Chapter 21: The Calm Before
Ben's Danger Intuition hadn't stopped screaming for thirty-six hours.
Not pulsing. Not warning. A constant, deafening shriek that made his skull feel like it was splitting open. He'd tried everything—aspirin, whiskey, meditation, even attempting to consciously suppress the power. Nothing worked. His ability was showing him inevitability, and inevitability didn't care about his comfort.
It was happening today or tomorrow. He knew it with the certainty of breathing.
The not-knowing which was its own special torture.
Ben was repairing a toaster—hands moving automatically while his mind screamed warnings—when he made a decision. He needed to see Ian one more time. Before.
He grabbed a bag of chips and a soda from his stash, locked the garage, and walked to Kash & Grab. His Danger Intuition pulsed stronger with each step closer, confirming proximity to the epicenter.
Ian was behind the counter, organizing cigarette cartons with methodical precision. He looked up when Ben entered, offered a small smile.
"Hey. Didn't expect to see you."
"Wanted to check in." Ben set the snacks on the counter. "Brought provisions. You look like you've been skipping meals."
Ian glanced at the chips, the soda, then back at Ben with complicated expression. "You're kind of weird, you know that?"
"Been told."
"But good weird." Ian accepted the snacks, opened the chips immediately. "Things have been... Monica left again. Three days ago. Just like Fiona said she would."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You called it. Warned me, sort of." Ian ate a chip, staring at nothing. "I was starting to let myself hope. That's the stupid part. Knowing better but hoping anyway."
Ben's chest ached. This was the before—Ian hurt but not broken, disappointed but not traumatized. In hours or days, that would change. Violence would rewrite something fundamental, and this version of Ian would be gone.
"Been thinking about what you said," Ian continued. "About the military, about doing what makes me happy instead of safe. Still processing."
"Take your time. No rush on life decisions."
"Feels like there is. Like if I don't decide soon, something will decide for me." Ian's laugh was bitter. "Probably just Monica's shit making me dramatic."
No. Your instincts are right. Something is deciding for you, and it's coming soon.
"Hey," Ben said, keeping his tone casual. "Random question. If anything ever feels dangerous here—like, gut feeling wrong—you'd just leave, right? Wouldn't try to be a hero?"
Ian's expression shifted to confusion. "What?"
"Just... convenience stores get robbed. You're a smart kid. If something sketchy walks in, you bail. Let them have whatever they want. Nothing here worth your life."
"Okay, that's specific and weird even for you." Ian studied him. "You know something I don't?"
Yes. I know Mickey Milkovich is going to walk in with a gun. I know you'll freeze. I know the next minutes will change you forever.
"Just general paranoia," Ben said. "Forget I mentioned it."
Ian didn't look convinced, but he let it drop. They talked about nothing for ten more minutes—school, the neighborhood, Carl's latest scheme to monetize recycling. Normal conversation that felt surreal against Ben's internal sirens.
When Ben left, he turned back at the door. Committed Ian's face to memory. The before.
Tomorrow or the next day, everything would be different.
Fiona appeared at his garage at 6 PM with an invitation that surprised him.
"Dinner," she said without preamble. "At our place. Tonight. Debbie won't shut up about you, Carl's been stealing your tools to get attention, and I figured..." She shrugged. "Figured you should meet everyone properly. As a group."
Ben's first instinct was to refuse. Getting closer to the family right before trauma felt masochistic. But Fiona was looking at him with an expression that suggested this invitation cost her something—trust, maybe, or the beginning of it.
"What time?" he asked.
"Seven. Bring nothing. We've got food covered."
"I'll bring beer."
"Frank will steal it."
"That's fine."
Fiona almost smiled. "See you at seven."
The Gallagher house was exactly like Ben remembered from the show and nothing like it simultaneously.
The exterior was familiar—peeling paint, boards over one window, yard more dirt than grass. But walking through the front door felt like stepping into a living painting, something that had been flat becoming three-dimensional and real.
The smell hit him first. Dinner cooking—something with garlic and tomato sauce. Underneath, the accumulated scent of too many people in too small a space. Laundry detergent. Frank's alcohol sweat. Fiona's shampoo.
The noise was overwhelming. All six Gallagher kids plus Frank, somehow occupying every inch of space. Carl was demonstrating something with a socket wrench to Liam. Debbie was setting the table with military precision. Lip lounged against the kitchen counter, watching everything with analytical detachment. Ian hovered near the stove, helping Fiona with something.
Frank occupied the couch like a king on a throne, beer in hand, pontificating to no one in particular about municipal corruption.
"Ben!" Debbie spotted him first. "You came! Did you bring the tools Carl stole? Because he definitely stole them."
"Snitch," Carl muttered.
"Truth-teller," Debbie corrected.
"Yeah, I brought them." Ben handed over the socket set to Carl. "For future reference, if you want tools, just ask. I'll lend them."
