prosthetic arm, fingers running over the joints as he stares out at it with wide-eyed fascination. Luckily Ben's feeling charitable enough to extend his palm and let the little critter play with the fingers there, curling and bending them round his own. It's all he can do to hold his tongue back when he sees Shar eyeing them disapprovingly. Rook Ben's not always going to display such open levels of fanatic behaviour; one day he's going to be old enough to try and play it cool in front of his idol. But until that time, Ben's more than open to bask in the admiration that spills over from him, eager and bright.

'Why do you not install a shrink ray? Just think of it! You could shrink down such vile adversaries as Vilgax and flatten them with a single step!' Rook Ben hammers his fist against his palm for emphasis. 'Squish! The fight would be over!'

Shar makes a face. 'That is gross.'

'It is efficient!' Rook Ben snaps back. 'Think of the energy and time that could be saved.'

'It is also unethical,' Rook interjects, though he does look a little amused. 'I imagine 'squishing' someone would result in a trial for first degree murder.'

'Oh,' is all Rook Ben manages to say, looking both crest-fallen and sheepish at the same time.

'I dunno,' Ben says with an easy shrug. 'There are plenty of bad guys out there who could do with being cut down to size. Quite literally. There's no rule saying we have to squish them. I think a shrink-ray's a neat idea.'

Rook Ben brightens instantly.

'Please do not encourage him,' Shar mutters, observing the orange porridge in front of her with a wrinkle of distaste to her nose. The spoon is half raised to her mouth and she eyes the sloppy gruel within it for a few seconds before shuddering and letting it slide back into the bowl.

'I don't know, it would certainly be therapeutic to stomp down on the heads of people who like to keep trying to kill my son,' Carl muses aloud. 'Maybe you should go and get that froggy little guy to hook you up with a shrink-ray after all.'

Ben hides his face in his hands as an awed hush descends on the table. Probably because no one here would normally to think to refer to Azumuth, the greatest mind in five galaxies, as a 'froggy little guy.'

Carl, for his part, smiles nervously into the face of the silence he can sense he caused. 'Erm, what was his name again? As-mouth? I certainly know it's not Kermit!' He accompanies this joke with a wink and Ben blanches.

'Dad,' he moans, peeking out from between his fingers. 'Please, stop.'

'Yes,' pipes up Shim, 'I have seen those felt-like puppets you Earthlings derive humour from; and I am sure Azumuth would not be pleased. He is, I am certain, far more soft and cuddly.'

Ben's jaw drops.

And then, after a few tense seconds, there is a wheeze. It erupts from between Rook Da's harshly clenched teeth, as he lowers his face to the table. His fist resolutely bangs down against the resin, once then twice, his whole body shaking as his once proud back bends and stoops, his face hidden from view. And then, with a shout, the whole of him unfurls like a flower, vibrating as he shakes himself apart into peals of laughter.

Ben has never been so terrified before in his life. Even Rook looks a little daunted.

Rook Ben however, looks frightfully proud of himself.

'Oh stop it,' Rook Shar mutters. And then, steeling herself, she finally takes a bite out of her porridge.

Nobody is talking about what happened. No one is so much as mentioning Kundo's name. Ben knows people think he is oblivious and that serves him just fine; it makes it easier to catch his Dad sending heated glances towards the window where Rook's truck is in plain sight and the slight mania in his Mom's eyes as she chatters to Bralla.

'So, what sort of cleaning product do you use? All organic, I imagine? Ben tells me Revonnah is a self-sufficient planet.' She pauses as Bralla kicks open a small vent lodged into the wall and flicks a switch nearby. Instantly a small sucking noise is heard and bits of stray dust and food start to be yanked across the floor and into it's small, yawning mouth.

