Chapter 16: The Monica Situation Begins
Ben's Danger Intuition woke him at 8 AM with screaming, urgent wrongness.
Not physical danger. Emotional danger. The kind that preceded disasters measured in broken hearts instead of broken bones. He sat up, head pounding, hand throbbing from last night's wall-punching, and knew with sick certainty what was about to happen.
Monica was coming.
He'd known it was inevitable. Season one's timeline meant Monica's arrival was always approaching. But knowing intellectually and feeling his power's visceral warning were different things.
Ben dressed quickly and walked to his garage, positioning himself where he could see the Gallagher house through a gap in buildings. Watching. Waiting. Unable to stop what was coming but unable to look away.
The car pulled up at 11:23 AM.
A stolen sedan—Ben's MacGyver Mind identified the hotwired ignition from the way it idled rough. Monica Gallagher climbed out in a burst of manic energy, all bright colors and loud enthusiasm. Even from a distance, Ben could see the wrongness. She moved too fast, talked too loud, radiated instability like heat shimmer off asphalt.
The Gallagher kids' reactions were visible through the front window. Ian's face lit up—hope so raw it hurt to see. Fiona appeared in the doorway, expression cycling from shock to fury to exhausted resignation. The younger kids clustered behind her, confused, uncertain.
Frank materialized from somewhere, drunk and delighted, embracing Monica like she hadn't abandoned them. Again. Like this time would be different. Like mania was the same as love.
Ben's MacGyver Mind cataloged Monica's warning signs automatically: rapid speech patterns, grandiose gestures, the particular quality of eye contact that suggested racing thoughts. His knowledge of her story filled in the rest—bipolar disorder untreated, medicated inconsistently at best, someone who confused the highs with health and the crashes with weakness.
"She'll make promises. Big ones. She'll convince them this time is different. Then the mania will break or she'll disappear or both, and they'll be left with broken hope and the confirmation that love isn't enough."
Ben wanted to intervene. March over there, warn them, explain bipolar cycles and medication compliance and the difference between intention and capacity. But his Danger Intuition pulsed warnings about interference, and Fiona's words from last night echoed: Stay away from my family.
So he watched. Bore witness to the beginning of a disaster he knew the ending of, powerless to stop it because his knowledge came from an impossible source.
Ian appeared at the garage at 7 PM, wound tight as a piano wire about to snap.
Ben was working on a carburetor, hands busy, mind elsewhere. He looked up when Ian entered, saw the complicated emotions written across the kid's face—hope, fear, desperation, confusion all tangled together.
"She's back," Ian said without preamble.
"I saw."
"She says..." Ian's voice cracked slightly. "She says it's different this time. That she's better. That she's staying."
Ben set down his tools, wiping grease on a rag. "What do you think?"
"I think I want to believe her." Ian looked at him with raw vulnerability. "But you said... last time we talked, you mentioned patterns. Recognition. And I've been watching Mom today, and she's..." He gestured helplessly. "She's too much. Too happy, too energetic, too everything."
"He's smart enough to recognize the signs already. Smart enough to know what he's seeing."
"Do you know about bipolar disorder?" Ian asked quietly.
The question punched through Ben's chest like a blade. Direct, coded, desperate. Ian was asking for confirmation of something he'd already figured out but didn't want to be true.
"Yeah," Ben said. "I know about it."
"Can you..." Ian swallowed hard. "Can you explain it? Without..."
Without saying Monica. Without accusing her directly. Without making this about something Ian wasn't ready to admit.
Ben chose his words carefully, using his Silver Tongue not to manipulate but to create understanding. He explained mania and depression as medical concepts. Talked about cycles, warning signs, the difference between promises made during episodes versus baseline reality. Described how people in manic states felt invincible, made grand plans, believed this time would be different.
"They don't mean to lie," Ben said. "They genuinely believe what they're saying when they're saying it. But the brain chemistry that creates that belief is temporary. And when it shifts..."
"Everything falls apart," Ian finished.
"Sometimes. If there's no treatment, no support system, no medical intervention." Ben paused. "With proper medication and therapy, people with bipolar disorder can manage it. Live full lives. But it requires consistent effort and acknowledgment that treatment is necessary."
Ian absorbed this, cataloging information like he was building a case file. "Does it get better?"
Lie. Tell him yes. Give him hope even if it's false.
"With treatment and support, yes," Ben said. The lie tasted like copper. "But it requires the person to want help and stay with treatment even when they feel better."
Which Monica wouldn't do. Would never do. The show had made that clear—she'd cycle through medications, abandon them during high periods, crash during lows, repeat forever until she finally died.
