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“you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the wars / and why i’ve spent my whole life trying to put it into words”
— taylor swift, you are in love
According to a very credible source (Luther), a few unspoken rules exist when working with Ethan Hunt.
Rule One: If Ethan says “trust me”, you trust him and you do what he tells you to, no matter how absolutely insane he sounds. This includes, but is not limited to, parkouring across rooftops like you’re in a game of Subway Surfers, hanging off helicopters with half your body dangling in mid-air, and walking nonchalantly into a room full of armed terrorists while pretending you have a bomb in your pocket for the scare tactic even though all you’ve got is a half-eaten snickers bar.
Rule Two: Don’t ask him what his plan is, even if the question is meant to be rhetorical or sarcastic. If you’re trying to go for sarcasm, the sheer combined force of the Ethan Hunt Loyalty™ and his earnest expression will render you speechless. The point is, he always has a plan. Just follow his directions and hope for the best.
Rule Three: Under no circumstances should you ever even imply that Benji Dunn is a “field liability”. Ethan will take it personally. This is not a theory. This is a warning based on empirical evidence gathered over several missions, many awkward small talks with other coworkers, and at least one debrief that ended with Ethan glaring silently for twenty uninterrupted minutes while a CIA liaison desperately attempted to apologize.
Anyway, there are rules that one needs to follow.
—
They’re all lying low in a safehouse somewhere in rural China because no one could tell if they’re on the right track, which isn’t a good thing, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it. Outside the shabby house, it’s freezing, raining like bullets, huge mountains looming in each direction. All the shops had rushed them out when they saw the blood on their clothes, which was fair, to be honest. Everything about the safe house looks spooky and vaguely haunted.
There is also the issue of the stone statue in the front yard, right in front of the house’s entrance, being riddled with bullet holes. No one’s commented on it yet, but they’re all definitely aware of its ominous presence. Inside, the safehouse is musty and somehow even more creepy than it looks on the outside. Ethan has already swept the perimeters three times, double-checked the supplies, and stocked up. Everything’s fine.
Except it’s not really, because Benji is late. Logically, it shouldn’t be worrying that he’s late, because he’s been going solo for the past few days, staying behind to retrieve some files. According to the plan, he would be joining them later, but still.
Just for the record, Ethan isn’t hovering. He doesn't miss Benji or anything, even though he saw him three days ago. He’s just…coincidentally nearby. Just happens to be right by the front door. Occasionally glancing up.
Jane, who’s sitting on the couch, grins at him and informs Ethan he’s doing “the thing” again.
“What thing?” He asks, eyes still trained on the door.
“The Benji thing. He’s going to be fine, Hunt.”
Ethan doesn’t reply, which, to be fair, is kind of a response. It’s because he doesn’t dignify himself with matters that waste his time, he tells himself, ignoring the small voice in the back of his head that is yelling, Benji isn’t a waste of time!
Benji arrives six minutes later in a flurry of overexcitement. He’s wearing a rain jacket that has somehow managed to soak through entirely, juggling three laptops, a duffle bag, and a coffee cup that doesn’t look like the standard issue.
Ethan is immediately shooting up from his chair and taking over the devices Benji hands him, setting them on the table. It’s natural, the way they settle into that rhythm. Years of experience, Ethan assures himself.
“I got you a drink!” Benji exclaims brightly, as if he didn’t just wade through a hurricane. Ethan blinks at him. “I found the only coffee shop still open and they insisted they were out of the hazelnut thing you liked, maybe because they wanted to get me away as quick as possible, I think they could tell the red on my shirt was blood not paint, but I called them out because they totally had hazelnut, the liars! Anyway, don’t worry, it’s with oat milk. I remembered.”
Ethan takes the cup from his hands. “You didn’t have to,” he says. “I didn’t ask for—”
“I know,” Benji says, his jacket landing on the floor like a dead seal as he shrugs it off. “But I figured you needed one, because you’ve been awake for god knows how long, and if you don’t get your caffeine you’re gonna be all, you know, tense and murdery, someone would die and I’d be like, well fuck, I should’ve seen this coming, so that’s kinda my fault.”
It takes Ethan a few seconds to process everything, but he still manages. “I’m not…murdery.”
Benji smiles at him. “You are, just a little bit. Don’t worry, it’s not a bad thing.” He’s tugging on a fluffy pale yellow sweater from his duffle bag and looks so much like sunshine, Ethan wants to swoop him up in his arms and never let him go. He settles for tugging Benji onto the couch instead, drying his wet hair with a towel.
Behind them, Brandt walks by and mutters something that suspiciously sounds like “so whipped” under his breath.
Ethan turns, affronted. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” the other has the audacity to grin and raise a questioning eyebrow. “I said ‘equipped’. Like you’re equipped. For the mission. With all your…guns and shit.”
Luther coughs violently in the corner like he’s trying to cover up laughs.
Benji doesn’t notice any of the conversation. He’s busy bent over one of his laptops, fingers flying over the keyboard as strings of code Ethan can’t understand appear on the screen. There’s a speck of dust on his cheek, and Ethan flicks it away with his thumb.
He’s not watching Benji. He just happens to be looking in that general direction. It’s a strategic thing.
Rule Four: No one says it outright, but everyone knows.
—
Ethan isn’t particularly sure when he started noting every time he has these moments, per se, with Benji. It might have begun when Benji shouted that he would never leave Ethan in Vienna, or it may have been even before that, when he first met the shy technician who stumbled over his words and still kind of hero-worshipped Ethan. Either way, he keeps having these moments with Benji.
Like tonight at dinner, when Benji is halfway through a story about the time he was trying to commit tax evasion and accidentally found himself in one of the servers of Cartoon Network, he bumps Ethan’s knee under the table.
“Sorry,” he says, not bothering to move. He continues talking animatedly about the semantics of reality television while Ethan debates whether he should move his leg. Benji’s jeans are still damp and cold. It’s best if he stays with him; Ethan runs hot after all, and he doesn’t want Benji to get sick. That would be bad for the mission.
Ethan has handled arms dealers, terrorists, nuclear threats, and literal apocalypse scenarios. He’s crawled through minefields, scaled buildings, and had been clinically dead for exactly ninety seconds (then came back to life because he’s Ethan Hunt ).
But Benji? Benji, with his clear blue eyes and unshakable loyalty, might just be the one thing that Ethan can’t handle. For some reason.
“You’re doing it again,” Jane pipes up from across the table. She’s sipping lemonade and staring at Ethan like she’s running psychological tests in her head (which she just might be doing, because she’s Jane and who knows what she could be doing). “The thing.”
Pretending to ignore Jane Carter never works out for anyone, so Ethan replies as quietly as he can, “What thing?”
Jane is not fooled. “That thing where you pretend not to care about something you clearly care about,” she deadpans, subtly nodding at Benji.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m being completely normal,” Ethan says, far too quickly to be convincing.
Luther smirks at him.
Later that night, when everyone is asleep (or at least pretending to be), the two of them are huddled up on the couch, going over schematics for the last time.
Benji yawns, eyelashes fluttering. “I don’t know how you do it; functioning on three hours of sleep and those sad-looking salads of yours. I need at least seven hours or I’ll start hallucinating giant lizards stealing my pens again, which happened twice when I was at Oxford and is not something I would like to experience again.”
Ethan hums. He’s incredibly aware of how Benji is leaning very close to him. A few more inches to the left, and he would be completely nestled against Ethan’s side. He fights down the urge to move closer and says, “I used to sleep less.”
“What about now?”
Ethan allows himself to glance at Benji, who is blinking owlishly, trying to stay awake. His eyes are so blue Ethan thinks he could drown in his gaze. “Now I sleep more,” he replies, softer.
“Hmm. You need it. Someone needs to protect me from dangerous stationary theft,” Benji smiles happily. He finally closes his eyes and leans over, resting his head on Ethan’s shoulder.
“I’ll always protect you,” is all Ethan says. He shifts a little, letting Benji rest against him more comfortably, the corners of his mouth tilting up involuntarily as the other smiles.
He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, not yet, but he knows this much:
He doesn’t like the thought of anyone else sitting next to Benji, doesn’t want anyone else making Benji laugh, doesn’t like the way Benji shrinks when someone criticizes him for talking too much when Ethan would steal stars for just one minute of Benji’s time.
Rule Five: There aren’t any rules, really. Not when it comes to Benji.
—
All things considered, the mission was pretty successful. That is to say, no one died, no nukes were detonated, and no alarms went off until the last thirty seconds, which, by their team’s standards, practically counts as a miracle. They made it out through the extraction tunnel exactly two minutes before lockdown, filing into the getaway car parked somewhere in an alley. There had been a small explosion, but in general, everything had gone as well as anything involving two billion-dollar diamonds, a stolen identity, and a mafia could go.
Benji handled half the op solo, because Luther was re-routing tricky surveillance in the car, Brandt was stuck somewhere on the upper floors, and Jane was fighting off a whole group of men with Ethan while trying to stall them and get enough time for Benji, who had been on the ground floor, to decrypt the system. He was juggling three terminals, two encrypted protocols, and a building whose structural map somehow kept rewriting itself in real time every few seconds.
After the bomb went off, Benji was left with half a comm signal and a jammed keyboard, running on two hours of sleep over the last four days, tasked with rerouting an entire data vault, which probably explains why he looks currently like death warmed over. Ethan had to practically drag him along as they ran.
Now he’s folded in the back of the van, blinking like he’s not quite thinking straight.
“Hey,” Ethan says, nudging his arm gently. “Eyes open.”
Benji just groans in response. Brandt, who is half-draped in gauze, peers back at them from his seat in the front. “Are we gonna talk about how Benji looks like he’s a zombie that just fought an entire army, or have we unanimously decided to pretend this is fine?”
“I’m not—not-a zombie,” Benji slurs weakly. “I’m just—recovering. From hacking. And running. And…being alive.”
The van lurches as it takes a sharp turn, and he sways, pale, catching himself with one hand on Ethan’s knee. The field agent presses the back of his hand to Benji’s forehead.
“Fever,” Ethan murmurs, keeping his voice low. “You’re burning up.”
Benji whimpers softly, curling in on himself. “God, I feel like my skull is being jackhammered from the inside,” he says, forcing his eyes shut again. “I’m going to die.”
“You’re not going to die,” Ethan laughs, still as soft as he can.
“I’m going to die,” Benji repeats. “There’s even going to be some sad music playing in the background as I slowly fall to the ground in slow motion.”
“You need rest.”
“I need death.”
Luther, at the wheel, doesn’t even bother to look back. “He said the same thing last week when we ran out of that grape flavored candy he likes.”
“It was a perfectly valid reaction!” Benji says weakly. “Candy is a technical necessity. I was stabilizing team morale. None of you appreciate the sacrifices I make!”
Ethan fights down another laugh at his dramatics, then snaps out of it as Benji slumps sideways and almost topples onto the floor. He grabs Benji before he can slide off the seat entirely; arm around Benji’s back, a hand cupped under his knee, like it’s second nature.
The technician ends up tucked half into Ethan’s lap, face pressed against the crook of his neck. The laptop he was holding slips onto the floor, and no one even notices. Ethan hesitates only a second before wrapping his arm around Benji’s shoulders, cradling him so he doesn’t jostle every turn.
“Oh my god,” Jane laughs, clearing her throat pointedly. “You’re so gone.”
“I hate all of you,” Ethan says.
“Not Benji.”
“Especially Benji.”
Benji makes a tiny, distressed noise at that, too sleepy and tired to realize it was a joke. Ethan immediately holds him a little closer to himself, squeezing his shoulder gently. “Not really. You’re fine, just rest.”
Jane snorts, and Ethan doesn’t respond. Mainly because he has no good counter argument, and also because Benji just shifted again, cheeks brushing against Ethan’s collarbone. He’s breathing slower, eyes closed, asleep, and Ethan can feel the soft puffs of his breath through his shirt. His hand is twisted into Ethan’s jacket near the collar, and Ethan doesn’t dare move.
“I think this might be my favorite mission we’ve ever done yet,” Brandt says, fighting down a smirk. “Physically, I’m bleeding out, but emotionally, I feel healed.”
“You’re not bleeding out,” Luther interjects. “You have a minor graze.”
“I could have internal trauma.”
“You do,” Jane laughs. “Trauma from witnessing Ethan breaking down.”
Ethan grits his teeth. “Can we all focus on how Benji’s clearly unwell?”
“He’s stressed and feverish,” Luther says. “And don’t forget exhausted. He’s also in love with you, but sure, let’s pretend the fever is the pressing issue here.”
“Does anyone else think this is wildly unfair?” Brandt asks. “Like, the rest of us have to keep acting like we’re professionals, while this guy gets to play boyfriend of the year in the backseat?”
“I’m not his boyfriend.” Ethan glares.
Everyone turns their eyes on him.