'I believe you use your 'vacuum cleaners' for the same purpose,' Bralla explains dully to Sandra's interested look. 'They certainly seem more manoeuvrable; we favour using a small brush to yank any dirt out of any hard to reach places and allow the vent to do the rest of the work. As for cleaning products? Well, Amber Ogia would attract too many Muroids. So we turn to other plants...'

Ben rolls his eyes. He's busy playing some sort of board game with Rook Ben, Shi and Shim. And thoroughly getting his ass kicked too.

'So...' he says, after landing on a green square for the fifth time in a row. 'I get...karblanked?'

'Kur-blonk-ked,' pronounces Shim easily. She has a superior look on her face as though Ben is the younger one here. 'You have delayed the harvest by three days. Pray the gods have mercy upon you.'

Gods? As in plural? Ben's not too interested in Revonnahgander religion, but he supposes he should try paying a bit more attention to such things. He's not actively trying to get into Rook Da's good books here; he feels like he shouldn't have to. But the guy does remind him of some of the more conservative neighbours in his street, the ones who are still nervous around Rook, and well, nothing ever opens them up like a good dose of religious talk. Even if it was frightfully amusing to see them gawp as Rook became more well-versed with quoting scripture back at them than they did in order to win debates. So he's about to open his mouth and ask, maybe glean some more details, when the man in question's shadow falls over him.

'How is it that are you losing against mere children?' he asks, voice not quite dipping into a low growl. But close enough to make Ben keep his eyes fixed on the board.

'They're your children,' he points out and is gratified to hear an edge to his voice. Normally he tries to be deferential to Rook Da. But after yesterday, he doesn't much feel much like playing nice.

'True,' Da allows after a moment and Ben hears the upwards lilt in his voice, a trace of the proud smile that moves those lips. Then there's a shift in the air, a near murmur of warmth near his side, and the cloth of Rook Da's right arm slides close enough to see. Ben freezes.

'I do not know what to make of you,' Rook Da confesses, voice low and pondering. 'You are rude and spoilt, undisciplined and unruly...but after seeing the way your parents flitter and fritter about my house, I being to understand what makes you so ungrounded.'

Ben has to bite his tongue very hard at that.

Da pauses. 'And I am sure that there are aspects of my parenting style that could use work. Your Father...raised some interesting points in our argument yesterday. But then I have never left my family for long periods of time to go galavanting about the galaxy, so some of his accusations, of my similarity to his own father, I believe are unfounded.'

'My Grandpa,' Ben says firmly, before moving his wooden piece, a carving of some Revonnagander female carrying a knobbly stick, into the 'prayer circle' area of the board. 'Was not gallivanting about the galaxy. He was saving lives.' He turns to look Da in the eyes, ignoring the wide-eyed looks and bated breath held by the three youngsters surrounding them. 'And so is your son.'

Da smiles grimly. 'I know.' Then his look turns a little angry and he pointedly drags his eyes down Ben's prosthetic limb. 'He helped save yours, even if he could not save your arm; I am sorry that happened to you. And I am sorry you nearly lost your remaining arm while staying as a guest in my household.' He inclines his head, in a short, stiff-necked bow and Ben holds his breath, suddenly unerringly cautious of the way things could unfold.

It's true; he has no real firm memory of what happened after Rook finished cutting off his left arm. But the guy must have done something to prevent him bleeding out, before help arrived. Either way, he's glad Rook wasn't there, the first moment he awoke.

'I know this isn't what you wanted,' he says quietly. 'I know a lot of the things Blonko has done, has chosen, I mean, aren't things you wanted. But I don't think I'm one of the things you need to be worried about. I'm not about to go gallivanting off into the galaxy without him.'

Perhaps it's the wrong thing to reassure Rook Da about; it's exactly the sort of thing he doesn't want to hear. He wants Ben to leave his son, for them to be on the separate sides of any galaxy, any universe if at all possible. Probably. Ben can't read Rook Da, doesn't know what sort of thoughts are racing behind his eyes. He can't translate the sigh the other man gives out into any recognisable sort of emotion, it's just a sound that falls hollow and empty. Kinda like the look in the guy's eyes as he rips his eyes away from Ben's. It's not a victory, not quite, but it's something.

