Chapter Text
between the cracks [1950s]
Ben picked up the photo from the carved mantelpiece, the delicately wrought gold frame incongruous in his large palm. For a long moment, he studied the faded picture with its cracks and creases, one seemingly happy moment frozen in flawed forever. He remembered that day distinctly; the broiling heat, the disapproving crease between their father's eyes; how the sun had haloed around June's wild golden curls like an aureole. The three of them had stood on the front steps, framed by a backdrop of Wissahickon schist, Ben's arm casually slung across June's gingham clad shoulders. The gap where their elder brother should have been had been glaringly obvious, their father standing deliberately apart to show his disappointment.
But June had been impervious to the tension, her eyes crinkling above her wide gap-toothed grin. She had been Junie back then, his Junebug always cartwheeling across the immaculate lawns and losing herself up trees. Now she was the glamorous Valkyrie, Soldier Boy's sainted little sister, saving the day whilst still being the perfect housewife. You too can have it all! June's catchphrase never ceased to make Ben snort. He didn't give two cojones about women's lib but even he could see Vought's propaganda was a croc of shit. June only had it all because Vought had laid on the full works, a housekeeper and maids, the lot. Of course though, the cinema reels and so called exclusive interviews conveniently left that little fact out.
Smirking, Ben turned around as June came striding through the doorway, the picture of exquisite elegance in her pink linen sheath dress and natural saltwater pearls. But upon seeing those pearls resting across her collarbone, his smirk suddenly faltered, then slipped. He hurriedly averted his gaze, trying to quell the perennial sharp pang of pain shooting though him. Those pearls had belonged to their late mother, their father hoarding her personal possessions like a miser. Ben had once nervously asked for a china ornament that his mother had treasured, wanting something of hers to hold close and carry with him through the future. He had nothing of her but fading memories. But his father had studied him for a long moment, nostrils flaring, before coldly deeming him a snivelling Nancy boy; an appallingly pathetic failure still tied to the apron strings even now, before suddenly smashing the ornament to smithereens in front of Ben. Then he had inexplicably given June the pearls shortly afterwards, making a grandiose presentation of the gesture, his gaze coldly fixed upon Ben the whole time.
Ben then put the photo back before leaning against the mantelpiece as June kicked off her fancy winkle picker court shoes, glaring at him as she did. "You'll scuff the leather," he pointed out lazily, feigning ignorance of the sudden dangerous glow behind her blue eyes.
June peeled off her pristine white gloves, casting them onto the rattan loveseat. Her gaze thankfully dimmed much to Ben's secret relief. Then she clicked her fingers, summoning forth the housekeeper who appeared out of nowhere like an apparition, bearing aloft a Singapore Sling arrayed in state upon a silver circular tray. Ben eyed the housekeeper, who studiously ignored him, setting the tray down on the coffee table. Damn, she was a dourfaced dame, but she still has an ass to write home about, Ben mused, taking satisfaction in seeing the deep embarrassed flush stain the housekeeper's lined face as she swept past him.
"Drop it, Benjamin," June snapped, sitting down as she yanked the pins out of her platinum hair. She knew her brother of old, but goddamn, she was sick of his shit.
"Or what?" Ben shrugged. "You'll blast me through the wall again before chucking me into your fancy koi pond?"
"You fucking mooned Truman at Clark's birthday dinner, that's why!"
Ben made an exaggerated pantomime of rolling his eyes. It wasn't his fault he'd had a little too much liquor and lost his belt during one particularly spirited game of charades. For him, it had been pretty tame on his part. Not his fault Clark was an uptight little asshole who couldn't take a joke. His sister's husband got upset if his ties weren't on straight for chrissake. But for the life of him, Ben couldn't recall if the President had been present or not. "How's little Betsy?" he then asked abruptly, changing the subject. He didn't really care for kids but Betsy was the exception to the rule. Being in her company made him crave having something like that for his own. She was the best of his Junebug, with her wild copper curls and cerulean eyes that crinkled at the corners whenever she loosed that belly laugh that always made him join in the joke. But under Vought's orders and to his own disgust, Betsy had been parcelled off to a private all girls boarding school and only came home when the cameras were rolling and her presence was required for Vought's propaganda machine.
"Elizabeth is fine," June said tersely, raising the highball glass to her crimson lips. But her hand shook, making Ben arch a brow. "Why are you here, Benjamin?" she suddenly snapped, slamming the glass down. "It can't be just to appraise my poor housekeeper's ass."
Ben narrowed his eyes, knowing she knew full well why. "It's about you and Robbie," he said slowly, straightening his cuffs. "Since after all I caught the pair of you necking around the back of the fucking Copacabana of all places the other night. Are you out of your goddamn mind? It's a fucking nest of commies and jigaroo"-
June suddenly hurled the highball glass at him, slopping red-pink liquor everywhere.
Unperturbed, Ben caught the glass with one hand like a baseball, before crushing it. Shaking the dust from his fingers, he glanced up at June who was now standing on her stockinged feet. "See you've lashed your colours to ole Martin Luther King's mast, then," he said quietly, taking a seat in Clark's favourite armchair, making a show of stretching out his long legs and settling back into the depths of its plush velvet cushions.
"Suppose you went running to Fraulein Clara like a good little boy about it," June said through gritted teeth.
"No, I fucking haven't, actually."
June scoffed. "No, but you will," she corrected him, wagging her finger. "It's only a matter of time. You're her fucking lap dog after all."
"I'm not her goddamn lap dog!"
"No, you're just a Nazi bitch's favorite toy," June drawled, sitting down opposite him. "And her little toy better not be around when I finally put a fist through her fucking face."