Chapter 32: Monica's Departure
Ben's Danger Intuition woke him at 1 PM with specific, familiar wrongness.
Not violence. Not robbery. The particular sensation that meant someone was about to run, about to abandon, about to break hearts they claimed to love.
Monica.
He dressed quickly and headed to the Gallagher house, following his power's insistent pull. The kids would be at school—Lip and Ian at least, the younger ones at elementary. Perfect timing for an abandonment that wanted to avoid confrontation.
Ben found Monica in the living room, stuffing clothes into garbage bags with mechanical efficiency. Her manic energy had collapsed into something quieter, more defeated. The depression phase, or maybe just the clarity that came between episodes.
"You're leaving," Ben said from the doorway.
Monica didn't startle. Just continued packing. "Figured you'd show up. Lucky Ben always knows when something's happening."
"The kids don't know yet."
"That's the point. Easier if I'm gone before they get home." She folded a shirt with shaking hands. "Before Ian tries to convince me to stay. Before Fiona tells me all the ways I've failed. Before I have to see their faces when I admit I'm leaving again."
Ben's Silver Tongue stirred, showing him arguments that could convince her to stay. Emotional appeals about family, logical frameworks about medication and treatment, persuasive techniques that would make her believe this time could be different.
But his Danger Intuition pulsed warnings: forcing her to stay would create worse outcomes. Monica would resent the manipulation, might hurt herself or someone else, would leave anyway but with more damage.
"Why are you leaving?" Ben asked instead.
"Because the walls are closing in. Because I can feel the depression coming, and I'd rather disappear than let them watch me crash. Because I love them but can't be what they need." Monica's voice cracked. "Because staying means failing them slowly instead of all at once, and I'm a coward who prefers quick pain."
"Does that make it easier? Believing you're a coward?"
"It makes it something I can understand. Mental illness doesn't excuse my failures, but it explains them. And sometimes explanation is all you get."
Ben moved into the room, sat on the couch while Monica packed. "Are you leaving a note?"
"Was going to. But what do I say? 'Sorry I'm abandoning you again, love Mom'? They already know I'm sorry. They already know I love them. Doesn't change anything."
"Ian needs to hear it anyway."
Monica flinched. "Ian deserves a mother who stays. Who takes medication consistently, who fights through the lows, who chooses them over the escape. I can't be that person."
"Have you tried?"
"Every time. Every single time I come back, I try. Take the pills, see the therapists, promise this time will be different. And for a while, I believe it." She zipped a bag closed with violent motion. "But the mania comes or the depression comes, and the trying stops mattering. So yeah, I've tried. It's not enough."
Ben helped her finish packing—not because he approved, but because he recognized the truth underneath: some people couldn't be saved by external intervention. Monica's demons were internal, chemical, beyond the reach of his powers or anyone's love.
"Will you tell Ian something for me?" Monica asked. "Tell him I see myself in him. The way he feels things too deeply, loves too hard, tries to fix everyone. Tell him that's not weakness, even when it hurts."
"You should tell him yourself."
"I can't. I'll break if I see his face." She hoisted the bags. "Just... tell him. Please."
The front door opened.
Ian walked in, home early from school, and froze. His expression cycled through confusion, realization, betrayal—all in the space of a heartbeat.
"Mom?"
Monica's face crumpled. "Baby, I—"
"You're leaving." Not a question. Ian's voice was hollow. "Again."
"I have to. I can't—"
"Stay." Ian dropped his backpack, stepped forward. "Please. I'll help with medications, I'll watch for warning signs, I'll do whatever you need. Just don't leave again."
"Ian—"
"I'll be better. I won't ask about Dad, won't complain when you're manic, won't cry when you're depressed. I'll be perfect. Just stay."
Ben watched Ian's heart break in real-time, watched him offer to diminish himself if it meant keeping his mother, and felt his own chest tighten painfully.
"You are perfect," Monica said, tears streaming. "This isn't about you being better. You can't fix me with love, baby. I wish you could, but you can't."
"Then what's the point?" Ian's voice rose. "What's the point of family if it doesn't matter? What's the point of loving you if you leave anyway?"
"I don't know."
The honesty was brutal. Monica wasn't making excuses, wasn't promising to change. Just admitting the painful truth that her love wasn't enough to make her stay.
