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“He’s in critical condition.”
Blinding white lights, and the vague sensation of rolling swiftly forward.
“Prepare an operation table.”
Benoit Blanc fluttered his eyelids. The effort felt sticky, like he was moving through molasses, or like glue had been stuck to the rims of his eyes. He didn’t even try to test movement in the rest of his body.
“Mr. Blanc. Are you awake? Can you talk to me?”
Fat chance. He could barely move the smallest muscle, let alone his lips. He tried grunting, but the noise left a throbbing pain in his rib cage.
“Alright, that was good. Can you say a word?” She had a greek accent.
“No,” Benoit responded. Another pain in his torso.
“Good job. We’re going to fix you up, Mr. Blanc. You just need to stay awake. Can you tell me about yourself?”
He really would rather not, both because this medical professional was a complete stranger to him, and because of the excruciating soreness that came whenever he made a sound.
But he had to stay awake. That much he knew.
Otherwise…
“My birthday was last week,” he managed. God, it hurt.
“Amazing! How old are you?”
“Fifty three.”
“Did you do anything special?”
“Quarantine.”
“I’m sure you did something .”
“Took a bath. Called my mother. Phillip made me a cake.”
“That sounds really cool. Who’s Phillip? Is that your brother? A roommate?”
Ha. Benoit almost laughed, but stopped himself last minute at the thought of what inevitable discomfort would result from the effort. “My partner.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you had a business partner,'' exclaimed the well-meaning but clearly oblivious nurse. “I guess I assumed you were smart enough you didn’t need one. But I suppose even Sherlock had Watson. Why didn’t he work this case with you?”
You can’t blame her for being dense, Benoit told himself. “He…”
But another round of pain ripped through his body as the gurney was forced through a set of doors, and he was lifted onto what he assumed was an operating table.
“You’re in good hands, Mr. Blanc,” he heard, as darkness swarmed before his eyes. “You’re going to be okay.”
And then it was black.
-
It had been the fault of that arrogant manchild, Miles Bron.
“You get the son of a bitch?” Benoit had asked Helen as she sat beside him. More so than almost any of his other cases, this one had been somewhat of a treat to solve. While it had been infuriating to learn of Miles’ stupidity and the mystery’s simplicity, the fact that it was the biggest asshole on the island who would be brought to justice was a reward that more than made up for the frustration of before.
“Yep,” Helen had responded. In what way, she didn’t clarify. But Benoit could surmise well enough.
He almost smiled. “You ready to go home?”
Helen didn’t answer for a long time. She seemed lost in thought, an understandable thing to be after going through the day she had.
Finally, though, she answered. “I am. And I think you probably are, too.”
“I won’t lie and say I didn’t enjoy my time here,” Benoit said, finally mustering up a chuckle. “Despite the blundering billionaires and half-witted assassinations, I did manage to get a swim in. And what better place to be miserable than on a greek island?”
Helen smiled. “Yeah.”
“But I am ready to be back,” he conceded. “Being here, watching Bron’s pitiful attempts at peace and relaxation allowed me to realize how…well, peaceful and relaxed I was at home. I thought I was drowning in the stifling boredom, but I think my brain just didn’t know what to do with a real rest.” He looked out at the water. “For these last few months, I’ve wanted nothing more than to get back into the field. Now, I want nothing more than to get home. To my bath. To Phillip.”
“Your roommate?” Helen clarified.
Beans. Had he not told her?
“No, he-” Benoit began, before seeing the smirk on her face and the laugh in her eyes.
She shoved him on the shoulder. “You should’ve seen the look on your face,” she cawed. “Don’t worry, I’m not stupid.”
“Clearly,” he said with a relieved huff and a pointed look back at the smoldering remains of the Glass Onion.
And then he froze.
Because there, just twenty feet behind them, was Miles Bron.
Moving very fast and holding Duke’s gun.
“Helen, run,” Benoit exclaimed, leaping to his feet.
He barely had time to confirm that she was indeed running in the direction of the beach before a gunshot rang out just inches from his ear. He flinched, grabbing his ears and stumbling backward, almost falling down the stone stairs in the process.
“Benoit, hurry,” he heard Helen cry out, confirming Miles had missed his mark.