And maybe if he can weather this, whatever just happened, he can survive the rift that's opened up between him and his Grandpa.

Hopefully.

Hope flees, the moment a scream sounds out at near the end of the day. It's not a scream of horror, of terror, nothing as whimpish as that. It's a roar, a roar of rage. Of passion that drives out of a chest that should be too small to contain it and sends almost all of them out of the house, spiralling in a haze. Well, some of them.

Ben, Rook and Shar jump into action, their legs already cutting through the swirl of dirt and carrying them towards Rook's truck, the back door lifted off at its seams as though gloating, allowing them to spill into the mess inside.

Red. Red, red, red. It coats the floor and the pillow someone had angrily tossed at Kundo last night, someone who presumably had more mercy lodged in their soul than Ben has for Kundo.

And now, obviously, his Mother. Who stands, with barely a tremble, the blaster Carl had insisted taking with them, now firmly in her hand.

There's a hole punched through Kundo's chest below the point at which the blaster drops, electricity sparkling and jumping across the blemish of red that pours through the gap that armour and flesh now barely manage to bridge and cross. Kundo's hands twitch, barely making a move to blot the flow and he raises his head to show his teeth in a bloody smile.

'See,' he sneers, his voice cutting out afterwards into a cough. 'This, this is what happens when you expose Revonnah to the rest of the universe!'

It starts as soon as he gets back, as soon as his fingers can jolt against a keyboard and gain access to the Xtranet and Earth's internet both.

'Ben Tennyson's Violence Tendancies Explained?' booms one wiki-wannable article.

'This is why a human is unfit to wield the Omnitrix!' squeals another, this time a commenter on a Sumo Slammers tumblr post. 'Look at the violence that it will take thousands of years to breed out of their genes!'

That one gets a good snort out of Ben. Like any alien out there has room to talk. He can still remember the triumph in Kundo's grin, the pride in his chest even as the motors clanked and wheezed within, each breath a burden he could barely manage. He's not dead, but for one brief paralysing moment, Ben wishes he was. And then feels terrible because of what that would mean for his Mother.

He just... never thought...never could think...why did she go into the truck? And what could Kundo have said to her to make her, to goad her into...

Ben's mind boggles, it flees from the possibility that there is no easy witchcraft to explain why she did what she did. Not when there's been multiple occasions where he's stood there, in front of someone many people would say arguably deserved it, and known he had the thread of their life running through his hands, known that he could transform and cut it short. But he never does. Sure, he's done things, metted out punishments for some villains that people might say were worse than an outright death. And he's not even sure what happened to every villain he's taken out, especially some of the run-of-the-mill monsters he'd battled when he was ten. Because at some vital seconds, you favour surviving over being careful, and decide that Grandpa and Gwen and their lives are more important over worrying about whether the bad guy is durable enough to survive being run over by a train. It's a snap-second decision that is made, one not always verbalised, and it's not something a random member of the public can always understand.

Ben is bombarded with the chatter online. It's not so bad on the street or in Undertown; people always gossip louder in the vacuum that is the internet, that in the public space outside. Still, that doesn't stop some of the pondering looks he receives and some of the chortling cat-calls he gets from the shadier areas of Undertown. In some ways, this is worse than when he lost his arm. He can't fight against intergalactic law.

His Mom is up for first-degree man-slaughter. Rook had restrained her, even though she hadn't fought him, and Shar had put the cuffs on her. Carl had shook, demanded to sit with her in the back and Ben had joined him, silent, numb. He finally thinks he now understands what Rook Da had been feeling when Ben had spoken to him moments before.