“Go on,” Jane urges, tilting her head. “Say you’re not into him.”
“I’m not into him,” Ethan says flatly.
Benji lets out another whimper and nuzzles deeper into Ethan’s shoulder with a sigh. It’s perfectly timed, and Ethan tightens his arms instinctively, ignoring the amused gazes of his teammates. “You’re alright,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”
Jane snorts. Before he can get anything out, Ilsa, who hasn’t said a word the entire time, finally lifts her head and fixes Ethan with a look.
“You know we’re all trained to read microexpressions, right?”
“Doesn’t take a spy,” Brandt snickers. “Even a toddler can tell how he’s feeling right now.”
Eventually, Luther pulls into the driveway of the safehouse. Ethan carries Benji, who’s fully asleep already, up the stairs and inside. He lies him down on a bed in a corner room, stripping off Benji’s jacket, pulling a blanket over his body.
Staring at Benji’s sleeping form, Ethan can’t help but reach forward and push a strand of hair away from Benji’s face.
—
The room hums.
It’s the kind of sound that settles deep in your ribs, so low you think you’re just imagining it—mechanical, consistent, a false melody of servers and the soft whir of ventilated air. It’s the kind of room where people get lost in their own heads, and Benji’s halfway there already.
He’s bent awkwardly over the laptop on the ground, wrists hurting, shoulders aching. There is a tension in his neck he’s been ignoring since the last time he slept before they came here to Berlin, which he thinks might be Thursday. Or Wednesday. Or some alternate dimension where Ethan Hunt doesn’t exist and Benji is still a technician, not constantly volunteering for tasks he’s underqualified for just to stay close.
The cursor blinks, steady as a pulse. There’s a knot twisting in his gut.
Benji’s been out on the field long enough. Long enough to stop hyperventilating every time he holds a gun, long enough to get sarcastic even in the face of explosions and kidnappers. But deep down, he knows that some part of him still isn’t caught up. There’s still a part of him with shaky hands and trembling fingers. Deep down, he is still the person who can’t even be trusted with a headset. Still the person who is the weakest link on any team he’s ever been on, always messing things up and not being enough.
No matter how many field exams he passes or car chases he survives, Benji knows he is always going to be not enough. Always going to be the guy who idolized Ethan Hunt from behind a screen in a room with tens of other technicians, never once imagining that Ethan might know his name. He’s not supposed to be here, on this team, not really.
And if something goes wrong, if this mission is the one where all his faults finally catch up to him, Benji knows it will be his fault.
Ilsa’s on the upper floor, scoping one of the targets’ routes. Brandt is trailing the courier. Luther is somewhere else in the back, patching the internal security feed through a backdoor connection. Ethan is by himself, because that’s how he works best. Alone and focused, dangerous.
Benji’s voice filters through the comms, and it sounds rushed and nervous and not enough. “Okay,” he says. “The good news is I’ve just bypassed the secondary firewall, so we should be out soon. The bad news is that it looked like it had backup teeth. Possibly claws. I’m not saying it’s a hydra, but if this database grows another head, I’m going to throw myself off a thirty-story building.”
He hears a faint laugh through someone’s mic, maybe Luther, but he doesn’t focus on it. His fingers are moving faster now; he’s close. One more command, and he’ll have access to the terminal, the key sequence they’re looking for, something buried deep in a vault, hidden away from the public eye.
Benji’s head aches. The screen flickers, too bright and too fast.
“Luther,” he says, switching to a private line. “I’m seeing traffic that doesn’t make sense.”
“Define ‘doesn’t make sense’.”
“There’s a backloop, I think, recursive, maybe. It’s weird.”
“You think it’s anything bad?”
“I’m not sure yet. I think…someone wanted me to see it. Tell Ethan to watch his back.”
The thing about working with Ethan Hunt is that he always has a plan. No matter what insane thing is happening, he always knows and he always has a way out. At least, that is what you convince yourself to think. You convince yourself that he knows, that he’s three steps ahead, and he’s got you covered.
But the thing is, you also know he takes risks. You know, deep down, like how you know you’re never going to be enough, Ethan can’t be everywhere at once. And you’re his friend, which means if you’re the risk, if you're in danger, he’ll come for you. Every time. Even if it kills him.
And deep down, you know you’re not worth it.
He tells himself to breathe. The lights inside the server room blink, slow and unnerving, but the loop appears, again and again. It’s not trying to keep him out, it’s trying to stall him. To delay him, to keep him here, in time for something. Someone is trying to keep him occupied, boxed into a cell with no exits or windows, like a mouse in a trap.
Benji shifts in his crouch. His eyes sting and his fingers don’t stop, but his gut is tight now, sharper, because something else is forming. Something louder. Something that resembles the shape of a trap. He reroutes through a dummy node, splices a decoy packet from one of Luther’s backdoors. The last firewall flashes once, then falls apart without any resistance—and that’s when he realizes.
No real system falls this fast. Not when there’s this much on the line, this much buried intel. Benji exhales. His palms are sweaty, and his head is spinning. They want him in this room. Not Ethan. Not Jane, or Luther, or Brandt. Not a tactical unit from the CIA. Him.
“Guys,” he says, voice dropping. “I think this system was built to stall me.”
There’s a pause. “Stall?” Jane asks, “What do you mean by stall?”
“Someone knew I would be the one here. The defenses look aggressive, but they’re not doing anything; they’re just hard to get through. I have a feeling it’s only meant to keep me busy.”
“So—” Brandt starts, but Benji can faintly hear footsteps outside the door, and his mind is screaming at him to run.
The puzzle pieces slide into place. They're not trapping him just for him, just for a technician who doesn't have any value. They're going to use him to get to Ethan, because if someone he cares about is in danger, Ethan is always going to come for them. Every time. No matter what. Even if they're not worth it.
The terror that comes with that realization hits Benji like a physical blow.
“Get out,” he yells, “They're trying to get you, Ethan, get out, now!”
Voices come through the comms all at once, but they’re drowned out by static. All he can register are the lines of code in front of him and the dread building up in his chest. The lock on the screen pings, and that’s when the lights go out.
Not the whole floor, not the entire building. Just this one room. This one space, like someone flipped the kill switch intentionally just for him, who they decided would be the best way to get to Ethan. With a horrifying panic, Benji realizes this is Lane and the bomb all over again. His carelessness has led the enemy one step closer to Ethan, again.
The fans overhead slow, the screen dies, the vents shut. The hum vanishes, and it’s all deathly silent, like a string pulled back, waiting to snap. There are sounds behind him. Metal scraping against metal. Boots thumping on the tile floor.
The door is ten steps away. Benji makes three before it slams open, and someone shoves the barrel of a gun into his face. Another man grabs him from behind, there’s the echo of a shot, and pain explodes across his thigh, sending him crashing to the floor. One hand fumbles for his gun, and the other desperately brings the comm device towards himself.
“Trap. Ethan! Ethan, it’s a trap,” he gasped. “They’re not after the data, they’re after you, they’re going to use me to get you, you need to—”
The kick lands on his ribs like a freight train, another blow lands on his head, and his face is pushed into the ground again. The pain blooms white hot all across his body, and he can feel something hot and wet smearing across the floor. It smells metallic and it’s sticky and it’s dripping from him.
Benji shakes, lets out half a scream, choked and raspy, nearly biting through his lips to keep it down. He pulls the flash drive, hitting the emergency cache, and someone kicks him again, sending the laptop sliding away. He’s crawling behind a file cabinet when the next shot hits his shoulder and blood wells up as he tries to push his palm against the wound, his other hand weakly punching at the people reaching for him.
“Benji!” Ethan’s voice hits like an explosion in his ear. “What happened? Talk to me!”
“They knew, they knew I’d be here,” Benji choked out.
“I’m close to your location, Benji, please,” Ethan’s voice sounds pleading. “Stay with me!”
“No! Don’t, don’t,” Benji whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. “Ethan, they want you, they’re using me to get you, you need to leave—”
A boot slams into the cabinet and he flinches violently. His shoulder still hurts, and before he can fight back, someone grabs him by the collar and yanks him upright, his injured leg knocking against a metal bar. He flails, fighting, but he’s slow and dizzy and his legs can’t hold weight. A gun cracks against his temple, the world flashing white.
“Benji!”
“I’m okay,” he rasps into the comms. “I’m okay, don’t come, Ethan, don’t you dare come here—” Another hit and he can feel his shoulder splitting and something cracking inside him. Blood gushes down his chest as someone knees him in the stomach. Fire spreads down his arm like it’s trying to crawl and rip its way inside him, under his skin and wrapping around his ribs, setting him alight from inside out. The taste of metal is thick on his tongue.
Deep down, he knows Ethan will always come for him. Every time. Even if it kills him. Deep down, he knows he’s not worth it.
Benji is not going to be the reason Ethan dies.
—
Ethan is not going to be the reason Benji dies.
He’s already moving as the comms cut out. Ethan doesn’t check with the others, doesn’t update the team, ignoring their shouts in his ear. Doesn’t run diagnostics or maps, or calculate the risks and the implications of putting a top secret government mission on the line just to save one technician.
That’s the thing about fear: it makes you forget the years and years of training that forced you to be rational. He’s always been good under pressure. Ethan Hunt always has a plan. Ethan Hunt never breaks. But Ethan has never heard Benji sound like that before, and there’s no rule, no protocol for this. No field agent guide for what to do when the person you promised to protect, to keep safe, to save, is begging you to not save him.
Because he knows it’s a trap.
Because he still thinks he isn’t worth it.
Because he doesn’t know that Ethan would do anything, anything, to keep him safe.
That’s the thing about Ethan: he doesn’t know when to not run straight into the fire. Especially when it’s Benji. Especially when Benji sounds like he’s breaking, and Benji can’t be breaking because he is Ethan’s whole world—
Ethan just runs. Runs towards the server room where Benji is, like gravity’s shifted and the pull is singular, forcing him towards Benji. The hallway is longer than it was ten minutes ago. He takes it in bounds, boots thundering over concrete, because he’s Ethan Hunt and he’s not going to let Benji die. Nothing is going to stop him from getting there, not guards, not other teammates, not even the laws of physics will slow him down.
He sprints like he can outrun the seconds he’s already lost. They took him. They took Benji. Took him because they knew that wherever he went, Ethan would follow. Because they knew Ethan’s weak spot is soft, blue-eyed, and the personification of sunshine, talks too much and always apologizes for it. Because they knew Ethan would come, because they knew he always comes for Benji, and he always will.
Later, he might explain to the others what happened, what it was. He might try to describe the way fear turned to fury and the way grief tries to bargain by morphing into something else, because this is different. This is not tactical emotion, or mission panic, or adrenaline. This is he can’t leave me and if he’s gone I will burn this place to the ground and please don’t leave me because I don’t know who I would be if you’re not here. Ethan is not ready to lose him, not when he never had the chance to tell him—
He reaches the server wing, tunnel vision narrowing in on what’s left of the door, splintered and splattered with blood.
Blood. That’s the first thing he sees: blood. Blood on the walls, the floor, sprayed across metal racks like someone tried to repaint the room with red.
The second thing he sees is Benji and Ethan’s heart—Ethan, who has been through this before, seen this before, was met with so much worse and survived—drops.
A heap of limbs, twisted on the floor. Benji’s vest is half ripped off, blooming across his white shirt like wet, ugly petals. His eyes are half-lidded and dull, he’s not moving, and he’s not speaking. He’s silent. Benji, his Benji—who babbles when he’s nervous, who fills every second of silence with some pop culture reference or apology because he always seems to think he’s doing something wrong—is silent. And that’s wrong, because Benji shouldn’t be silent.
He shouldn’t be bleeding out on the floor. He should be smiling, saying something stupid and making everyone laugh. He shouldn’t be hurting, especially not from the same hurt Ethan promised to protect him from. He shouldn’t be what they’re using to get to Ethan.
Ethan’s gun is in his hand before he realizes it. He pulls the trigger.
One.
Two.
Three.
There’s a yell. Bodies collapse to the floor. One of the remaining agents lunges, Ethan meets him halfway and breaks his wrist, then his nose. He shoots the last one, doesn’t stop to assess, just moves, quick and clean and precise, until it’s done. Until the only thing left in the room is the hum of the servers and Benji’s body curled in a heap.
Ethan crosses the room and drops to his knees. His hands find Benji’s before his gun even hits the ground. He should be angry, should be seething, at whoever did this. At the breach in the plan. At the fact that no one noticed the trap and let this happen to Benji. At himself.
Except, all he feels is cold. Cold, and this tight, impossible panic pressing against his lungs and stealing his breath away. Because this is Benji, Benji who is the sun and Ethan’s entire world, and Ethan has already decided, somewhere between Morocco and Shanghai, that he could never lose Benji.
Not this time, not ever.