He waved his hand. “Go,” he urged, voice hoarse. “Meet the boats, I’ll hold him off as long as I-”
Before he could urge any further, there was a fist colliding with the side of his face. A very forceful, very painful fist. He fell to the ground, cold cement sending a shock through his body.
Good god, he thought to himself through the haze of pain. Don’t tell me this idiot is the one to do me in.
“This is all your fault,” Miles cried. When Benoit looked up, he could see the billionaire waving Duke’s gun around manically. “This is all your goddamn fault. You and that bitch down there. You did this to me.”
Benoit glared, mustering as much contempt in his expression as he could manage. “I did nothing but expose what you had already done to yourself. To claim otherwise is a falsehood so great, it puts the rest of this wretched day to shame.” He spat. “Though I know you’ve never been one to own up to your fabrications.”
A biblical anger overtook Miles’ face, and in the course of the next ten seconds, three things happened.
First, he cocked the gun. Put his finger on the trigger and pointed it toward the ground (which was, coincidentally, where Benoit was still lying). And, judging by the loud bang that followed, as well as screams in the distance, he shot it.
Second, a searing pain unlike almost any other Benoit had ever experienced bloomed in his upper thigh. A hot, biting sensation that had him letting out a guttural cry of his own. He put two and two together like it was his job, and deduced with his superior intellect that he had been shot in the leg.
But he was alive.
“You missed,” he said, groaning from the pain.
And then Miles, his face distorted into an expression that could only be described as demented, he drew his leg back and kicked Benoit Blanc down the stairs of the Glass Onion.
So much for a class act.
On the way down, all Benoit could think was how if he made it home, he’d never answer the door again so long as he lived.
-
When he awoke for the second time, the hubbub and commotion of his first trip into consciousness was gone. All that was left was the faint beep of a monitor and the same nurse to whom he’d spoken beforehand, scribbling something into a folder.
“What does a man have to do to get a drink around here?” he asked, his voice hoarse and the drawl slowing his words more than usual.
The nurse turned around, a pleasant expression immediately plastering itself on her face. “Good morning, Mr. Blanc. How are you feeling?”
“Like I was shot in the leg and kicked down a flight of stairs,” he responded.
“That makes sense,” the nurse said. “It’s good you remember what happened. That’s a very good sign.”
“May I ask your name?”
“Efthemia,” the woman answered, flipping a paper.
“Well Efthemia,” said Benoit. “Thank you very kindly for keeping me alive.”
She grinned, and this time it was authentic. “Only doing my job, sir.”
“You did it well.”
The nurse ducked her head, a blush on her cheeks, and walked across the room to stand beside him. “You have several broken bones including some ribs and your forearm. The gunshot just missed a major artery, but you still lost a lot of blood,” she told him, the smile still in her voice. “However, based on your vitals and response to operation, you should be ready to get out of here in a few days.”
“That’s good to hear,” Benoit sighed, settling into his pillow. “I’d hate for the likes of Miles Bron to be my downfall.”
She beamed. “I’m glad you’re still with us, too.”
There was a comfortable silence as she puttered around the room, messing with machines and making notes. Benoit was too exhausted to pay much attention. He let himself relax, sinking into an almost meditative state. Bron was gone, and he didn’t need to do anything else but heal.
But.
The silence was suddenly shattered when the door burst open, and a very frantic, very handsome man stormed into the room.
“Oh my god,” the man exclaimed, “Oh my god .”
It was Phillip.
Benoit didn’t know he could feel such relief. There he was, Phillip, in all his marvelous British glory, standing in the doors like a knight in shining corduroy. Phillip was here, and now things were really alright.
Efthimia, however, did not seem to share Benoit’s sentiments. As Phillip rushed forward, she caught him by his shoulder and stopped him in his tracks, “ Excuse me ,” she scolded. “You can’t simply come barging in here. For the time being, only family is allowed. Did you even check in at the front office?”
“It’s alright,” Benoit called. “This is Phillip. My partner.”
She hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “Well it’s delightful to meet you, Phillip, but as I stated, it’s family only. You can wait outside or-”
Benoit almost laughed. “Efthimia. Allow me to rephrase. This is my husband, Phillip.”
She stopped in her tracks, face paling. “Oh,” she said quietly. “ Oh. Oh, your partner. Oh my goodness, I am so sorry for the miscommunication.” She removed her hands from Phillip, gesturing toward the bed. “Please, please come in. I’ll step out and give you two some privacy.”