He didn't look at Rook, didn't want to see the professional mask the other had slipped on even if he had stuttered and then stepped up and firmly read his Mom her rights. Only once, did he throw him a glare, when Rook got the usual line of how if she were a telepath, she had the right to keep her thoughts to herself, and then auguish had flashed briefly and brightly across his partner's face, before dying out like a star.

It's so...his Mom sitting in a cell. Eating those green blocks of space food that Driba and Blunkic deliver every day. Ben, for his part, has been eating pasta untouched by whatever red and brown things his Mom like to throw in the blender, swallowing down cereal sprinkled with sugar that his Mom would never buy, and stacking up microwavable meals that she would tut over the nutriantal value she would read off the back. And it tastes...both sweet and sharp, full of artificial flavours that he would normally be gooey-eyed over. And yet, there's a disconnect between his taste-buds and his brain and all that glory, e-numbers and chemicals, turns to mush in his mouth within a few seconds. He chews, swallows, and every time, feels like hurling.

His dad meanwhile has barely eaten, leaving half-nibb;ed toast still on the plate as the only remainder of his presence. It's turned hard and stale now, like left-over fish batter ever since yesterday, ever since he'd marched into Grandpa's office, camped out at his desk, and now pleads with him to pull every string he has.

'If you do nothing, then we're done, Dad,' he keeps saying. 'Permanently.'

Ben has seen him, of course he has. Asked for his advice, thrown similar pleas. But the answer is always the same. Just 'sorry, sorry, sorry, if it weren't for the fact that...' his Grandpa always tries to cut off, divert the subject. But Ben knows the truth.

If it weren't for the fact that all the eyes of the universe are on you, Ben Tennyson, he thinks, everyday, for the rest of your life, Mom could have a normal trial, not the media circus everyone seems to want. She needs to pay, they say. She can't be immune, because she's the mother of the greatest hero out there.

But he doesn't want her to. Pay, he means. Never mind the fact that if it had been any other person out there cutting down Kundo, even someone like Elena, he would have far less sympathy for them.

A gentle series of chimes rings out, so at odds with the harsh way that he feels, that he jumps and glares down at the culprit. It's his phone, vibrating against the duvet, Gwen's name flashing across the screen. He lets it ring itself hoarse, waits for the flicker of her name to die out. And sighs.

A few minutes later, it buzzes. Kevin, Ben assumes. Sending a text. He's almost touched. Would be, totally, if it wasn't for the yawning pit in his stomach.

He breathes, his fingers clenching harder against the card in his hands, the edges running grooves into his skin. They're beginning to hurt, the red ridges cutting against the healthier pink of his hand as it turns and tilts, exposing the card to different angles of light.

Another half hour passes. The phone rings again. Rook, probably, Ben guesses. But he continues to stare at the card in his hand.

Half a second later, the call cuts out. But silence refuses to fall as knock lands against the window and Ben turns, to see Rook Blonko in the flesh, mouthing something through the glass.

Ben grimaces in response and nearly turns away. Before he abruptly changes his mind, aborts the half-turn he is making, and strides over to the window. With a sharp yanks, he pulls the glass away by the frame, opening his mouth to snarl out some comment about how if Rook is creepy enough to learn his file off by heart, then he supposes he shouldn't be surprised to see him step up into an actual stalker, but the words die before they have a chance to form, are literally rebuffed and pushed back by the sight of Rook clambering inside his room, the veneer of politeness dropped away from his face.

Ben is just tired, not angry. Well, no, he is mad. He just wants to channel it into something useful, the way he usually tries to do.

'Ben...'

The Revonnahgander looks lost for a moment, before shaking his head and trying to reach out and brush his hands over Ben's. When that fails, Ben stepping away from his touch, he lets a quick stroke of his finger linger under Ben's hairline, sliding down over his cheek.

Ben fights against the angry shout bubbling up inside him.

'It's been less than forty-eight hours,' Rook states quietly. 'Have you been to see her?'