But Ben couldn't say that. Couldn't steal Ian's hope before life did it for him.
Ian left eventually, older somehow than when he'd arrived. Ben watched him go and felt the weight of foreknowledge like stones filling his pockets, dragging him down.
Fiona stormed in at 9 PM, fury radiating from her like heat.
"What did you say to Ian?" she demanded.
Ben looked up from the transmission he was rebuilding. "He asked me about bipolar disorder. I explained what I know."
"And now he's talking about medications and episodes and brain chemistry like he's a fucking psychiatrist." Fiona's voice was sharp, cutting. "You had no right."
"He asked."
"I don't care! You don't get to have opinions about my mother. You don't get to interfere with my family. You don't—" Her voice cracked, fury giving way to something rawer. "You don't know anything about our situation."
Ben stood, facing her anger without defending himself. Because she was right and wrong simultaneously. Right that he didn't have the right to interfere. Wrong that he didn't know.
"I gave him information he requested," Ben said quietly. "That's all. He's smart enough to figure out the rest."
"He's fifteen! He doesn't need some stranger planting ideas about his mother being—" Fiona stopped herself, unable to say the word.
Mentally ill. Unstable. Untrustworthy. The truth they all knew but couldn't acknowledge because saying it felt like betrayal.
"She'll leave again," Fiona said, her fury collapsing into exhausted certainty. "She always does. Makes promises, stays a few days or weeks, then disappears when things get hard. And the kids believe her every time. Ian especially."
"Then be there when it happens," Ben said.
"That's your advice? Be there?" Fiona laughed bitterly. "I'm always there. I'm the one who picks up the pieces. I'm the one who explains why Mom left again, why love wasn't enough, why family wasn't worth staying for."
"I know."
"You don't." She pointed at him accusingly. "You don't know anything about what it's like. About watching your mother choose literally anything else over you. About explaining to Liam why Mommy left, about holding Debbie while she cries, about watching Ian build hope he'll have destroyed. You don't know."
"But I do. I've watched it play out. Memorized the damage. Know exactly how much pain Monica will cause before she finally leaves for good. I know everything and can't say any of it."
"You're right," Ben said. "I don't know your exact situation. But I know what it's like to watch someone you care about make destructive choices. To want to help but not have the power. To be there for the aftermath because you can't prevent the disaster."
Fiona stared at him, something in her expression shifting. "Is that why you're here? Why you help? Because you couldn't help someone else?"
The question was too perceptive, cut too close to truths Ben couldn't explain. His own death, his transmigration, his desperate need to do better in this life than whatever he'd failed at in the last.
"Maybe," he admitted.
They stood in silence. Fiona's anger had burned itself out, leaving only exhaustion. She looked younger suddenly, more vulnerable, like the weight she carried was visible in her posture.
"I should go," she said finally. "Ian's probably waiting up. He does that when Mom's around—stays awake to make sure she's still there in the morning."
"Fiona—"
"Don't." She held up a hand. "Whatever you're going to say, don't. I can't... I can't deal with whatever this is between us right now. I have to focus on my family."
She left. Ben sat alone in his garage, surrounded by the mechanical debris of other people's problems, and added Monica to his mental list of disasters he could see coming but couldn't prevent.
His Danger Intuition pulsed softly now, no longer screaming urgency but maintaining steady warning. Monica was here. The cyclone had arrived. And all Ben could do was watch it tear through the family he'd grown to care about, knowing the damage it would cause, powerless to stop it because knowledge without the right to intervene was just another form of torture.
He cleaned his workspace mechanically, movements automatic while his mind cataloged the coming days. Monica would stay a week, maybe two. Would make grand promises about getting her life together, being the mother they deserved. Would convince Ian especially that this time was real. Then she'd crash or disappear or both, and they'd be left picking up pieces they'd foolishly let themselves hope wouldn't break.
And Ben would watch from outside, his foreknowledge useless, his powers inadequate, his care for them the very thing that had pushed Fiona away.
"This is what it means to know the future. To watch people you love walk toward pain you can see but can't stop. To be paralyzed by knowledge that came from an impossible source, unable to warn without revealing truths that would sound insane."
Ben locked the garage and walked home through February cold, feeling the weight of foreknowledge dragging him down with each step. The Gallagher house was still lit, shadows moving behind curtains—real people living real lives, about to experience real pain.
And Ben could only watch, care helplessly, and hope that when the pieces finally scattered, they'd let him help gather them.
Even if Fiona never trusted him again.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
Can't wait for the next chapter of [ Arrowverse: The Survivor's ]?
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them (20+ chapters ahead!). No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1