“Thank you, dear,” chuckled Benoit.
She gave a little wave as she stepped out of the room, closing the door and locking it behind her.
Then it was just him and Phillip.
There was a moment where neither of them said or did anything. Just stared at each other, soaking up the real-ness of it all. Here they were. Both of them. In a hospital room. One bruised and battered, the other clearly worried out of his mind. It felt like the kind of thing you saw in a movie, or a medical drama. Benoit supposed he should be used to that sort of thing by now, the cinema that was his life, but for some reason, it still struck him.
Then the moment was over, and Phillip was closing the gap between them. “You stupid, stupid man,” he said softly, placing a hand on Benoit’s cheek and rubbing his thumb across the most prominent scratch. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“This is my job,” he protested weakly.
Phillip tilted his head. “Your job is letting a man ten years younger than you beat you into a pulp?”
“I had to protect Helen,” Benoit explained as he leaned into the touch. “I was the one that coerced her into coming with me in the first place. What kind of man would I be if I let that monumental piece of human excrement end her life?”
“You’re fifty three years old, Ben. You cannot run into danger the way you used to,” Phillip scolded. Benoit could see the concern behind his eyes, though, and felt the gentleness of his hand against his face.
He opted not to respond, instead asking the first question he’d had after the relief of seeing his husband. “How did you get here?” He asked. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Well I saw the news yesterday morning. ‘Miles Bron’s Private Island Blown to Smithereens’. It didn’t say anything about anyone, just that there had been nine visitors and at least one known casualty. And so of course I called you. And you didn’t pick up. Not then, and not the next fourteen times I called.” The poor man wiped his brow, clearly still frantic. “So I called Helen - you left her number on the fridge - and she told me about Miles and the whole altercation and said she didn’t even know if you were alive . So I drove like a madman to the airport, bought the first ticket to Greece, and had Helen take me here once I arrived.”
“At which point you bypassed hospital security and almost scared an innocent nurse half to death,” Benoit finished with a pointed grin.
Phillip slumped, apparently out of steam. “Yes.”
“Well, I’m honored.”
“ I’m furious. Where’s this Miles Bron fellow? Can I give him a piece of my mind? Make him reimburse me for the plane ticket?” Phillip huffed.
Benoit laughed, and though the action hurt like hell, it was worth it. Because a fraction of Phillip’s stormy face cleared.
“Miles Bron was taken into custody by Grecian authorities for assault and attempted murder,” he explained. If you want to talk to him, you’d have to convince the police. And I have a feeling they’d be less easily persuaded than Efthimia.”
Phillip looked put out, but nodded. He dropped his hand from Benoit’s face and let it fall down to his shoulder. His fingers rubbed gently, working out knots Benoit hadn’t even known were there. “I just couldn’t stand it if I lost you,” he admitted.
Benoit reached up and placed a hand over his. It felt like they were in their 30s again, falling in love for the first time, unable to keep their hands off each other. “What’s all this, my dear? I’ve been injured on a case before. You’ve never acted like this. Is something wrong?”
“You’ve never been shot ,” Phillip argued, and as he spoke, Benoit could hear the tension in his voice that meant he was close to tears. “ I’ve never been so worried I had to book an international flight to come find you. I just…tell me honestly. Have you ever been so close to death before?”
Benoit frowned. He certainly hadn’t. “No,” he answered honestly. “I can’t say I have.”
“Then how are you so calm?” Phillip cried, and now the tears were flowing. Now he was really squeezing Benoit’s shoulder, so hard it almost hurt. “How can you sit there and act like your life wasn’t almost ended? I nearly threw up on the plane because I convinced myself I would land in Greece and find my husband dead . Do you know how that feels?”
“You’re angry at me?” Benoit asked, crinkling his brow.
“ No ,” Phillip said, and now his voice was so strained it was barely a whisper. “I’m never going to be angry at you again. I just need to calm down. It’s been a very stressful 24 hours.”
“Tell me about it,” Benoit said, relieved that he wasn’t going to have to calm Phillip down from the brink of mania after all.
His husband just snorted. “You can’t even talk. You’ve been unconscious for all of it.”