“Benji,” he says, his voice shaking. “Benji, talk to me.”
Benji trembles in his arms, but not a single word comes out of his mouth.
“You’re okay,” Ethan continues, his voice low and wrecked. “You’re okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Benji doesn’t answer, but he opens his eyes and blinks at him. He’s gazing directly at Ethan, blue eyes meeting green. The look is dazed, but there’s something underneath it, something Ethan doesn’t have the words for yet but knows he has too.
Brandt’s voice cracks in his ear. “Ethan? Do you have him?”
He doesn’t take his eyes off Benji. “I’ve got him.”
“Status?”
Ethan swallows. “Bad.”
“Stay there, hold on, we’re two minutes out.”
Benji’s lashes flutter again; he’s trying to stay awake.
“You’re okay,” Ethan murmurs again. He doesn’t care that he’s repeating himself. “I’ve got you, please stay with me.”
“I didn’t,” Benji shifts, barely, “didn’t want you to die because of me.”
“No one’s dying,” Ethan says, holding him closer, forehead pressing against Benji’s. “No one is dying. I’m not going to let you go.”
“You hear me? I’m not going to,” this time his voice breaks, “I’m not letting you go.”
“Please,” Ethan begs again, kneeling on the cold, damp tiles of the floor, holding onto Benji like he’s the only thing tethering him to reality right now. “You’ve got to hold on. Benji, stay with me, please.”
Benji breathes in, soft and shallow. The corners of his lips twitch, like he’s trying to smile, and there is only one thought running through Ethan’s mind.
When Benji survives this, Ethan is never going to let him go.
—
There are exactly thirty-six steps from the elevator to Benji’s desk. Ethan knows this because he counts them, training his eyes on his steps, every time.
He tells himself he’s establishing a routine, that it’s the agent in him that cares about situational awareness and mapping the terrain. But that’s not true, not since Berlin. Not since the blood on Benji’s shirt, not since the way his body felt limp and lifeless in Ethan’s arms. The truth is much simpler.
Ethan counts because it’s something he can do with his eyes until he can set them on Benji again to make sure he’s safe. He’s got this weird habit of keeping Benji within his sight. It probably started after Lane, Ethan thinks, and came back even stronger after Berlin, this desire to have his eyes on the tech agent at all times.
The IMF tech floor always smells like coffee and recycled air, a heady mix of stressed computer guys and way too cold air conditioning. Benji is at his desk when Ethan walks towards him. He’s been cleared for light desk work: desktop only, no field work, no lifting more than ten pounds, no climbing stairs if he can avoid it. Despite the doctor’s assurances that he’ll be back to normal in no time, Ethan is still not sleeping properly. It’s been twelve days since he found Benji passed out in a pool of his own blood, and part of him is still convinced he’s waking up in it.
Ethan watches him for a moment from the doorway, not hiding exactly, but not announcing himself either. A few faces he’s never seen around before look up and stare, but all he can see is Benji, who is in the exact same position Ethan left him in half an hour ago, hunched over his desk and smiling like he always is. His desk is messy, and there are three monitors active, his sling awkwardly braced against the edge of the keyboard. There is a mostly empty mug by his elbow, red tea gone cold.
His sweater practically drowns him, which makes sense, because it’s Ethan’s. While they’re roughly the same height, Ethan’s broader frame means his clothes are all larger and cut wider, stretched more across the shoulders, heavier in the sleeves. On Benji, it swallows him whole. The cuffs slip over his hands, the hem nearly hits mid-thigh, and the fabric bunches in soft folds around his waist when he’s sitting down. He wears it like it’s any other piece of clothing, like he’s not causing Ethan’s brain to short-circuit.
The problem is, the sweater smells like Ethan. That means Benji probably smells like Ethan now, too. The thought makes him feel giddy, and he clears his throat in an attempt to stop being so weird.
Benji startles and his fingers scramble to click out of a game of Halo, switching the screens back to whatever file he was supposed to be working on. “Bloody hell, you’ve gotta stop doing that. One of these days, you’re going to catch me slacking off, and you’re not even my boss.”
“I brought you food,” Ethan says, lifting the paper bag in his hand. “Does that count as an apology?”
Benji eyes the bag with suspicion and doesn’t fall for the bait. “You’re just trying to bribe me into leaving early,” he accuses.
“Yes.”
“At least be subtle about it,” Benji laughs, but reaches for the bag anyway, so Ethan counts it as a win. “Aren’t you supposed to be a super stealthy agent? I thought you guys were good at this kinda stuff.”
“I am good at this stuff,” Ethan counters naturally, grabbing a chair and sitting himself beside Benji. “Maybe you’re just good at reading me.”
Benji’s mouth quirks into another one of those smiles Ethan loves, and pulls out a sandwich. “Is this the one from the place around the corner I like?”
Ethan nods, finding himself smiling back. Benji’s shoulders soften. It’s been like this for days, ever since he came back from the hospital wing. It’s all small comforts, gentle hands, quiet moments, Ethan filling his mug with more tea before Benji even gets the chance to ask. Ethan helps him watch out for his boss when he’s playing Halo on company time, brings him snacks so Benji doesn’t have to survive on protein bars from the vending machine, and brings him the only coffee he likes—caramel macchiato with two pumps of vanilla—every day.
It’s not a lot. Benji deserves so much more.
—
Benji had woken up in the hospital two days after the mission, already apologizing before he even managed to sit up and take a deep breath. The room was dim, early morning or late night, Ethan never found out. He had been sitting there for nearly nine hours, not moving, watching the slow pulse of the monitors and the bandages wrapped around Benji's ribs, the smell of antiseptic lingering in the air.
“I’m sorry,” Benji rasped, voice dry. Not even a hi or what happened or why am I wrapped like a mummy and in a hospital bed. Just I’m sorry, like the words had been waiting behind his teeth all the time and finally found their chance to escape. Like it was second nature—the way he apologizes for anything and everything—talking too much, being too slow, being not enough.
“Benji?” Ethan had said, shooting up from his chair beside the bed. He hadn’t meant to stay so long. He’d promised Luther to at least eat something, or sleep for a few hours, but hours passed and he never moved, just silently watched the up and down of Benji’s chest as he breathed. When Benji’s eyes finally opened, something had let go in his chest like a snapped thread.
“I should’ve spotted it,” Benji had continued, staring up at the ceiling. “The delay loop. The trap. I should’ve—it was my fault. I messed it up.”
“Benji.”
“I should’ve caught it earlier, I know, I got distracted.”
“Benji.”
“No, I mean, if I had just been paying closer attention, I would’ve—I know I’m not doing enough. I’m not strong or good at fighting like you guys, I know.”
“Benji,” Ethan had said again, because he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to impress you.” Benji was still staring at the ceiling, like it might crack open and swallow him whole, like even that would be easier than looking at Ethan.
“I’m sorry,” he had repeated. “You shouldn't have had to come back for me.”
“I’ll always come back for you.”
“That’s not the point.”
“That is the point,” Ethan insisted. “It’s the only thing that matters. You’re alive.”
“I don’t think I really should be,” Benji whispered, eyes blank, and suddenly Ethan had felt like there was water gushing in his lungs, drowning him, too much noise in his head and not enough air in the tiny hospital room. He didn’t know how to respond; he had never heard Benji sound like that before. Benji, who was supposed to always be happy and laughing, joking about Taylor Swift and Star Trek, had sounded hollow and flat and full of nothing.
Like he had looked at what he brought to the table (the whole world, Ethan’s whole world), and decided it wasn’t enough, that he wasn’t enough, and it was better to say it before someone else did. It made Ethan’s stomach twist.
“You saved the mission,” Ethan had finally said. “You figured out the recursive loop, you decrypted the vault in time. We all made it out.”
“But I wasn’t fast enough,” Benji faltered. “They almost succeeded in using me to get you. You still had to save me.”
Ethan hadn’t even flinched. “I’ll always save you.”
“But—”
“I don’t care. I’d do it again. Every time.”
Benji looked suspiciously like he was going to cry, and Ethan’s hand hovered uselessly before finally grasping Benji’s wrist.
“I promised I would protect you.”
Benji’s breath caught for a second, and he finally turned to look at Ethan. “You always do,” he had finally said, ever so soft. “Protect me, I mean. You always do.”
And just like that, Ethan’s brain, normally so fast and so sharp, had stopped. He didn't know what to say. Not because he didn’t have anything to say, but because he had too much; all of it in a language he wasn’t fluent in, all of it wrapped in guilt and devotion and something he didn’t dare to name yet. His heart, already stretched too tight, had nearly given out on the spot. Something caught in his chest and stayed there.
“You’re mine to keep safe,” he said, and Benji’s eyes had fluttered shut again, like the words were warm enough to sleep in. Enough to rest and not worry about anything. Sunlight spilled into the room through the curtains, and Ethan could feel something unfurling inside him. He doesn’t dare to name it yet, but it’s beginning to seem like—
—
Back in the tech room, Benji has finished his sandwich. Ethan tries his best to ignore how Benji is leaning against him slightly, shoulders brushing. He moves a little, and Benji’s head rests against his shoulder.
“You’re not even supposed to be here,” Ethan says, setting down a cup of tea he had brought.
“I’m not in the field.”
“You’re still healing.”
Benji just rolls his eyes. “The doctor said I could work.”
“The doctor said light duty.”
“Does it look like I’m doing sit-ups?” Benji asks, pointing towards a monitor, where a TV show Ethan doesn’t recognize is playing on the screen.
“Drink your tea,” Ethan says.
Benji hums and sips from the cup. He doesn’t comment on how it’s exactly the right temperature, or that Ethan had somehow found the cinnamon red tea that only one shop around the area has.
Later, when Benji turns to reach for a disk, Ethan notices the sweater slip over his fingers again, and this time he can’t stop himself. He instinctively moves forward, tugging it up and gently brushing a stray strand of hair away from Benji’s face with his other hand.
Benji opens his mouth. Closes it. For a moment, Ethan worries he’s gone too far, even though it’s barely anything, but then the tips of Benji’s ears go pink and,
Oh.
Oh.
He’s blushing. He’s glowing again, like he always does when Ethan gets too close and does things for him without asking.
Ethan files that away beside his knowledge of Benji’s coffee order and exact honey-to-tea ratio.
By the time the sky turns purple and pink outside and most of the people are packing up and leaving, Benji has somehow fallen asleep in his seat. The moment is quiet and perfect. Benji is dozing slightly with his head tucked into the corner of the desk, right beside Ethan, sweater bunched at the cheek, mouth partly slighted. He looks like a little puppy, and Ethan does his best not to reach over and pat his hair.
“Wow,” someone says from behind him, voice as dry as sandpaper. “You’re worse than I thought.”
“Shut up, Luther,” Ethan startles. “I’m not—”
“I really wasn’t going to say anything, but you’ve fed him three meals every day, brought him drinks, and hovered around him for the past week.”
“He’s recovering. I need to take care of him.”
“You’re obsessed.”
Ethan looks at Benji’s sleeping face, relaxed and peaceful for the first time all day.
“I’m just keeping him safe.”
Luther snorts. “You still haven’t told him?”
“Told him what?”
“You know what.”
Ethan doesn’t look up from the blanket he’s tucking over Benji’s legs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And again, Luther, he’s recovering.”
“Uh-huh,” Luther sounds incredibly amused, and Ethan doesn’t know what’s so funny.
Benji stirs, mumbles something about… Captain Kirk? and leans his head to the side, directly against Ethan’s shoulder. Ethan stops breathing.
“You’re so subtle.” Luther is smirking, or at least he sounds like it, Ethan can’t tell. He’s too busy trying not to move a single inch.
The quiet stretches, more people come and go, and Ethan can see the streetlights flickering on one by one outside the window. Benji wakes with a bleary blink and a soft “Did I…?”
“Yes,” Ethan says, voice gentle. “You fell asleep on me.”
For once, Benji doesn’t rush to apologize. He just yawns and says, “You’re warm.”
Ethan swallows.
“That’s good,” Benji adds. “I mean, thanks.”
“Anytime,” Ethan says, and he means it. He would let Benji stay with him like this forever. Benji looks healthier now, not healed entirely, but less pale and more like his usual self. Ethan lets himself breathe a little easier because Benji is here. Still alive. Still his. Still tethered to Ethan with nothing more than casual familiarity, beams of sunlight, and the kind of warmth that doesn’t need to be said out loud to be known.
He brushes his hand against Benji’s hair once more, just slightly. Benji leans into it, unthinking. Ethan doesn’t move.
—
Ethan doesn’t notice it right away. That’s the worst part: it doesn’t arrive like a mission alert with your mission, should you choose to accept it, isn’t a blinking red dot on a digital map informing him of a target’s location. It arrives slowly, quietly, sneaking under the radar, like most dangerous things do. An itch beneath the surface, something Ethan can’t exactly pinpoint, something below his ribs.