Ian's expression hardened. "You're selfish. That's what this is. You're choosing yourself over us again."
"Yes."
"I hate you."
"I know. You should." Monica moved toward the door, bags in hand. "But I love you anyway. Even though it's not enough."
She left. The door closed. Ian stood frozen for three seconds before collapsing.
Ben caught him, lowered them both to the floor while Ian sobbed. Not quiet crying—harsh, body-shaking sobs that sounded like something breaking inside. Ben held him and said nothing because words felt inadequate against this kind of pain.
They stayed that way until Fiona came home two hours later.
The Gallagher family fractured along predictable lines.
Lip was angry but analytical—explaining Monica's patterns, the cycle of abandonment, the statistical probability she'd leave again. His detachment was defensive, armor against caring too much.
Fiona was exhausted and vindicated—"I told you she'd leave" delivered without satisfaction, just grim acceptance of patterns she'd tried to warn them about.
Debbie and Carl were confused, too young to fully process adult abandonment but old enough to feel the loss.
Frank philosophized drunk from the couch. "Some people aren't meant for captivity. Monica's like a wild bird—beautiful when free, dying when caged. Can't blame a bird for needing to fly."
"You're describing yourself," Lip observed coldly.
"Maybe. Doesn't make it less true."
Fiona pulled Ben aside while the family argued. "How are you so calm about this?"
"I'm not calm. I just knew it was coming."
"How?" Her eyes searched his face. "You warned Ian about bipolar disorder before Monica's episode. You found her the night she tried to break into the furniture store. You were here when she left. How do you always know?"
Because I've watched this story play out. Because I memorized nine seasons of your family's pain before living through it.
"Patterns," Ben said. "I recognize them. Monica's behavior, Ian's hope, the cycle of promises and abandonment. I've seen it before in other people."
Fiona studied him—weighing his answer, deciding whether to push. Finally, she just nodded. "Stay tonight. Please. The kids need someone who's not family, who's not caught in the same grief cycle. Someone who can just be present without drowning in it."
"Yeah. I can do that."
Ben stayed. Watched the Gallaghers process grief through dark humor and distraction—Lip making bitter jokes, Debbie organizing everyone's schedules like control over logistics could prevent emotional chaos, Carl asking technical questions about abandonment that nobody knew how to answer.
Ian sat silent through most of it, face blank, processing pain in whatever internal space he'd retreated to. Ben caught his eye once, offered silent support. Ian nodded slightly—acknowledgment without words.
Frank passed out early. The kids gradually went to bed. Fiona and Ben sat on the front steps in February cold, shoulders touching, sharing warmth.
"Thank you," Fiona said. "For being here. For helping Ian earlier. For not trying to fix this."
"Can't fix it. Some pain you just have to sit with."
"Yeah." She leaned against him. "Monica used to say that about her disorder. That she couldn't fix it, just had to sit with it. Never thought I'd apply the same philosophy to watching her leave."
They sat in silence while the neighborhood moved around them—cars passing, distant sirens, the ambient noise of South Side at night.
Eventually, Fiona went inside. Ben followed, found space on the couch, and lay awake cataloging the weight of foreknowledge that felt more like curse than gift.
I knew she'd leave. Knew Ian's hope would break. Knew love wouldn't be enough. And all my powers combined couldn't change it because some stories have to play out their painful conclusions.
Monica's departure joined his mental catalog of "events I couldn't prevent despite knowing they were coming." The list was growing longer: Monica's abandonment, the gold scam investigation, Marcus's escalating demands, Steve's threats.
Ben was collecting disasters faster than he could manage them, bearing witness to pain he saw coming but couldn't stop.
Maybe that was the point. Maybe his presence in this universe wasn't about changing outcomes but about being there for the aftermath. About helping people pick up pieces he couldn't prevent from breaking.
It wasn't heroic. Wasn't satisfying. But it was something.
Ben lay in the dark of the Gallagher living room, surrounded by sleeping family members processing fresh abandonment, and chose to believe that bearing witness mattered even when prevention was impossible.
Tomorrow would bring new disasters—the gold scam closing in, Marcus expecting monthly impossible tasks, Steve waiting to strike. But tonight, Ben was exactly where he needed to be: present for people who needed someone steady while their world fractured again.
That had to count for something.
Even if it didn't feel like enough.
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