“Such a stickler,” Benoit said, rolling his eyes. “You know, I-”
But he was cut off by Phillip pressing their lips together, holding him in a firm but tender kiss. As passionate as the day they’d met, but filled with the sweetness of a long life together. It caught him so off guard, that for a moment, Benoit forgot to kiss back.
Just for a moment, though.
When they pulled apart, Phillip kept his face close, resting his forehead against Benoit’s. “I don’t think I’ve told you yet today,” he said, breathless. “But I love you. It should have been the first thing out of my mouth when I saw you.”
“I love you as well,” Benoit murmured. “I’m sorry I worried you.”
“That’s not your fault, sweetheart. I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t be making this about me. Not when you’re the one who’s in the hospital bed,” Phillip said with a wry laugh.
“You could join me,” Benoit suggested. “You seem in desperate need of a nap. What better place than a crowded, uncomfortable cot?”
“You think we’d both fit?”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
Eventually, Phillip did make his way entirely onto the bed. It was a tight squeeze, and Benoit’s ribs suffered immensely, but they figured it out. If he was honest with himself, it wasn’t entirely comfortable. But the feeling of pressing his head onto Phillip’s shoulder made it all worthwhile.
They sat there for a long time. Long enough that Benoit started to wonder where the doctors were, where Efthimia was, where anybody was. Not that he wanted them to interrupt this moment.
“I think it’ll come later,” he confessed, after what could have been ten minutes or three hours.
Phillip sucked in a sharp breath of someone who’d been almost asleep, only to be suddenly awoken. “What’s that?” he asked, voice bleary. “What’ll come later?”
“The panic. The realization of what’s happened. That I almost died. I believe it will hit me when I least expect it.” The nightmares always came later. After he’d settled, after he’d had his moment of peace.
Phillip just tightened his arm, pulling Benoit closer. “Well, I’ll be there when it does. We’ll face it together. Promise.”
A prince among men. That’s what Phillip was. A slightly frazzled, slightly old prince. But a prince nonetheless. In that moment, Benoit knew what he’d always known: that no matter his intellect, his adventures, or his fame, he was the one who’d married up.
-
Phillip was there, in the end.
In fact, he inadvertently caused it.
They were back home, and had been for about a week. There were no more calls, no more boxes, no more women with charming southern accents showing up at the door. Truly, things had returned to normal. Well, to the 2020 version of normal, which was in and of itself far from normal.
Benoit was out of the bathtub. In fact, the only time he’d been there were the necessary hours spent cleaning himself. Instead, he was using his time to be around the apartment, tidying up, redecorating, and assisting Phillip with the occasional recipe. He started cooking, and though it was somewhat of a disaster, he enjoyed the effort.
“I came home looking for simplicity,” he mentioned one night over dinner. “But instead I found this souffle. Nothing has ever stumped me the way it did.”
“Well. You certainly triumphed in the end,” Phillip said, though he grimaced as he took a bite.
Benoit raised an eyebrow. “I would have thought you’d have learned not to lie to me by now.”
“I’m not lying. The real triumph is in having challenged yourself. And staying out of the bathtub for an entire day,” Phillip responded, a sparkle in his eye. He took another bite. “And it’s not bad. It’s just not…”
“Good?”
Phillip wrinkled his nose. “I really wish I could lie to you,” he said, fighting a shit-eating grin.
Nonetheless, he finished the entire thing.
The fear came later that evening, just after eight PM. Both were finished with work and responsibilities and decided a game of chess was in order. So they set it up on the kitchen counter,
Benoit, despite his profession, was not particularly good at chess. And Phillip, who worked as a lawyer, rarely had time to practice. So they were, all things considered, evenly matched.
Except Phillip was now poised to win.
“Check,” he exclaimed cheerfully.
Benoit furrowed his brow, never having wanted to smack the shit out of his husband more. “If I move the rook there…” he muttered, tracing the route with his finger in the air. “No. No, that won’t work. You’ll just take it with your queen. But I could…”
He grabbed one of his knights and moved it to take Phillip’s only remaining bishop. A solid move, in his opinion, given that the bishop had been poised to take his queen.
But when he looked up and saw the ecstatic look on Phillip’s face, he knew he had made the wrong move.
Beaming ear to ear, he took his rook and moved it down the board. “Checkmate,” he announced gleefully.
“Con foundit, ” Benoit exclaimed.
“Benoit Blanc, the world’s greatest detective, and he can’t even beat a silly little lawyer at chess,” taunted Phillip.