"Where's the fun in that?" Carl grinned.
Lip pushed off from the counter. "Beer? Really? You're trying to enable Frank?"
"Frank will find beer regardless. At least this way I can pretend I'm contributing."
"Solid logic." Lip took the six-pack, put it in the fridge, already mentally calculating how to ration it away from their father.
Dinner was beautiful chaos.
Nine people crammed around a table meant for six. Elbows jostling, conversations overlapping, food passed with the efficiency of a military operation. Fiona managed it all with exhausted competence, making sure everyone ate, mediating disputes, creating order from chaos through sheer force of will.
Ben watched her work and felt something in his chest tighten painfully.
She's been doing this since she was a child. Raising kids who aren't hers. And tomorrow or the next day, one of them will nearly die, and she'll have to hold everyone together through that too.
"So, Ben," Lip said, derailing Ben's thoughts. "Where'd you say you were from originally?"
"Didn't say."
"Right. Mysterious past. Very noir." Lip's tone was teasing but his eyes were sharp. "You gonna tell us ever, or is the mystique part of your brand?"
"Brand requires planning. I'm mostly improvising."
Frank laughed from his end of the table. "Improvising. That's one way to describe running from the Russian mob."
Everyone went silent. Ben's heart stopped.
"What?" Fiona's voice was dangerous.
"Nothing," Frank said quickly. "Inside joke. Ben and I have an understanding about discretion."
"Frank—"
"Drop it, Fi." Frank took a long drink. "The man's entitled to his secrets. We all got them."
The tension broken, conversation resumed. But Ben caught Lip watching him with renewed suspicion, and Ian's expression suggested he was cataloging details for later analysis.
Carl demonstrated the socket wrench technique Ben had taught him. Debbie presented her latest business plan—selling homemade holiday cards year-round. Ian was quiet, picking at his food, probably still processing Monica.
Fiona looked exhausted but happy. Happier than Ben had seen her, at least. This was her element—keeping her siblings fed, safe, together.
As dinner wound down, Ben helped with dishes despite Fiona's protests. They worked in comfortable silence, the sounds of the kids arguing in the living room providing background noise.
"Thanks for coming," Fiona said quietly. "They like you. All of them. Even Lip, though he won't admit it."
"They're good kids."
"They're terrors."
"Good terrors."
Fiona smiled, bumping her shoulder against his. The contact was brief but deliberate, and Ben felt it like electricity.
"You're good for them," she said. "For us. Don't fuck it up."
Before Ben could respond, Lip appeared in the doorway. "Ben. Got a second?"
They stepped outside. February cold bit through Ben's jacket immediately. Lip lit a cigarette, offered one to Ben, who declined.
"You're good for them," Lip said, echoing his sister. "I'm serious. Fiona's lighter when you're around. Ian trusts you. Carl idolizes you. Even Debbie's less intense about her business schemes because she's got you to bounce ideas off."
"That's—"
"Don't fuck it up," Lip interrupted. "Whatever secrets you're hiding, whatever you're running from, whatever Frank's Russian mob story actually means—keep that shit away from my family. They've got enough chaos. They don't need yours too."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder." Lip took a drag. "Because I like you, man. I do. But if you hurt them, I'll make sure you regret it."
The threat was delivered without heat, just matter-of-fact certainty. Ben believed him completely.
Ben spent the night in his garage preparing for disaster.
His MacGyver Mind created contingency plans with mechanical precision: first aid kit assembled from scattered supplies, trauma pads fashioned from clean rags, tourniquet from a belt, antiseptic from rubbing alcohol. He positioned tools that might be useful—wire cutters, pliers, duct tape.
Mapped routes to three nearby hospitals, memorizing turns, estimating travel times.
Used his illusion power to create fake IDs—emergency medical technician credentials that would revert in hours but might grant access to restricted areas. Insurance cards in Ian's name that could smooth emergency room admission.
The preparations felt desperately inadequate against what was coming, but doing something kept the panic manageable.
His Danger Intuition pulsed steadily now. Not screaming anymore—just counting down. The certainty was almost calming in its intensity.
Tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.
Ben didn't sleep. Just sat in his garage watching the sun rise over South Side, painting everything in cold gray light. People were waking up, starting their days, moving through normal routines while disaster crept closer with each passing minute.
In hours, maybe minutes, I'll either save someone or make everything worse. I'll use all four powers simultaneously in real-time crisis. And afterward, I'll have to explain timing and knowledge I can't possibly justify.
But he'd accepted that now. The cost of intervention was suspicion. The cost of saving Ian was revealing he knew too much.
And Ben would pay it. Would accept whatever consequences came from impossible timing and supernatural intervention.
Because some things were worth the price of exposure.
Some people were worth protecting, even if it meant burning his own cover.
Ben watched the sun finish rising and knew with absolute certainty: today was the day.
Today, everything changed.
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