Benji is laughing.
That, in itself, is fine. Benji laughing isn’t anything to be stressed over; he laughs all the time. Benji laughs at his own jokes, he laughs when the coffee machine breaks and a bunch of overworked tech guys all groan simultaneously as one of them breaks the news, laughs when someone spells “encryption” wrong on a team report, laughs when Luther deadpans that he’s going to “kill you, Brandt, if you take one more of my blueberry milkshakes!”, because everyone knows that’s not going to happen.
Ethan Hunt has faced nuclear threats, bioweapons, rogue assassins, and thrown himself off cliff sides. He has never felt the kind of unease he is feeling right now watching Benji laugh.
Across the room.
At someone else’s joke.
Is it even a good joke? Debatable. Personally, Ethan thinks nothing has ever been less funny. It’s something stupid, something about camels and low orbit satellites.
The guy telling it grins widely. He’s too polished, tall, and bronze-skinned, charming enough that Ethan wants to punch him in the throat. He recognizes him after a beat; it’s Sam Torres, former MI6, now another IMF team lead. Good record, good revolver skills, good jawline. Bad taste in people he shouldn’t be standing so close to, absolutely not.
A slightly pink flush creeps up Benji’s neck. He’s smiling so wide his nose scrunches up in an endearing way, and Ethan can feel his jaw clenching. He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t feel anything.
“You okay over there?” Brandt asks, leaning back against the wall beside Ethan, one eyebrow raised.
“I’m fine.”
Brandt leans in closer, a dangerous smirk on his face. “You’re not mad he’s laughing, are you?”
Ethan glares at him. “Of course not.”
“It’s just a laugh.”
“I know that.”
“Really? Because it sounds like you’re mad he’s laughing,” Brandt says smugly.
“I’m not mad,” Ethan repeats, his grip tightening around the coffee cup—caramel macchiato with two pumps of vanilla—he has in his hands.
“Okay,” Brandt says, still with that annoying smirk. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You definitely are.”
“I’m not. I’m just,” Ethan takes a long, steady breath as Torres’ arm brushes against Benji. “I’m just aware.”
“Of…?”
“The fact that Torres keeps touching him.”
Brandt stifles a snort unsuccessfully. “Jesus Christ.”
Ethan tries his best to ignore it, and so far, he is failing spectacularly.
He watches from across the room as Benji gestures animatedly, sleeves rolled to his elbows, skin still faintly bruised from Berlin. He’s excited, he’s talking fast. It’s the excited kind of ramble, where his eyes are bright and shiny, he’s reserved for truly thrilling and celebration-worthy things like successful missions and Ethan. Torres is eating it up.
Ethan wants to dropkick the guy through a server rack. He doesn’t, obviously.
Instead, he pulls out his phone and opens Benji’s file that he’s got saved on his phone. Just for fun. Just to pass the time. He already knows what it says, of course. Benji’s specialties, training hours, all he did to pass the field exam, fluent languages, preferred OS systems, encryption strengths. He goes over it again anyway. Remembers every field test, every infiltration. Every time Benji’s voice came over the comms, bright and excited, steadying him mid-fall and bringing a smile to his face despite the circumstances.
Torres doesn’t know any of that.
Torres probably thinks Benji just “does comms”.
Ethan scowls at his phone.
“You’re spiraling,” Luther says, coming up to him, and great. The second person who’s come to kick him while he’s down today.
Ethan sighs. “He’s not even funny.”
“Torres?”
Ignoring how Luther immediately knows who he’s talking about, Ethan continues. “His joke delivery is weak. Bad cadence. There isn’t even anything interesting about him anyway. I bet he’s never scaled the Burj Khalifa.”
“I thought you weren’t listening?”
“I’m observant,” Ethan snaps, then composes himself. “It’s part of the job. I’m a good field agent, it’s what I do.”
Luther gives him a long look that somehow says what the fuck are you on and I can see right through you at the exact same time. “You know you’ve got it bad, right? Do you decide on telling him any time this century?”
Ethan doesn’t reply.
—
Just when he thinks it couldn’t get any fucking worse, it gets way fucking worse. Only three days later, the situation is escalating out of hand, before Ethan can even figure out why on earth he cares so much.
They’re between debriefs, lounging in the IMF break lounge. Benji is curled into an armchair, typing something with one hand and cradling a cup of red tea in the other. Ethan brought it to him earlier, just the way he likes it: two pumps of honey, splash of lemon, no sugar. He knows this by heart now. It’s not weird.
Benji is smiling at his screen, not at Ethan like he usually is.
“Who are you texting?” Ethan asks, and Benji doesn’t even bother to look up at him!
“Sam! He’s off somewhere in Madrid, but he’s still sending me that diagnostic patch I asked for. Isn’t he nice?”
“You call him Sam now?”
“Well…yeah,” Benji says, confused. “I mean…we’re friends. I can’t keep calling him Torres, can I? Last name privileges are reserved for Brandt only.” Brandt, who’s sitting a few chairs over, shoots him a wink. Ethan wants to punch his face in.
“Why is he using his personal line?” Ethan presses. “That’s a bit unprofessional of him, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Benji shrugs. “He said it’s faster.”
—
Later, when they’re done with the debrief and most of them have gone home to sleep the adrenaline from the mission off, Luther corners him again. Ethan can still feel Sam Torres, even though he’s so far away, leaning into Benji’s space like he belongs there. Which he doesn’t. Belong there, with Benji, that is.
Luther glances at him. “You’re pacing.”
“I’m not pacing.”
“You’re making laps around the coffee machine. Like…a shark. A very angry, suit-clad shark. Smoke is coming out of your ears.”
Ethan turns to glare at him (he’s been doing a lot of that lately). “Didn’t you see earlier? Torres was—”
“Texting Benji, yes,” Luther deadpans. “So?”
“He’s—he’s flirting.”
“He literally is not. They’re just texting.”
“He is.”
“So what if he is?” Luther questions. “Why does that matter?”
“Benji’s smiling.”
“He always smiles at people. He’s polite.”
“But they’re just texting! And he hasn’t even known Torres for that long. He shouldn’t be polite.”
Luther raises an eyebrow. “So your solution is…what? Stand behind Benji with a shotgun, glaring at everyone who dares to come three feet near him? Hold up a sign that says ‘Property of Ethan Hunt’?”
Ethan knows Luther is just poking fun, but right now, that idea doesn’t sound too bad.
—
The next time it happens is a week later, and it’s even worse. Their whole team is in the conference lounge, just done with a long debrief. Benji has a laptop balanced on his knees while reading a file, absentmindedly flipping through the pages, wearing another one of Ethan’s shirts. The rest of the team is scattered around the room, chatting and arguing about who has the best ass (everyone is voting for themselves).
Benji’s typing and talking now, doing that thing where he narrates half to himself and half to whoever is listening. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “So, if I re-route the spoofed signal through this tertiary code right here…no wait, no. Yeah, no. That’s a terrible idea, am I high? Okay, so, scratch that…”
Ethan watches. The shirt stretches across Benji’s thighs every time he moves. He chews on the drawstring absentmindedly, and Ethan has thoughts that can only be described as profoundly illegal.
That’s when he walks in.
Sam Torres. All smirks and tactical grace and sharp suits that fit like they were specially tailored for him in some fancy Italian shop, probably because they were, the smug bastard. He’s brilliant on the field, but definitely not at Ethan’s level. Ethan bets he’s more precise than him and can get to Benji quicker. Torres is obviously the kind of guy who never has a plan.
Torres makes a beeline straight for Benji, who is caught off guard. He laughs nervously. “Oh, hey, Sam! I didn’t know you were back in town.”
“Just landed,” Torres says. His voice is warm and low and confident. “But I figured I should come say hi to my favorite IMF genius.”
Brandt snorts from beside Ethan, and Ethan ignores him. He watches Benji fidget with the edges of his sleeves, flustered. He can’t stop smiling, and what is even so funny? There’s nothing remotely amusing about Torres acting all stalker-ish and not understanding the importance of properly resting after missions. Another reason why Ethan is the better agent.
“I will commit arson,” Ethan says quietly into his drink.
Jane, without missing a beat, says, “Please wait until I’ve left the building. I just got my hair done yesterday.”
Benji sees Ethan glowering in the corner and brightens. “Hey, Ethan! Sam is back in town!”
“I see,” Ethan says tightly.
Sam grins and extends a hand towards him. “I believe we haven’t met yet, but I’ve definitely heard of you, Agent Hunt. I’m Sam.”
Ethan takes it and grips too hard, but Sam doesn’t even flinch.
“We were just catching up!” Benji says, still excited and smiling. “He was telling me about this crazy Milan vault job he pulled off, the one with the rotating encryption, you remember? It’s insane.”
“Sure,” Ethan says, even though he knows he can probably do better. He tries to distract himself with the memory of Benji, eyes all wide and glinting, almost jumping up and down in front of him after the time Ethan had pulled off a crazy stunt in Greece, talking a mile a minute about how amazing Ethan was.
It doesn’t work, because Torres is elbowing Benji lightly again. “He’s being modest. I heard Benji here cracked a data code no one else could even touch in under four minutes.”
Benji flushes. “It wasn’t that fast.”
Ethan forces a smile.
“Brandt said you’re still recovering from Berlin?” Torres adds, making a point to look directly at Benji’s shoulder. “You sure you’re all fixed up?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Benji says, before Ethan can even get a word in. “I’m all cleared. Besides, it’s not like I’m chasing anyone down on top of a high speed rail; I’m just doing desk work. You know how it is, they don’t like it when the tech guys go too long without someone assigning them a new banged-up laptop to save.”
“You need anything?” Ethan asks coolly, because he really doesn’t know why the guy is still here.
“Nope, just wanted to catch up.”
“With Benji?”
“Yeah,” Torres grins, annoyingly handsome in the generic way IMF agents all seem to be for some reason. “I mean, can you blame me? He’s smart and cute, I might just steal him for our team.”
Ethan sets down his drink a little too hard, and everyone goes quiet. Not completely silent, because they’re just nosy, not stupid, but carefully watching.
Benji blinks. “What? Like…full transfer?”
“I was kidding,” Torres laughs again, nudging him slightly. “Unless you want to, of course. If we had someone like you, I’d sleep so much easier at night. If you ever wanna swap teams or something—”
“No,” Ethan snaps, eyes narrowing.
“Woah, relax,” Torres says.
“You don’t need him.”
“Well, come on now. I just want the best on the—”
“Find someone else, then,” Ethan scowls. “Benji is mine. He’s not going anywhere.”
Benji, who was peering up at them over the top of his screen, goes still. “Wait,” he stammers. “What’s…what’s happening right now?”
“Benji’s mine,” Ethan continues. “I mean… my tech support. On my team. Go find your own.”
Torres chuckles, raising both of his arms up in a universal I surrender gesture, and goes back to talking to Benji. Benji is rambling about encryption loops, and Torres is smiling like he’s actually listening. He is not listening. Not really. Ethan would know. He’s listened to every one of Benji’s post-mission tirades. He’s catalogued them. He’s got folders in the back of his mind labeled things like “Star Trek”, “Pop Culture Yapping”, “Taylor Swift Theories”, and “Encryption Tangents Part Three”.
That night, when Ethan lies awake thinking about it, he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. Benji is allowed to talk to people, to talk to people other than Ethan. He’s allowed to laugh. Smile. Be nice, have a good time. Ethan wants Benji to be happy; he would do anything to see Benji happy.
He just doesn’t understand why Torres has to be the reason. It’s not like the guy is particularly funny, and Ethan isn’t self-absorbed or anything, but personally, he thinks he is better looking than Torres. He’s caught Benji staring at him a few times, at least, especially those times he was shirtless.
Torres doesn’t really know Benji like Ethan does. He doesn’t know Benji pretends to hate coffee because “I’m British and I drink tea,” but always finishes the caramel macchiato Ethan brings him, “to not waste it”.
Torres doesn’t know the way Benji’s hands still sometimes shake after high-stakes decryptions, and the way he immediately pretends everything is fine when he thinks someone is looking. Doesn’t know Benji carries protein bars in case someone forgets to eat, or that he likes stormy weather because it makes the safehouses feel less lonely, and it reminds him of his hometown.
Torres doesn’t know Benji hums old movie scores under his breath, doesn’t know the way he lights up when someone compliments him, doesn’t know that he stops to pet stray dogs and names his house plants after Super Mario characters, but Ethan does.
Ethan knows. He knows Benji is sweet and caring and is always trying his best. Benji gets distracted mid-sentence, goes on endless tangents and never finishes them, and wears mismatched socks. Benji makes jokes when he’s scared so other people won’t be, always carries backup batteries, and is terrified of disappointing people.