Benoit reached over and grabbed Phillip’s king. “Well, I’m holding your king as a prisoner of war. You can’t kill mine without also killing yours.”
“Jokes on you, he was abusive to his wife. She wanted him dead all along and will now rule her kingdom in peace,” Phillip stated, popping a dried apricot into his mouth.
Benoit scowled. He swept his arm out, knocking all the pieces off the board. “Well there. Nuclear bombs. Now they’re all dead and nobody wins.”
“My god, you are the worst loser,” Phillip laughed. “I hope you don’t act this way when a case is perplexing you, because that would be extremely unprofessional.” He swatted Benoit, scrambling to catch the pieces as they fell.
As he did so, however, his arm caught the corner of the board. And in his effort to salvage any of the pieces, the board was knocked from the table and landed with a loud ‘bang’ on the kitchen floor.
The gun, the gun, the gun, the gun, the gun. I’m going to die. I have been shot and I am going to die. Everywhere hurts, this is the end. The gun, the gun, the gun, the gun, the gun.
He didn’t remember entering the panic attack. He was seeing, but he couldn’t see, all he could hear was a ringing in his ears, and all he could feel was the acute, lingering fear of Miles Bron shooting him outside the Glass Onion. Trapped in that panic, wrapped in the sensation of knowing he was about to die.
He’d never had a panic attack before. He didn’t quite know what to do with this one. Even if he did, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to take control of himself fully enough to snap himself out of it. He wasn’t thinking, couldn’t tell himself anything. It was just him and the fear.
And then.
He heard it. A whisper.
“ You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re safe. ”
It took him a moment to realize it was Phillip. Calling to him, breaking through the wall of oblivion into the darkness.
Then he felt something.
It was the faintest of feelings. Just a subtle sensation. But it was there. The distinct warmth and pressure of arms wrapped around his waist. Breath at the back of his neck. A body pressed against his from behind, holding him gently, swaying back and forth.
“You’re perfectly safe. We’re at home. I’m right here. Nobody can get you here. You’re here with me in the kitchen of our apartment, and we’ve just finished a game of chess, and I beat you. You’re okay,” Phillip continued to whisper. “I just need you to breathe for me, okay?”
And Benoit nodded, clinging to the voice. He could do that. He could breathe. He could trust this light in the dark and breathe.
So he did. In, out. In, out. And the more time went on, the closer he came to reality.
Soon, it was very apparent to him where he was. He was standing in the kitchen of his apartment, the one he shared with Phillip, his husband, hands gripped against the counter as if he might fall over at any second. It was all very quiet.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
He felt lips on his ear. “Are you back with me?” Phillip asked. He was holding Benoit from behind, his arms wrapped around his waist. They were rocking back and forth, almost as if they were dancing.
“Yes.”
“Alright,” Phillip replied, the relief in his voice palpable. “Now what we’re going to do is name five things you can see, four-”
“I don’t need to do all that, I’m fine,” complained Benoit, though his head was still foggy, and a vague sense of bewilderment clouded his chest. He tried to weasel out of the hold Phillip had him in, but the firm arms didn’t budge.
“You’re not fine. You just had a panic attack over a dropped board game. We’re counting down from five. It helps,” Phillip insisted. He squeezed Benoit just a little tighter. “Come on. Be a good sport. Five things you can see. Come on.”
Benoit slumped. “Fine.” He glanced around the kitchen. “I see the sink. The ceiling. The counter.” He looked downward. “I see a very callously discarded game of chess.” A final look into the mirror across the room. “And I see us, looking like a couple of old fogies.”
Phillip laughed. “Thank you. Now four things you can hear, please.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. The sooner you do, the sooner it’s over with.”
Benoit considered this. “I can hear traffic outside,” he said, finally conceding. “The sound of the electricity humming in the lights-”
“Of course you can,” laughed Phillip, pressing his chin into Benoit’s shoulder. “You and that perceptive brain of yours.”
“I’m not done yet,” complained Benoit. “I can also hear your irritating voice. And the sound of your breath in my ear. Does that count as two things?”
Phillip hummed. “Might as well. You nasty little meanie.”
“I’m not a meanie. This is just dumb.”
“You are like a feral cat when you’re upset,” Phillip said, rolling his eyes. “Now give me three things you can feel. We’re more than halfway done.”