'No Plumber will let me,' Ben says. 'Or rather, she won't let me. And, well, if she doesn't want to see me, then there's nothing they can do.'

Rook's eyes drop to the card in his hands.

'Ah,' he says. 'That seems like a good idea.' Then he hesitates. 'Need me to help foot the bill?' he asks, a little hesitantly.

Ben grimaces. 'I still have a headache over paying off the last one,' he says drily. 'Keep your money; it's worthless unless the guy actually delivers.'

And with that he takes a breath and allows himself to call Chadzmuth.

It will be strange later, to remember the call, and the part of him that will not been rendered totally numb at the time, will later marvel at how calm and smooth his voice had been.

'Hey,' he says now, to the little green hologram of the Galvan in question, noting the neat knot of the tie and the way it doesn't seem to hold a striped pattern within it. Instead it displays only a plain darkness in the same tone of dubbed-over green of the rest of the hologram. 'I'm guessing you know what's up; the whole universe has been talking about my Mum for days. And as much as I hate to admit it, I could really do with your...urgh...help.'

The hologram smiles; like a crocodile, Ben thinks grimly. And then with a flash of white light, Chazmuth teleports himself into the room.

Ben's eyes travels to his tie, noting the dull crimson it now flares out with; a strange fashion choice for a Galvan, he thinks, and a lawyer to boot, but okay. Each to their own.

'I have to admit, kid, didn't think I'd be seeing you again so soon. Usually a case like this wouldn't be brought before the intergalactic court; but given your reputation and the numerous complaints people have been lobbying at judge Dormer regarding the way the universal justice system tends to brush by those crimes committed on lesser-known planets, you and your mother have become an unfortunate scapegoat, a proxy if you like, to avail said complaints.'

'Great,' Ben says dully.

'Which makes it perfect for me! Today's your lucky day kid! For you and your mother both.'

'Yes.' Rook says evenly, stepping a little closer to Ben, enough so that his shadow looms out, over Chadzmuth and his floating seat both. Ben's amused to see the crimson colour of the tie dip down under it's oppression into a darker hue, an almost grey-scarlet as a result. 'The media's attention to this case will certainly help you draw in new clients, especially those from those 'lesser known planets.' How fortuitous for you.'

Not a flicker of anger or smugness crosses Chadzmuth's face, just that same crocodile smile remaining resolutely in place.

'We have to be careful how we play this,' he states, speaking as though Rook had never spoken at all. 'People love drama, but what they love most of all is the idea of retribution. Your mother could be a saint, but there will still be plenty of strangers out there who will want to see her brought down low.'

Because she's related to me, Ben thinks but doesn't say. Instead, in a rush of anger, he spits, low and hard: 'Compared to a lot of the people you've helped Chadzmuth, my mother practically is a saint! And if you can get them off, I don't see how you can't help her too!'

Chazdmuth gives him a level look. 'You've got to level with me here, kid. Has she told you her side of story?'

Ben's mouth closes like a trap and Rook's hand falls on his shoulder, closing over it like a vice.

'Sadly, no. Mrs Tennyson has been... uncooperative in that department.'

'Then we'll need to shock her into testifying.' Chadzmuth's smile instantly blooms, daring to show a few teeth. 'That gives me a few ideas...'

'Well, hopefully they'll be better than the ones you came up with when you were meant to be defending me,' Ben shoots back tersely.

Chazmuth actually has the cheek to not look annoyed in the slightest. In fact he even thumbs his nose and gifts Ben with a wink, which, paired with the hand gesture, ends up feeling dismissive more than anything else. 'Hey, got you off, didn't I?'

'Wow,' Ben deadpans, rocking back on his heels and shaking off Rook's hand; because there is something in Chazmuth's eyes then, when his gaze locks onto the blue furry digits clamped over Ben's shoulder. It looks almost greedy. 'Freeing me from the burden of paying two lousy pieces of Taydenite. So excite. So wow.'