Torres doesn’t know Benji got shot multiple times, but never cried. Torres doesn’t know that Benji never believes it when people call him brilliant, even when he saved the world with his bare hands. But Ethan does.
That’s when it finally dawns on him.
Something soft, something quiet, something gentle. Something that is as close to love as he’ll ever come, and it might just be.
Love, Ethan realizes, has always been shaped like Benji—breathless, soft, and as bright as the sun. It didn’t knock, didn’t come with a warning. It let itself in quietly and started turning on the lights, one by one, until Ethan had been standing in the light for so long he didn’t even notice. And now, looking around, Ethan sees it clear as day: Benji is everywhere. In the corners. In the warmth. In the quiet.
He had spent a lifetime lying to enemies, to ghosts that haunt him, to himself. Afraid to fall asleep because nightmares rot into memories and wake him shaking and trembling. But nothing he’s ever felt has held him like this before. Benji made him believe he had a future, and when he smiled, he made Ethan finally want one. Benji smiles and laughs, and talks. Benji speaks like the world hasn’t broken him, and Ethan listens like it might fix him.
He has fought in the dark for so long that he forgot what light felt like when it didn’t hurt. But Benji is sunlight. Not a blaze, not a flame; just the steady kind of sun that settles on your skin without asking for anything in return.
Ethan, who had outrun death itself more times than he could count, couldn’t outrun the single truth sitting softly in his chest: he was in love with Benji.
Realizing doesn’t feel like falling, not the same way he’s fallen from buildings, airplanes, or cliffsides. It feels like remembering. Like swinging open the door to a house he’s lived in for years and years. Like finally letting yourself relax. Letting the sunlight wash over your body. His love for Benji never crashed into him; it rose. It rose like the sun through windows Ethan hadn’t even realized he’d left open.
Loving Benji is as easy as breathing.
And Ethan finally knows what to call the feeling unfurling in his chest, blooming in his lungs like flowers in the springtime. It’s love, because of course it is. What else could it be? What else could you call the way Ethan has memorized Benji’s laugh, or the ways his eyes light up? What else could make every moment with Benji feel like sunlight settling? Slow, golden, and impossible to ignore.
Being in love with Benji feels like morning. The quiet kind, golden and light, where everything feels possible and nothing hurts yet. Benji has always been the sun, and Ethan orbits around him. No one warned him that the sun could laugh at bad jokes and hand him coffee and clean his wounds. No one warned him that warmth could wear soft sweaters and hum off-key. No one warned him that sunlight could be this gentle; that it kissed windowsills and coaxed flower petals open.
No one warned him that sunshine would make him want to do anything if it meant keeping that light alive.
There is something in Ethan’s chest, and it isn’t fear, despite him realizing it far too late, because look. It’s a garden. It’s all softness and light, vines curling around his ribs like they’re holding him up and providing him with purpose and hope. Ethan doesn’t remember planting anything in the soil, but he wants to tend to it forever.
Ethan didn’t chase sunshine.
He just looked up one day and realized Benji had been shining on him the whole time.
—
“i don’t wanna look at anything else now that i saw you / i don’t wanna think of anything else now that i’ve thought of you / i’ve been sleeping so long in a twenty-year dark night / and now i see daylight”
— taylor swift, daylight
—
There are a few universal truths Ethan Hunt has learned over his many, many years of saving the world.
- Gravity always wins.
- The more secure the vault, the dumber the access code.
- If something could go wrong, it probably already has. He just doesn’t know it yet.
There’s a fourth one now.
- Ethan Hunt is completely, irrevocably, pathetically in love with Benji Dunn.
Actually, to be fair, Ethan Hunt has been completely, irrevocably, pathetically in love with Benji Dunn for quite some time now, only he just now admitted it. The point is, he needs a plan. He always has a plan. This is no different, not really. He’s handled global conspiracies and airborne bioweapons, and entire world-ending crises. One alarmingly endearing tech guy who resembles a little puppy should not be the end of him.
The problem is that this particular plan involves emotions, those of the romantic variety, and that’s not exactly covered in IMF training. There is no manual for What To Do When You Fall In Love With Your Tech Guy And Now You Want To Keep Him With You Forever And Also Maybe Kiss Him A Little Bit. Ethan is working on the title.
His mission, should he choose to accept it (which he has), is to navigate this emotional catastrophe with minimal casualties and zero witnesses, which means that absolutely no one should realize he’s head over heels in love until he’s figured out what the hell to do about it.
Ethan’s always had a plan. Get in, get out, keep the people he cares about alive.
He didn’t plan for this.
Didn’t plan for Benji Dunn, who talks too fast and smiles like it means something.
Didn’t plan to fall in love with someone who laughs like springtime.
But here he is, chest full of something that blooms.
—
The first problem is that somehow, it seems that everyone already knows. That already compromises his mission halfway, because how is he supposed to eliminate witnesses when said witnesses have apparently been seeing everything that had been going on, even before Ethan even took on this mission?
The thing is, Ethan has always been good at pretending. It’s quite literally one of the most important parts of his job: bluffing, lying, manipulating. He’s done it to arms dealers and terrorists and politicians. But apparently, he can’t convincingly pretend to not be in love with Benji Dunn for any more than five consecutive minutes, because everyone seems to be calling him out.
Listen, Ethan is trying, okay? He’s trying. Is it working? Not really.
Evidence Gathered Right This Moment: Benji is at Headquarters, reorganizing encrypted archives with a mug of red tea, a box of powdered donuts he swiped from the tech floor, and a deeply dangerous assumption that no one is watching him. He’s going to have to work on his situational awareness, Ethan decides, because there is, in fact, someone watching him. It’s Ethan.
Well. Not in a creepy way. It’s not like he’s stalking Benji or anything; he’s not being weird.
Benji is cross-legged on the floor, poking at a corrupted drive (seriously, why does the IMF have so many of those?) with a stylus and muttering something about stupid bosses, oppressive workplaces, and overworking. The sleeves of his sweater are pushed up, and there’s a smudge of ink on his cheek. His entire demeanor loosely resembles a little frazzled puppy running around in circles and Ethan is so fucking endeared.
He's about to step inside when Benji’s voice carries through the doorway.
“—okay, and I know I said I would be done by lunch, and trust me, I fucking wish I was done, they’re not paying me enough for me to put this much effort, I swear to fucking god, but it’s really getting to me. Genuinely, what the hell. Also, no offense to myself or whatever, but what the fuck am I doing. The core keys are fragmented, the code is in French for some reason, and I’m still trying to figure out why this one is labeled ‘Project Biscuit’—”
Ethan peers around from his hidden position. There is no one else in the room, which means that Benji is talking to the computer. He leans against the doorframe and listens.
“And before you say it,” Benji says to the hard drive, still stabbing at it lightly, “yes, I am aware of the fact that I’m talking to a box of wires. I know that. But, I’ve had maybe two hours of sleep, so stop judging me. You’re being very rude.”
Ethan is trying not to smile and hopelessly failing. He clears his throat and knocks on the metal doorframe. Benji jumps, nearly whacks the server with the stylus, and then visibly relaxes when he sees it’s Ethan and not someone random who would probably think he’s weird for talking to an inanimate object.
“Jesus, Ethan,” he says. “Don’t sneak up on people like that!”
“You were talking to a hard drive.”
“Excuse me, I was negotiating with a hard drive, thank you very much. There’s a difference.”
Ethan’s mouth curls into a smile. “And how’s that working out for you?”
Benji stands and brushes dust off himself. “Horribly. It’s all in French and I’m fluent, but this is really making my hate of French people even worse.”
“Want lunch?”
“Yes!” Benji says, throwing the stylus down and almost running over to Ethan, who catches him in his arms before Benji can stumble over and fall. If he holds on for a little longer than necessary, well, that’s no one’s business but his own.
—
That night, Benji texts him a photo of a muffin he saved for Ethan in the commissary fridge.
benji: bc i know this time ur usually still up and brooding somewhere
benji: the gym probably
benji: don’t worry i put a label on it
benji: it says hands off unless ur name is ethan hunt
benji: i think this will deter no one but the thought counts hopefully
benji: goodnight!! :))
Ethan stares at the photo for a long time. The muffin is blueberry, and the label is written on a napkin beside it in Sharpie.
His chest feels full of light.
—
He’s sparring with one of the new agents Hunley assigned him to train when Brandt finds him. Scaring the new guy away with a glare, Brandt steps onto the mat and cocks his head. “Hey, quick question.”
“No,” Ethan says preemptively.
“I haven’t even asked it yet.”
“You’re going to ask if I’m in love with Benji.”
“No,” he pauses. “Okay, yes, actually. Wait, are you finally admitting it now?”
Ethan sighs. “Can we go back to not talking about it?”
“Nope,” he says cheerfully. “That ship sailed somewhere around when you almost punched Torres for saying Benji looked cute.”
“I didn’t punch him. Besides, Benji doesn’t need Torres telling him he’s cute. We don’t even know Torres that well.”
Brandt raises an eyebrow. “Ethan,” he starts. “You’re trying to handle love like it’s a mission. And it’s kind of pathetic. Also adorable. But mostly pathetic.”
Ethan runs a hand down his face and wonders why he chose to be friends with a group of people who might possibly be the worst teammates ever.
Brandt sits down on the mat and drags Ethan down beside him, voice more gentle now, and Ethan sits without protest. “You know we’re going to meddle, right?”
“I was hoping you’d all get bored eventually.”
Brandt snorts. “Bored? Of watching IMF’s super agent lose his composure every time his crush says his name? Never.”
He gets up, pats Ethan’s shoulder, and vanishes down the corridor before Ethan can respond.
—
Later that day, Jane corners him after a debrief, eating a granola bar and wearing the expression of someone who’s been planning this ambush since breakfast.
“So,” she begins, and Ethan doesn’t fall for the casual tone she’s using.
“Hypothetically,” Jane continues, “If one were in love with one’s tech support,”
Ethan walks past her without even stopping. She follows, undeterred.
“And hypothetically, everyone else on their team knew it because it’s so fucking obvious,”
“I am not discussing this with you.”
“And hypothetically, that tech support was still blissfully unaware, what would the best course of action be?”
Ethan opens the stairwell door, takes two steps down.
Jane calls after him, “You have to tell him eventually. Or else Brandt’s going to.”
“Brandt tells everyone everything. He can’t be trusted.”
“True,” Jane says. “But if you don’t make a move soon, we’re all going to start doing it for you. I’m not above faking a hostage scenario.”
“You’re not above faking a what—”
The stairwell door slams shut behind him.
—
By mid-afternoon, even Luther has come to find him.
“I’m going to ask you something,” Luther says, blocking the entrance to the elevator, much to Ethan’s chagrin, “and I want you to answer honestly.”
Ethan squeezes the bridge of his nose and accepts his fate. “Yes. Go ahead.”
“You’re in love with him.”
“Yes.”
Luther blinks. “Oh, wow. Huh. I didn’t believe it when Brandt said you finally came around. I thought you were still in your denial phase.”
Ethan exhales and lets out a long-suffering sigh.
—
Ethan’s plan, now revised, includes a new mission objective he’s trying to approach with caution: figure out if Benji likes him back.
He doesn’t want to assume. Assuming, in any situation, even ones where feelings are concerned instead of bombs, would be dangerous and arrogant. Feelings, he figures, at not so different from explosives: they’re delicate, unstable, and easily misread. The whole thing might go up in smoke if you make just one wrong move.
So Ethan doesn’t want to assume, but it’s not like he isn’t aware of Benji’s puppy crush on him when they first met. It was hero-worship, bright-eyed and ridiculous because Ethan doesn’t deserve someone looking at him with that much hope and devotion. But maybe, just maybe, he can let himself have something for once. Let himself drown in the light without pushing it away in fear of putting it out. How Benji looks at him now, it feels different. It’s quiet, slower, like sunrise over an early spring snow.
Benji leans close when he’s talking to him, always just a little too close, like the space between them isn’t something even worth thinking about. Like they’ve known each other for centuries, like he’s already found home in Ethan’s orbit. He smiles differently when he’s around Ethan, too, blue eyes softer, brighter, like sunlight filtered through lace curtains.
And this, whatever it is between him and Benji, is fragile. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe this love that surrounded him is the sturdiest thing he’s ever had, and Ethan is just terrified he doesn’t know how to hold something in his hands without crushing it.
A quiet part of him he keeps trying to push away desperately wonders if Benji feels the same way too. If Benji looks at Ethan and, like Ethan, feels love rising inside him, slow but relentless, the way the sun doesn’t ask before it warms your skin. He wonders if this light between them goes both ways. If Benji knows he’s the reason Ethan has begun to slowly stop waking up afraid. If Benji knows he’s already moved in, that he’s left fingerprints and traces over everything Ethan has so carefully kept secret. Swept into Ethan’s locked-away heart and flung open the curtains, turned on all the lights.