Benoit considered this. “I feel the tags from my shirt against my skin,” he started. “And the cold countertop beneath my hands.” He sighed quietly, allowing the smallest of grins to ghost its way onto his lips. “And I feel my husband holding onto me, being very considerate to my current condition.”
At this, he turned around, wrapping his own arms over Phillip’s shoulders. The two stood face to face, arms around each other, noses almost brushing.
“Hmm. Considerate. That’s the first nice thing you’ve said to me since I got my checkmate,” Phillip mused, his eyes piercing and blue as the sky. “Give me two things you can smell.”
“Your sourdough,” Benoit remarked. “And your cologne.”
Phillip grinned. “You’re almost done.”
And Benoit Blanc knew exactly where the natural ending point of this exercise was. So he leaned forward, closing the gap between them, and pressed their lips together. Just lightly, just gently, just for a few moments.
“I reckon the one thing I can taste would be you,” he murmured, pulling back just a fraction of an inch.
“I’m very glad you’re still around to do so,” Phillip replied, his eyelids fluttering. “Now. I think we should clean up this chess board and go straight to bed.”
Benoit had never agreed more.
-
Of course, going to bed didn’t mean going to sleep .
It was 11:00, two and a half hours after they’d retired. And yet neither one of them seemed able to drift off. They’d given up at some point, Phillip turning on a lamp to knit and Benoit taking out the book he’d been reading.
“How are you feeling now?” Phillip asked, his voice breaking the comfortable silence.
Benoti shrugged, not looking up from his book. “Fine.”
“Come on, Ben,” protests Phillip, dissapointment suddenly behind his voice. “It would be one thing if you truly weren’t phased. But you had a panic attack in the kitchen, and now you can’t sleep. Clearly, something’s wrong. I don’t need to be the World’s Greatest Detective to know that.”
Benoit snapped the book shut. “You’re not sleeping either,” he argued.
“Only because you wouldn’t stop tossing and turning,” Phillip shot back, eyes wide. “Look, I know your whole thing is being untouchable, being two steps ahead of everyone else and whatnot. But Ben. I am your partner . I am your husband . If you can’t share your vulnerability with me? Your fears? Your insecurities? Your pain? That doesn’t make for a successful relationship.”
Benoit sucked in a breath. “Are you suggesting we separate?”
“No, you twat,” Phillip reprimanded, slapping a hand against his upper arm. “I’m suggesting you actually talk to me.” He inches closer. “Just to me. I’ll keep your secret. I won’t tell anyone the big, bad Benoit Blanc is hurting.”
“I’m not hurting, I’m just…” Benoit trailed off. “I just feel like I cannot escape that moment.”
“Which moment?” pressed Phillip, reaching over and interlocking his fingers with Benoit’s.
“When Miles pulled the trigger. I was…cowering on the ground. Like a child. I didn’t fight, I didn’t even try to get away. I just. Laid there and accepted it.” He leaned back against the headboard. “Miles was ready to kill me, and I was going to let it happen. It is…it was the first time I have truly believed my life was over. The first time it was real.”
Phillip said nothing, just squeezed his hand.
Benoit took a deep breath. The first of the tears was forming in his right eye, the first of the pain to break through his shell in any tangible way. “I have never considered my own mortality the way I did at that moment. I have always had a way out; I’ve never believed any case or any villain would truly be my end. I’ve feared for others, but fearing for others doesn’t have the same icy finality as one’s own impending perishment.”
He turned to his husband, facing Phillip’s concerned yet kind expression with his own raw, vulnerable look of anguish.
“I know what death is now. I know what it is to experience the final seconds of your life. I know what it is to realize your future is void - that there is no future,” he explained, tears streaming down his weathered cheeks. “If Miles Bron had not been so unfailingly incompetent, I would not exist anymore. The case of the Glass Onion would be the final chapter of my life. You…” He broke off, throat suddenly closing up. “You would be a widower. You would be speaking at my funeral rather than holding my hand in our bed. How could I do that to you?”
Phillip scooted closer still, taking Benoit’s head in his hands and pulling it down onto his shoulder. “You didn’t, though. You made it. You live to see another day, to get involved in some other hairbrained mystery.”