'Perhaps dropping earth internet lingo or 'memes' into the conversation is not very productive at this time,' Rook hisses into his ear with a mutter, his voice sounding slightly stung, like he's hurt Ben brushed him off.

But Ben is too busy frowning at Chazmuth to soothe anybody's hurt feelings at the moment.

'Yeah, right, like he's gonna tell us anything about his ideas, in the first place,' he declares stoutly, a haggard confidence in his tone. 'That's not how he works. He likes to drop people in it, literally. And expects us to be a mind-reader when stuff goes wrong. Then he makes it up on the fly.'

Chazmuth grins, wide and sharp. 'Like you don't do the same, kiddo. We both play with lives. The only difference is, I'm not in danger of watching anybody actually expire, when I get my business rollin'. So here's to workin' with you again!'

Then in one bright burst of light, he vanishes.

Ben is frozen for a moment. There's nothing but the creek of his window, shifting in his frame, or perhaps it's just his cupboard door, lodged held open by a fallen sweater. It's hard to tell with houses sometimes, just how to pinpoint where the random noises start and stop.

Without looking, his hand fumbles backwards, for the warm curl of Rook's. For one panic inducing moment, he feels nothing. And then suddenly, Rook's arm wraps round his waist, catching up his lost hand and imprisoning it with his own.

Ben swallows. 'I hate this,' he admits thickly, dropping back to the bed, all of him wanting to sink into it like a stone. It doesn't really surprise him that Rook chooses to fall with him, his grip tightening over Ben's stomach. 'I hate Chazmuth.' It comes out as a whine, childish and painfully high. Shrill, too shrill to be anything mature.

Rook nuzzles at his neck, instantly forgiving, and Ben is too tired to push him off.

'Get some sleep,' his partner advices, the volume of his voice turning and falling as he moves, muffled as his chin scrapes softly against Ben's throat, the movement perfectly sure of itself, like a cat. 'You will need it.'

I need you, Ben thinks, but is not quite generous enough to say. Instead he sighs, hand reaching up to roll over the top of Rook's head, to stroke the fur along his stripe flat. 'You're going to stay with me, aren't 'cha?' he asks, already knowing the answer.

He lets Rook roll him under the covers, the movement losing its grace and turning clumsy by the sharp angles of Ben's hips and legs twisting under the duvet Rook holds open for him.

'Wild Muroids could not drag me away,' Rook reassures him, digging his own way under the covers to cradle Ben against his chest. His fingers splay out across the line of Ben's stomach, leaving warm trails that tingle and jump across Ben's skin, despite the barrier of his shirt to protect him. It's like leaning forward, to let the warmth of an open oven drift out and touch you in the middle of a winter afternoon.

Ben feels a tired smile pull at his mouth. Because even this touch isn't enough to stir him, not fully. It honestly hurts to move, even to let the familiar line of his mouth rise up. In fact all of him feels heavy, depression weighing him down like lead.

'Horses, Rook, it's horses. Refusing to let Murroids drag you away, is an easy promise to make while you're on Earth.'

'I prefer my version,' Rook says stoutly, dropping a firm kiss on Ben's cheek. 'Murroids are much more vicious than horses. Therefore I would have to put up more of a fight to stay with you.'

Ben's smile twists. 'Cute.'

'I am glad you think so,' Rook states, a wry curl to his smile; Ben can see it from the corner of his eye. 'Now; perhaps you can settle down and allow us both to get dragged away into the 'land of nod?'

Ben snorts at Rook's second clumsy attempt to utilise an English figure of speech. But obligingly, he turns his head, and his arms and legs and curl into Rook deeply, nose brushing the armour plates before him.

'You really have to sleep with all that on?'

Rook makes a soothing noise, brushes his hand over his hair again and utters an apology; but Ben is already halfway into the land of nod and fails to hear whether it is the familiar line of 'forgive me' or another newly attempted 'sorry.'