He doesn’t want to assume, but there’s something about the look Benji has in his eyes when he’s staring at Ethan. There’s something about it that carries so much weight, it’s almost hard to breathe. Like Ethan had hung the stars, and Benji is trying to memorize the constellations in the sky.
Ethan can pretend not to notice, but he can’t ignore the way he knows deep down. His heart flutters helplessly, traitorous and loud in his chest.
—
Ethan’s been to Benji’s place before, but he still examines every part of it when he walks through the door. It’s small and homely, cluttered in a way that feels like someone actually lives there. Ethan observes the row of mismatched mugs, a framed poster of Star Trek slightly crooked beside the TV, some house plants lining the windowsill, and thinks about how everything is so aggressively Benji.
On the couch, some kind of plush toy is staring directly at Ethan, and he feels a bit threatened.
“That’s Leonardo Da Vinci,” Benji says, coming over. “He’s supposed to be a walrus, and I would give my life for him.”
“A walrus?”
“It was a gift from my friend,” Benji says, as if that explains the neon pink walrus plushie named Leonardo Da Vinci.
“Am I too paranoid,” Ethan starts, “or does…Leonardo Da Vinci…look like he’s going to kill me right now?”
Benji frowns, making direct eye contact with Leonardo Da Vinci. “Well, Leonardo can be a bit murderous when new people come over. I’m sure he doesn’t mean any harm, though.” He gives Leonardo a quick, reassuring pat on its fuzzy head before half-hazardly tossing a blanket over him, effectively covering the plush toy’s laser-like glare. “There,” he says, “threat safely neutralized.”
Benji is so adorable it actually hurts, and it is taking all of Ethan’s skills not to kiss him right then and there. “I’ll be keeping an eye on him,” he says instead, because he’s a coward.
“Of course you will,” Benji says, already turning to the kitchen. “Popcorn?”
“Sure.”
He disappears behind the wall divider, and Ethan stands for a moment longer before delicately sitting down, careful to put a decent amount of distance between himself and Leonardo. The bookshelf beside the couch has a dog-eared copy of How to Survive a Hostage Situation beside The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and a cracked ceramic mug holding a bunch of differently colored pens. A photo half hidden behind two Lego sets displays what looks like a much younger Benji, all glasses and unruly hair, holding up a science fair trophy.
Ethan looks away before he can smile. Sometimes he thinks about this: what it would be like to know Benji completely. To know not just the volume he likes his comms to be, but also the way he acted in high school. If Benji’s primary school friends were just as obsessed with science fiction movies and Taylor Swift as he is now. If he liked the place he grew up in, liked the constant rain and gloomy clouds.
Benji returns with a large bowl full of popcorn and two mugs. He hands Ethan one that says “World’s Okayest Hacker”, and sips from one shaped like a Star Wars character himself. The character seems to be R2D2, and Ethan definitely doesn’t know this because he’s watched all of the movies he’s heard Benji talk about. Definitely not. He’s just educated, that’s all.
The movie, Paddington 2, starts, and Benji starts quoting the film under his breath five minutes in. Ethan has never felt more fond.
“Did you know they improvised that line?” Benji says, gesturing at the screen with a handful of popcorn. “It was a total accident, the actor just blurted it out, and they kept it! Made it into the final cut, too. Brilliant, right?”
“Yeah, brilliant,” Ethan agrees, not tearing his eyes away from Benji, who’s too busy watching to notice Ethan’s lovesick expression.
Halfway through the movie, Benji slips down, slouching further into the cushions. His head comes to rest against Ethan’s shoulder in a way that’s familiar to both of them now, and a soft blanket covers both of their legs.
Ethan doesn’t move.
He watches the movie, but more than that, he watches the soft curve of Benji’s smile, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, the way his breathing slows the longer they sit there. Like he’s safe.
Eventually, Benji shifts again, rests his head against Ethan’s shoulder, and sighs.
Ethan doesn’t breathe for a moment.
Benji yawns and leans even more against Ethan. “You’re like a teddy bear. Always so warm.”
“Maybe just around you,” Ethan says, breath catching in his throat.
Benji smiles sleepily, closing his eyes.
Ethan stares at the screen again, back at Paddington. His heart is loud in his chest. His hand is resting merely inches from Benji’s. He could move it, could lace their fingers together and say it’s for comfort, but he doesn’t.
He just sits there, pressed close, and allows himself to bask in the moment just a little while longer, watching Benji, who is now fast asleep, lying curled against Ethan’s side, breath soft and uneven against Ethan’s collarbone.
This is what he wants, Ethan thinks. Some part of him might always crave the adrenaline rush that comes from saving the world, but no matter what he does, he decides that he wants to do it with Benji right by his side. From taking down arms dealers to slow mornings, he wants to spend the rest of his life with Benji. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the thought lodges somewhere in his chest and makes itself at home.
And if Ethan thinks, just for a moment, I could stay like this forever, well.
That’s between him and Leonardo Da Vinci.
—
It’s sometime past midnight, so late the night fades into early morning. The clock ticks softly, each second a slow ripple against the silence of Benji’s apartment. Outside, the city is buzzing faintly, distant car horns and the occasional murmurs accompanied by indistinct footsteps. There is a whole world outside the window, but Ethan’s whole world is in this one room, as if there isn’t anything else on Earth except two bodies intertwined on a couch.
The sound of movement and quick, gasped breaths pulls Ethan from his half-asleep state. He shoots up, eyes adjusting to the dark almost immediately. Benji is sitting up already, staring at the floor.
“You okay?” Ethan asks.
“Yeah, I just, yeah. Sorry. For, um, waking you.”
“No, it’s okay,” Ethan says, as softly as he can. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” Benji shrugs, shoulders still shaking. “It’s…”
“You’re okay,” Ethan repeats. He tries to keep his voice steady and calm, hand finding Benji’s back and moving slowly, carefully, in small circles. “I’m here. You can talk to me about anything.”
“I…” Benji hesitates before leaning into Ethan’s touch and continuing. “I had a nightmare, again.” His voice cracks, and he swallows, a lump in his throat.
Ethan’s fingers press gently against Benji’s knuckles, grounding him. “I know,” he whispers. “About nightmares, I mean. I get them too, sometimes. Used to get them all the time. I know it feels like it’s real and it’s still happening, but it’s not. You’re safe. I promise.”
Benji nods, though his breathing is still hitched. “Do you ever…do you ever feel like you’re not supposed to be here? Like, like everyone else is better and you’re just someone who somehow got lucky? And everyone is only tolerating you until they find someone else who’s more qualified, and that’s going to be soon, because there are so many people better than you?”
The question lands like a stone in Ethan’s chest. “Benji…”
“It’s stupid, I know,” Benji says hurriedly. It’s heartbreaking, how he seems to be used to apologizing and talking down on himself, walking back his own feelings. “It’s just, I know I always talk too much and I freeze sometimes, and I’m not like the rest of you. I’m not trained the same way, I don’t even know how I passed the field exam.”
Ethan wants to scream. Instead, he moves closer, draping an arm over Benji’s waist, pulling him in. “You saved us,” he says, “over and over again. I wouldn’t be here without you.”
Benji just shakes his head. “No, I……you always have to save me. I’m a burden.”
“You’re not a burden,” Ethan says fiercely. “And I save you not because I have to or because I’m obligated to. I promised to protect you, and that’s because you matter so much to me.” The words spill out before he can stop himself. “You matter, not because you’re useful or incredibly smart or capable, which you are, but because you’re you. You’re everything to me.”
Benji finally looks up at him, eyes wide and vulnerable. “Really?” he finally asks.
“Really,” Ethan says, “I promise. You mean so much to me, just by being you, you don’t even know it.”
“You always say the right thing.”
“Only when it’s true.”
The beginnings of a smile start to form on Benji’s face, and there’s a beat of stillness before he whispers, “Will you stay awake for a while? With me?”
“Of course.”
Benji lies back down, and Ethan pulls the blanket over both of them. His arms are still wrapped around Benji, but he doesn’t find it in himself to pull away.
There’s warmth, safety, and a quiet promise of something Ethan never dared to even dream of. Like if he’s lucky, Ethan might get to wake up to this. Like if he’s lucky, this might just be Ethan’s.
Like if he’s lucky, Ethan might get to have this forever.
—
Their safehouse for the night is furnished with IKEA appliances and a fireplace that looks like it hasn’t been used in at least a hundred years. Still, they’re grateful it’s an actual house for once, and not some barn that they have to sleep in along with cows, or a half-flooded doomsday bunker. Nestled in the Swiss Alps, it’s got working heat, decent furniture, and no bombs or people trying to kill them. Small mercies.
Jane, who has a thing for ambience and aesthetics, lit a fire earlier, along with some candles she found in the back, and the air smells like cedar and vanilla.
The mission, the first one Benji’s been on since he recovered, had gone smoothly, better than expected, even. No casualties, no gunfire. They’d slipped in with masks and slipped out without no one even noticing, which made Ethan question the point of the mission being called “impossible”, but Benji was safe, so he didn’t complain.
They’re lounging in the living room, listening to Brandt and Jane fight over which movie to put on. Luther is on the armchair beside Jane, while Brandt has taken up most of the carpeted space on the floor with a blanket burrito. Benji had disappeared to shower twenty minutes ago.
“I’m just saying,” Brandt says, “this is a classic. And the fact that you hate it when the entirety of the world’s population disagrees with you must mean something about your personality.”
“Really?” Jane argues. “The entirety of the world’s population enjoys watching Twilight, the vampire movie famous for being horrible and cringe?”
It is at this moment that Benji walks into the room in what Ethan classifies as the most dangerous outfit known to man.
He’s damp from the shower, soft golden curls clinging to his forehead, skin flushed a delicate pink, and Ethan can feel his brain stop working in real time.
Benji is wearing Ethan’s hoodie.
Only Ethan’s hoodie.
Well, there are a pair of grey shorts, but they’re small and barely visible beneath the hem of the hoodie he’s wearing.
Ethan’s hoodie.
It’s swallowing him. The sleeves only reveal the edges of Benji’s fingertips, and the fabric hangs low and loose over his hips. He’s humming something, completely oblivious to the way Ethan is completely malfunctioning.
“That’s,” the word doesn’t come out right, and Ethan clears his throat. “That’s mine.”
Benji freezes in place, blinking. He’s just sat down on the couch beside Ethan, moving to pull a blanket over his lap. “What?”
“The hoodie,” Ethan says. He swallows and tries again. “It’s mine.”
“Oh,” Benji frowns, looking down. “Oh, shit, yeah. Sorry. I didn’t notice. I just, my shit had blood all over it and this was on the back of a chair so I grabbed it, I didn’t mean to—”
He starts pulling it off him, revealing a flash of pale skin, and Ethan feels like imploding on the spot. Driving all inappropriate thoughts out of his head, he quickly blurts, “No!”
“No?”
“No. I mean, you can…you can wear it. Keep it. It’s fine. I don’t mind.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” Ethan says way too quickly, and it comes out as borderline desperate. “It looks good. I mean. It’s warm. You should keep it on. If you want.”
Benji smiles, his cheeks pink. It’s bright and casual and stupidly cute.
“If you’re sure,” he says. “I mean, I couldn’t steal Jane’s hoodie, right?”
Ethan’s head snaps up again. He doesn’t have to turn his head in Jane’s direction to know she’s probably smirking like a maniac.
“I mean you could,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows at Ethan but talking to Benji. “You want it?”
“No!” Ethan shouts too sharply. “I mean. You wouldn’t.”
Jane shoots him a look. “Wouldn’t I?”
Benji blinks innocently from his spot. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t be that weird if I borrowed Jane’s clothes.”
Luther, who’s apparently been listening in, looks directly at Ethan and says, “Well, you’ve got Ethan’s already. Seems like you’re all set, Benji.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t want to make Ethan jealous,” Brandt grins deviously, and Ethan wants to dropkick him to the seventh layer of hell.
“Oh, he would lose his mind,” Jane says at the exact same time Ethan says, “I’m not jealous.”
Benji looks between them, looking more and more confused. “Why? I just wanted something to wear.”
“Yeah, Ethan, why? Is there anything you’d like to share with the rest of the class? A…confession, of some sorts, perchance?” Brandt grins. “But I mean, it is your hoodie. Can’t have Benji running around in just anyone’s clothes, can you? Gotta keep that territorial instinct sharp.”
“I’m going to kill you,” is Ethan’s very dignified response, and Brandt laughs in his face.
“What movie are we watching?” Benji asks, seemingly done with the interpersonal politics of hoodie sharing.
“Twilight!” Brandt shouts, and Jane lets out the sigh of someone who has accepted their fate.
“I don’t get the shirtless vampires,” Ethan grumbles.
Benji cracks up beside him. “Yeah, I don’t think you would enjoy that part of Twilight.” He smiles again, and tugs the sleeves of Ethan’s hoodies over his hands.