“That’s another thing. Is that what the purpose of my time here is?” Benoit mused miserably. “To wallow in the depths of human error, to find rotten people and bring them their consequence?” He let out a stuttering breath. “What a waste of a human life.”
“Hey,” Phillip scolded, pushing Benoit off his shoulder and looking him coldly in the eye. “That is not at all what you do. That is not who you are. You fight for the innocent. For those who have been unjustly wronged. You are not a bringer of consequence, but a bringer of justice. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.” He cups a hand under Benoit’s chin. “And think of me. Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you respect me and my opinion?”
“Of course. More highly than anyone else in the world.”
Phillip tilted his head. “Well. It’s my opinion that you are a wonderful, kind, brilliant, beautiful man. One of the finest that has ever been born. It’s my opinion that you are the standard to which all others should hold themselves.” He grinned. “And since you said you respect my opinion ‘more highly than anyone else in the world’, you have to believe me.”
Benoit could say nothing, instead opting for a tearful grin.
“As for the fear of death,” Phillip continued. “We can put you in therapy. It’ll help with the panic attacks, promise. And even if they don’t stop immediately, you’re stuck here with me. Indefinitely. I will guide you through them if they happen again.” He took both of Benoit’s hands. “But listen. Everybody passes on at some point. They do. We all do. It is one of life’s bitterest truths. Your chapter has to end somewhere. What matters is that you make the most of what time you do have. And we’ve just established that you do.”
Benoit nodded quietly. “And you?” he finally asked. “Would you ever forgive me if I were to leave you so early?”
“No,” quipped Phillip. But he was still smiling. “That whole speech was not to say you should be throwing yourself into danger everywhere you go. I’d still very much prefer you come back to me after your trips.” He put a hand on Benoit’s back, guiding him down to lay across his legs, head squarely in his lap. He began gently caressing his hair, over and over, as if running his fingers over some precious artifact he couldn’t bear to lose. Then he spoke, much softer than before. “I will cross the bridge of mourning you when I come to it. I refuse to grieve before it’s necessary.”
“I’ll try to prolong it as long as possible,” Benoit promised.
As he lay there, enveloped with love personified, rain against the window, and the sensation of a hand in his hair, he finally began to drift away. The warm, dim light of the room closed to black as his eyelids fell shut and at last, at long last, he let sleep whisk him away.
-
“I’ve been thinking.”
“About what?”
They were side by side on the balcony, each buried in a book. Benoit put his down, looking over to his husband. “About the Glass Onion.”
“Mm. What about it?”
“Well I spent so long looking at every layer, every complication, that I couldn’t see the answer staring me right in the face. The simplest answer, which I equated with idiocy,” Benoit explained.
“Yes, a perfect metaphor. A parallel that might as well be cinematic,” Phillip remarked.
“But I think the metaphor goes deeper. If I think back to the months before the case, I remember being so bored, I thought I’d implode, mind the hyperbole. I kept looking for some great case, for an unanswerable problem, for a true mind-bender to perplex me into reawakening.” He scoffed. “But in the end it wasn’t the case that brought me out of my funk. If anything it drove me deeper in.”
“Yes, I’m well aware,” Phillip said dryly.
Benoit shoved him lightly. “What brought me out of it was this. Was you. Was sitting at this apartment, doing close to nothing. In the quiet, I feel I’ve found myself again.” He shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, I still require intellectual stimulation. But what life is all about, what is the balm to my soul, is the simple, mundane things I live through everyday. The old, familiar things that perhaps I take for granted.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I just couldn’t see it because I was looking for something grander. My very own Glass Onion.”
Phillip grinned. A sweet, sappy, grin filled with affection. “A balm to your soul. That’s very poetic, Detective Blanc.” He sighed, staring happily out at the skyline.
“Nobody understands me like you do,” Benoit continues. “They think I’m some sort of enigma. Too complicated to know. Always hiding, always reserved, always calculating.”
“I’ve never understood it,” Phillip responded. “You’re a relatively simple man.”
“A Glass Onion in and of myself,” Benoit mused. He laughed to himself. “And you’re the only one who cares to look through me.”
Phillip took his hand. “Well I’m so very glad I can,” he stated, before turning back to his book.
And Benoit breathed in the New York air, content to observe from his home, his safe space, his meager little palace. Recognizing at last what contentment felt like, hand in hand with the man life had gifted him, he looked down at his novel and turned the page.