“Your sleeves are really big,” he says, curling like a cat against Ethan’s side.
“You just have really small hands,” Ethan says, feeling the softness of Benji’s hair brushing his neck. The world narrows to this touch: Benji beside him, his hoodie around Benji’s shoulder, the faint smell of jasmine from Benji’s shampoo.
“Hey!” Benji exclaims, mock offended.
“You do,” Ethan insists, smiling. “It’s cute.”
He lifts his hand from the couch cushion, and Benji mimics him. Their palms press together, fingers aligning. Benji’s are calloused in places different than him, scarred from tech work and shrapnel and tugging at wires to stop bombs from going off, but Ethan notices the warmth first. He always notices the warmth.
“Well, it’s not that different,” Benji says, refusing to meet Ethan’s eyes. “Just stronger, maybe.”
“Well, the stronger part is true,” Ethan jokes, “but you gotta admit, it’s pretty different.” And he’s not lying. His hand practically engulfs Benji’s, whose soft fingers feel all too gentle against his own, and Ethan wants to hold his hand forever.
Benji pretends to glare at him, and the glare has approximately the same effect as a tiny kitten pretending to be angry at you. “You’re just trying to distract me because you’re embarrassed I stole your hoodie!”
“Why would I be embarrassed?”
“Because,” Benji says, dragging the word out like what he’s about to say is obvious. “You’re like, a super amazing agent, and you didn’t even notice me stealing your clothes!”
Jane snorts loudly. “Oh my god, you’re literally killing him.”
Benji looks over, startled. His hand leaves Ethan’s, and Ethan mourns the loss. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says innocently. “Continue cuddling or whatever.”
Benji turns red. “We’re not—cuddling.”
“I don’t mind,” Ethan says, immediately. His hand comes up to brush the tips of Benji’s ear, which is flushed a beautiful shade of red.
Benji glances at him. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a second where no one moves, and then Ethan can feel it, the soft weight of Benji fully resting against Ethan’s shoulder, warm and trusting. His breathing evens out, his hand curling lightly into Ethan’s shirt. Ethan wraps one arm around Benji, careful not to jostle him, and smiles to himself when Benji burrows a little closer, humming in approval.
This is fine. Everything is fine. Ethan is perfectly calm. (He isn’t.)
The hoodie is slightly too loose on Benji, hanging off one shoulder in this position, baring the delicate, smooth skin of his collarbone.
Mine, Ethan’s brain supplies unhelpfully, and he thinks about taking Benji out for coffee. Thinks about how nice it would be to wake up together in an apartment of theirs on a normal Sunday morning. Thinks about Benji wearing more of his clothes. Just…wearing them. Around their shared apartment. In the kitchen. In the living room. Or in Ethan’s bed.
Benji would look so pretty, he thinks, flushed and breathless underneath him. Skin all soft and pale, perfect for marks, pressed against the bedsheets, gasping and pleading and—
Benji shifts again in his arms, completely unaware of the crisis in Ethan’s head he’s causing, and Ethan wants this, wants all of it. Not just the hoodie or the movie or this moment, but the idea of it and so much more. The life they could build around it, the laughter, the small talks over dinners and ridiculous arguments over which brand of cereal is better.
Ethan doesn’t just want Benji in his hoodie.
He wants Benji in his life.
—
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, cold and sterile in the debrief room. Benji sits in between Jane and Brandt, shoulders tight, fingers nervously twisting the strap of his jacket. They’d barely made it out of that compound alive, barely scrambled their location fast enough to throw the chasing vans off their trail. The other team, which had been assigned to partner with them for the joint mission, was unfamiliar with the terrain. Ethan had pulled the car out of the driveway just fast enough to keep the whole operation from turning into a complete and utter disaster.
And now, here they were again, gathered in a conference room, bodies tired and aching.
Or maybe it was just Benji, who was too soft and too weak for intense ops like this. He was already talking, words spilling out of him in an attempt to keep the darker stuff at bay, as if the memories of gunfire and bombs being strapped to his chest and the fleeting terror of his life flashing before his eyes could be washed away if he talked about anything else. Benji hears himself talk, and somehow it’s comforting, words tripping over one another in a frantic attempt to prove he’s useful, he’s necessary, he’s enough.
“So, we got inside through the east entrance,” he began, words tumbling out of his mouth in a nervous stream, “and Ilsa, she’s left to somewhere already so she isn’t here right now, and Jane had to take down two guards who were stationed there, but it was the best action to take because all the other entrances are way too heavily guarded,” He glanced over, catching Brandt’s playful smirk. Jane leans over to ruffle his hair, and he feels just a tiny bit calmer.
“Yeah, and they managed to get in, so. Brandt and Ethan were covering the west wing because they knew best how to work with the dealers, and Luther and I scrambled their comms. And—and, I got their location data, which was tricky because—”
Luther smiles at him knowingly as Benji talks, eyes warm and patient, the way he always did when Benji launched into one of his overly-detailed, meandering explanations.
Ethan, who’s a few feet away, arms crossed and leaning against the wall, is silent as always, but there was something else in his gaze. Was it patience? Tolerance? Or something else entirely? Something better? Something Benji recognized in his own eyes when he gazes at Ethan. Benji always tells himself Ethan is just enduring his non-stop talking and annoying presence, but a small, foolish part of him hopes the agent shares the feelings he can’t quite keep down.
He’s watching Benji with a faint, almost indistinguishable smile, and Benji’s heart speeds up a little. Ethan’s just tolerating you, he tells himself, he’s probably hoping you would just get to the point and shut up already, but Benji doesn’t mind. He can handle Ethan’s silence better than most words from other people.
He catches sideways looks from the other team, their glances cutting into him like glass against skin. They don’t know him, he tries to tell himself. They don’t know all the nights he spent decoding enemy signals, or the nights he lay awake, tangled up in his own fears, the bomb ticking on his chest, so real and so terrifying.
Then, one of the agents speaks up and—
Benji talks too much. He knows this.
It’s not that he doesn’t know it himself, because he obviously does. It’s just so frustrating, Benji thinks, when people talk behind your back and pick you apart and point out every little thing that’s wrong with you, like you aren’t already aware of how awful you are. Like you don’t know everything about you is wrong and weak and you could be so much better, but you can’t because no matter how hard you try, you’re still you and that’s all you are.
And, yeah. He’s already on a tangent again. He talks too much. Thinks too much and says it out loud. His words don’t mean anything, everything he says is rushed and hurried, while people like Ethan command rooms with just one sentence, people like Ilsa hold so much weight in their words, and Benji…
Benji’s always like this. He has so much to say and so little to mean.
—And maybe that’s why the words hurt so much, when the agent from the other team, a sharp-eyed man, voice just shy of contempt, asks, “Do you always talk this much?”
Benji can feel the blood still inside him.
“Like, non-stop?” The man continues, unaware or simply not caring of the way Benji is frozen in his spot. “Must be exhausting.”
The question is politely amused, but the edge is still there, sharp enough to draw blood.
Benji’s chest tightens, his fingers freezing. Heat floods his face, a blush creeping down his neck. He opens his mouth to apologize, to say maybe he should keep quiet, but the words feel stuck, tangled in a knot of embarrassment.
Isn’t that ironic? He always talks too much, except when it actually matters. Except when it comes to defending himself. He can’t tell if it’s because he’s stunned or the nagging terror that he agrees with what they’re saying. That’s the thing about him and words. It takes so many of them to make Benji finally feel like he’s worth something, and only so little to break him down again.
Before he can start apologizing, something he’s all too familiar with, another man with a smug grin cuts in, clearly enjoying himself. “Can’t believe you’re Ethan Hunt’s tech guy. I mean, you’re working with the legend of the IMF, and you’re here talking like you’ve got all the time in the world.”
The fluorescent light feels too bright all of a sudden. He’s hyper aware of the way his jacket feels underneath his fingers, of the smirk on the agent’s face, of the sharp words disguised with laughs.
It’s all too much. There are so many different moments, all intertwined, tangled up together in an unsolvable knot, his constant talking and meaningless words and messing up on missions and the deep, dark fear of never being enough.
Benji doesn’t know what to do or what to say. He feels exposed, like a kid caught off guard, and it hurts more than any physical wound ever can. The words hit harder than any bullet.
Do you always talk this much?
Do you always talk this much? Like you have nothing better to do than to fill every silence with noise?
He can feel the heat burning behind his eyes, his throat dry like he’s swallowing shards of glass. Before he can do anything, Jane is cutting in, eyes narrowed.
“That’s enough,” she snapped, voice clipped but controlled.
The laughter from the other team dissolves into silence, and Benji can’t help but feel a pang of hurt at how so little of her words can do so much, even though she’s defending him.
“Benji is an invaluable part of this team,” she continues, “and his technical support, as well as what he achieves on the field, saves lives. Including yours, Agent Monroe, if you weren’t paying attention.”
Benji can feel Brandt’s fingers brushing his arms, and he meets Luther’s eyes, warm with quiet encouragement, from across the room.
And then there’s Ethan.
Ethan, who is no longer leaning against the wall, but fully standing now, fingers curled into fists at his sides.
Ethan, with an expression of anger that Benji has never seen on him before. His gaze slices through the room like a blade, sharp, protective, and unmistakably fierce. Controlled rage, sharpened with precision, deadly and quiet and terrifying.
“You don’t get to talk about him like that,” Ethan says, voice low and cold.
The agent, Agent Monroe, falters. His mouth is half open, and the room is silent again, the air thick with tension.
Ethan takes a step forward, gaze unwavering. “Without him on the comms, everyone here would be dead. You owe him your lives. I owe him mine. So if you’ve got something to say, you say it to me.”
Benji’s heart lurches so hard it feels like it knocks the breath out of him. He wants to look away, disappear into the seams of his chair, find a hole deep enough to swallow his entire body and every too-loud, too-much part of him. He wants to pretend this isn’t happening, that he didn’t just watch Ethan choose him, defend him.
But he can’t move. He’s stuck, nailed to the moment by the gravity of Ethan’s words. Because that’s what it always comes down to, isn’t it? The little voice in his head hissing, cruel and practiced and all too familiar. He’s not defending you because you’re special. He’s just doing his job. You’re a responsibility, not a choice.
Benji swallows down the acid in his throat, shame curling in his gut. Maybe Ethan’s mad, too. Maybe he’s embarrassed. Maybe he thinks Benji’s weak for letting people walk all over him, for freezing up again. For proving them right. For being too loud, too sensitive, too much and never enough all at once.
Benji’s ears are ringing. He knows he should say something, anything. Should thank Ethan and Jane, tell them it’s fine, tell them he’s fine, but nothing comes out. It’s always been like this. Nothing ever comes when it matters.
And just for a second, he lets himself wonder what it would feel like to believe Ethan actually meant it.
That’s when it happens. That flicker in Ethan’s eyes when their gazes meet. The one Benji always told himself he imagined. The one where Ethan’s eyes catch on him a little too long and a little too soft to be classified as professional, or even just friendly.
It punches the air out of his lungs.
It can’t be real. It can’t be.
He repeats the sentence to himself like a prayer, like if he says it enough times, over and over, he’ll be able to actually believe himself.
Ethan doesn’t look away, and suddenly Benji can’t breathe.
—
How do you tell someone that they’re your whole world? How do you say the words and make them believe it?
Thoughts race through Ethan’s mind as he rushes after Benji, letting the door slam shut behind him. He finds Benji in an empty meeting room a few doors down, still as a statue, back pressed against the wall.
Benji turns to him, unshed tears clinging to his lashes, threatening to spill, and Ethan feels his heart breaking at the sight.
“Benji,” he starts weakly, but it cracks in his throat, too brittle and too raw. He takes a breath and tries again. “Benji, I…”
Ethan doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s never been good at this; he’s good at dismantling bombs and talking down war criminals, but in this moment, he’s overcome with a sense of hopelessness. He doesn’t know if he’s saying the right thing, if there even is a right thing for him to say.
All he knows is that Benji is slipping through his fingers, and the thought of letting him go without a fight feels like claws tearing away at Ethan’s chest, leaving open gashes. Ethan cannot let him go. He can’t let Benji keep thinking he’s anything less than Ethan’s everything.
“That night, when you said I’m not a burden, were you telling the truth?” Benji asks desperately, hands shaking, finally looking at him. “Please, Ethan. Please be honest with me.”
Ethan takes a step forward, but stops short. His hands twitch uselessly at his sides, like they’re reaching for something he’s not sure how to hold.
“Of course it was true,” he breathes, and it comes out ragged but sincere.
The other finally looks up at him and for a second, Ethan forgets how to breathe. Benji’s eyes are iridescent and impossibly blue, catching every bit of the light in the room and reflecting it back at Ethan. There’s a tremble in them, the kind of silent hurt, and Ethan can clearly see the question in them.
Did you really mean it? Did you mean it when you said I was everything to you?
It shatters Ethan clean through. It’s always Benji’s eyes that undo him, that break through every single one of Ethan’s carefully crafted walls, spilling sunshine all over. They’re searching his face right now, wide and teary, as if looking for proof.
And Ethan, Ethan wants to give him everything.
He could say it again, say of course it was true, say you are everything to me, everything, a hundred ways in hundreds of different lifetimes. He could paint it onto walls, carve it into stone, scream it from the rooftops, because he means it with his whole heart, and show the entire world that…
Something is blooming in Ethan’s chest.
It’s love, he thinks, what else could it be? It’s a love that’s taking over him, that’s been taking over him since day one.
Being in love with Benji has never felt like falling. It feels like flowering.
Something small, something planted deep in the soil, has been quietly growing there for years, unnoticed, tucked away somewhere under the stones of nuclear terrorism and fears of world-ending apocalypses. Somewhere between the first time Benji smiled at him like they didn’t just barely escape with their lives and the night he nearly died in Ethan’s arms.
It rooted itself there, Ethan realizes. Never asked for permission, just silently came and wormed itself into the hollow spaces behind his ribs and made a home. Gentle, patient, persistent.
And now—
Now, it’s a garden.
A garden blooming under the gaze of the sun itself.
A garden, with lilies and soft clover, tulips growing through slabs of concrete. It’s light, it’s sunshine, not the kind that burns, but the kind that warms. It’s honey-thick, smells like red tea and hints of jasmine, and Benji’s laugh. It’s something soft and alive and bright, growing where nothing soft has grown for a long, long time. It’s the kind of sunshine that kisses your skin and casts a soft glow. It’s everything soft Ethan’s always convinced himself he doesn’t deserve, and it’s all shaped like Benji.
What a soft kind of ache it is, to be full of something so warm and so loving. To feel like he might shatter under the weight of wanting, not because he still believes he doesn’t deserve love, but because it’s been so long since anyone handed it to him. Benji has never asked. He just never leaves. Shows up again and again despite Ethan’s efforts to drive him away.
Now, Ethan’s heart is full of light. That golden, gentle light that you lean towards without thinking, and it’s because of Benji.
Benji, with his big eyes and even bigger heart, who spills affection for others and keeps none for himself. Benji, who talks excitedly about things he loves, always eager to share his happiness. Benji, who is the cause of what’s blossoming in Ethan’s chest.
Benji, who is still staring at Ethan, waiting for an answer, but at the same time afraid of one.
Benji, who has spent the last hour and possibly his whole life being torn down, again and again.
Benji, who asked Please be honest with me, like whatever Ethan said, it would be something he had to brace himself for.
Ethan takes another step forward, carefully, until he’s right in front of Benji.
“You’re not a burden. You never were a burden, and you never will be. You’re the reason we make it out alive most of the time. You’re everything to me, you’re the reason I’m still alive, still here, and I—”
Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s reckless. Maybe it’s about to be the most dangerous risk he’s ever going to take, and he’s taken a lot of them, but right now, with Benji looking at him like he’s waiting to be let down, like he’s bracing for heartbreak, Ethan can’t keep it in anymore.
He opens his mouth and, for the first time, speaks before fear can catch up to him.
“Benji,” Ethan says, voice shaking. “I love you. I don’t know when it started, but I think it might have been years. I think I was always meant to be headed here, in your direction. Every step I’ve taken has led me to you.”
Benji does nothing but stare at him, lips halfway parted, barely breathing.
For a second, Ethan panics. Maybe he’s said too much, maybe he’s ruined everything, but Benji’s breath is hitching again.
Benji’s throat works like he’s trying to swallow back tears. He takes a trembling step towards Ethan, and they’re so close they’re almost touching.
“Say it again,” he whispers.
Ethan blinks. “What?”
“Please,” Benji sounds so quiet, looks so small, like someone who's been spending their whole life not being chosen and is trying so hard to even believe this is real. “Say it again.”
This time, Ethan doesn’t hesitate. The words are warm and familiar. “I love you,” he says, his voice firm. It sits in his chest like sunlight breaking through clouds.
“I’m in love with you,” he repeats. “I always have been.”
Benji’s breath shudders out of him, and he laughs. It’s a short, incredulous sound, half-choked and wet around the edges. His eyes are glassy, and tears threaten to spill.
“I,” Ethan hears him say, “I’ve been in love with you since,” he breaks off, swallows, eyes darting to the floor. “I’ve been in love with you since I first saw you. Maybe even before that. I’ve always heard of you, everybody’s always talking about you, you were this myth, this legend, and when I first heard your voice over the comms, I…”
Ethan is the one frozen now, heart pounding. He can't quite believe what he’s hearing, but Benji is already continuing.
“I heard you over the comms, and you said my name like I mattered.”
“No, you,” Ethan starts, “You were the one who…you were talking to me and telling me about all these things that didn’t really matter but they mattered to me and you felt so alive. Like…you were an actual person, not just a voice behind a screen, an actual person who cared about me and would shout in concern when people sneaked up behind me, someone I didn’t need to ask to be there for me because you would always be there.”
“I just…I remember thinking you sounded so tired,” Benji says. “And you were dealing with all that, with Julia, and Lane, and I just wanted to help. I wanted to be useful, I wanted to be there when you needed me, if you ever needed me. Even if it was just for a tech patch or some intel or something, anything.”
Benji’s voice is a whisper now. “You were so…you cared, you actually cared, about everyone around you and the world and you would do anything to save them and I remember wanting to be just like that, but I can’t, so I settled for helping you instead. Then I met you, and you looked at me like I was real, like you saw me and didn’t think of me as just background noise. So I decided I wanted to follow you, to be there for you, I would be there, even if it meant I had to face field exams or bombs or,” His hands fall helplessly to his sides. “And I’ve been trying to stop feeling this way ever since, because I thought…I thought you would never feel the same way and I didn’t want to ruin what we already had.”
Benji wipes at his face, but the tears keep falling anyway. He finally looks up again, and this time, his eyes are shining and bright. “I’m in love with you. God, I’m in love with you, too. And if this is a dream, I’m going to be so pissed when I wake up.”
This is it, Ethan tells himself, and he finds that he isn’t scared. There’s no unease, no anxiety, just silent anticipation. He’s never wanted anything more.
Ethan reaches forward, his hands coming up to cup Benji’s face, thumbs brushing against his cheeks, but Benji doesn’t duck away. Instead, he comes closer, so gently there’s barely any movement at all. Ethan leans in and presses his lips against Benji’s. He can feel Benji melting into him, tentative at first but inviting, and he tastes like hope. Like something Ethan never thought he would even have or get the chance to keep.
Ethan’s never stayed before, not really. Never held something in his hands and actually let it be his. Ethan’s had love before, something quiet but sharp, deadly, like knives or debts or arrest warrants and living in fear, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. But this, this is a love that makes him want to feel hopeful again. A love that looks like peace.
This is mine, Ethan thinks, and the thought nearly undoes him.
Not Benji, because Benji is his own person, brilliant and beautiful and whole, but this love. This love blooming inside Ethan, this love is his and it’s shaped like Benji, all smiles and sunshine and clumsy joy.
This love saw Benji, mistook him for the sun, and Ethan let himself get pulled into orbit anyway.
He rests his forehead against Benji’s and closes his eyes.
—
Everyone is gathered in Benji’s apartment, Leonardo Da Vinci staring ominously from his spot perched on the bookshelf, quiet music playing in the background. Half-eaten noodle boxes are littered across the floor, and they’re all sitting down, attempting to stay calm after Luther banned Mario Kart for the night because Jane and Brandt almost killed each other over it.
Benji is tucked into Ethan on the couch, cheeks tinted pink and still glowing, because he had just won the last game of Mario Kart before Luther banned it, not because he was just pressed against the wall and kissed breathless several minutes ago. Definitely not.
Ethan, for his part, looks delightfully smug, a smirk on his face. He’s got an arm slung around Benji’s waist, thumbs idly rubbing circles against his side. It’s stupidly sweet. It’s also driving Brandt insane.
“So,” he announces when he finally can’t take it anymore, “who had ‘get together during the gala where Ethan nearly breaks his wineglass out of jealousy’ on the board?”
Jane’s hand shoots up. “Me, I get twenty bucks from all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Brandt argues. “Your timeline was right, but you got the ‘get together’ part wrong, they got together after that debrief, Benji told me.”
“Okay, well,” Jane says, glaring at him and brandishing a chopstick like it’s a weapon in his direction. “You’re out too. You said they’d confess after a mission gone wrong, but that mission went pretty well.”
Brandt groans. “It’s not my fault Ethan was still too much of a coward to confess after Berlin!”
“Okay, hold on,” Benji interrupts, blinking. “What the hell are you guys talking about. You guys bet on us? There was a board?”
“No,” Luther corrects. “There were three boards. One for timing, one for cause, and one for who would break or realize it first, which I won, by the way. I had Ethan.”
“I had Ethan too,” Jane yells triumphantly.
“Fuck, I had Benji,” Brandt sighs dramatically. “I had so much faith in you, Benji. Why did you have to let them win.”
Ilsa smirks into her wine glass. “I had ‘Ethan doesn’t realize until someone else flirts with Benji’. That was a 4-to-1 payout, thank you very much.”
“Hey, that only counts for the cause category!” Brandt cuts in, “and technically I won that, I had ‘confession out of pure rage’, which was true!”
“This is getting out of hand,” Ethan mutters. Seriously, can he go one night without being made fun of by every single member of his team?
“I mean,” Benji laughs quietly into his shoulder, the traitor. “It is kinda funny.”
“Exactly!” Brandt exclaims.
“Ethan’s right, this is getting out of hand,” Luther starts, and before Ethan can shoot him a grateful glance, he promptly continues, “it’s too messy. Let me get the notebook.”
He pulls out a literal notebook and flips it open. “Okay, tallying final results. I win for being the first one to predict it would be Ethan who realizes first,” Jane and Brandt start groaning, but he ignores them. “No, the rules clearly state this part of the bet depends on speed, and I was the fastest. Anyway, Jane wins the ‘rage induced declaration of loyalty’ square, Ilsa wins the ‘Ethan finally realizes when someone else flirts with Benji and he gets jealous’, and technically Brandt wins mutual pining.”
“Wait, mutual pining isn’t even a large part of the pool!” Brandt whines. “What about Benji not noticing, I win that too!”
Benji frowns. “Me not noticing what?”
“See!” Brandt exclaims, and Luther sighs before pulling out a pen and writing Brandt’s name down in his notebook.
“You guys are horrible,” Benji says. “I can’t believe you all made bets. Like, real, actual bets.”
Jane waves a handful of cash gleefully. “Oh, there was a spreadsheet too, color-coded!”
Benji opens and closes his mouth. “Ethan, did you know about this?”
“I…” Ethan begins guiltily. “I had my suspicions.”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“In my defense, it was about our love life, which was still non-existent at that point in time! And besides, I was too busy realizing I was in love with you.”
Benji stares at him for a second longer, then turns red when he processes Ethan’s words. He pouts and buries his face in Ethan’s neck. “Fine,” he says, voice coming out muffled. “You win. Whatever. That was so cheesy anyway.”
Ethan grins and presses a kiss to Benji’s temple.
That’s when Ilsa ruins it all by saying, casually, “You still owe me fifty bucks for thinking he’d crack first.”
Benji lifts his head again, scandalized. “You bet too? And on me breaking first?”
“It was after he finally admitted he was in love with you,” Ilsa says. “He bet on himself being able to hold out at least until next year.”
Ethan, proud, smug, and entirely shameless, kisses Benji on the cheek. “Well, apparently I have less self-control than I thought.”
Benji narrows his eyes. “We’ll see how smug you are when I make a spreadsheet of your embarrassing moments!”
Jane and Brandt exchange a look and immediately start pulling out their phones in an alarmingly synchronized way.
“Oh, please,” Brandt says. “That already exists.”
Ethan groans, and Benji nudges him playfully, saying, “can’t believe I just had to go for the one who literally bet on me not being able to resist him. And then lost.”
“I love you too,” Ethan grins, lacing his fingers with Benji’s. It’s low enough that only the two of them can hear it; the rest of the team is still fighting over a compilation of what seems to be titled Ethan’s Top Ten Most Embarrassing Moments Ranked. He doesn’t say it very loudly, and he doesn’t need to.
Those words still send a twinge of anxiety through him, but it’s enough. Enough for them, for this rainy night in Benji’s apartment, bodies intertwined. Maybe the notion of being so in love with someone still scares Ethan, and maybe his scars still ache, but for now, he will let them rest.
—
“if we were two sunflowers i would have faced you instead of the sun”
— anonymous