Chapter Text
I am put on a plane home the morning after my conversation with Ilsa.
My throat is still sore, but it is bearable in the grand scheme of things. I am well rested, however; after Ilsa left, I lost consciousness as soon as my head hit the pillow again, and only awoke at the feeling of someone’s hand shaking my shoulder gently. The light inside the tent was dim, coming from a few camping lanterns instead of the sun filtering through the canvas and the open flap, meaning that it was nighttime already. When I opened my eyes, sight blurry both from sleep and the lack of my glasses, and looked up at whoever it was that was in the tent with me, I thought he was you. In retrospect, I must have been dreaming of you and my mind still had to catch up with the fact that the rest of me was awake. You and Doctor Erik couldn’t have been less alike, after all.
Still, I must have mumbled your name while I was trying (and failing) to get a grip on myself because he frowned (it was more like a wince, to be precise, right down to the pressing of his lips, as if someone had elbowed him on the ribs) for a moment, and then put that doctorly face back on again, stating that I had to eat something and depositing a wooden tray with a bowl of soup on my lap. I stared stupidly at him, and to the soup, and then back to him again before I finally reached for the spoon, occurring to me to say “thank you” only after the third swallow (after I imagine you asking where the hell are your English manners, Benji? ). He only said “don’t mention it” before he grabbed a nearby plastic chair and sat down, waiting patiently for me to finish. God, it was mortifying, to say the least. Then I realised the IV needle was still in my arm and felt even more stupid than before.
He made quick work of pulling the IV out, efficiently and almost painlessly from years of experience, only asking me to press on the cotton ball to stop the blood welling up so he could grab the medical paper tape from the table beside my cot and cut a scrap of it. Then he took the wooden tray from me and checked on my various bruises, paying special attention to the ones circling my throat. I, who was so chatty back in the day, only nodded or shook my head at his questions, partly because I didn’t want to strain my sore vocal cords if it wasn’t necessary, but mainly because I couldn’t be bothered. I didn’t want to be reminded of Lane, the way he had me in his grip, the feel of the rope around my neck. The sound of the stool falling to the floor, my feet dangling in the air. That very same air my lungs stopped to receive for a minute that felt like a year. The very real probability of my death, of never seeing you again. It was too much, the memories too raw in my mind. I just wanted to fall back into a dreamless sleep, or better yet, a dream of you, lying on a deck chair on a beach somewhere, sunglasses on and shirt off, all that golden skin a feast for my eyes only. Warm, alive .
But there is no denying reality. You are gone, possibly dead, and I’m currently sitting on a comfortable plane seat, watching the wing break through the clouds like a knife slicing Brie cheese. The CIA team will continue to search for you and Walker for another week, both with helicopters and afoot around the crashing places and where they found the detonator. In my quest not to allow myself to keep my hopes up, remembering the set of answers that Ilsa never gave me, I only nod at Luther’s words and pick up my book from the empty seat next to me. I know I’m fooling none of us by doing this, pretending that I’m immediately engrossed in the ink-black words, enough to tune out the rest of the world. I don’t even know what they are saying or what it is about, I just opened a random page so I wouldn’t have to look at Luther anymore and he wouldn’t have to look at my face either, hidden behind the hardcover. I think of those detectives in old movies at cafés, keeping tabs on their suspects, drinking hot black coffee behind a massive open newspaper wearing sunglasses, a hat and a trench coat. Fooling everyone. That is not my case, unfortunately.
I close the book and throw it back onto the seat next to mine again, sighing.
“We will find him, Benji,” Luther says. The or what is left of him I can hear implicitly in his words.
I nod almost automatically. What I really want to say is ‘We won’t find him by fleeing Kashmir on a plane, will we, Luther?’, but I keep my mouth shut. I feel what little mental energy I have draining just to imagine engaging in an argument like that. Luther probably feels the same, because he doesn’t push the subject any further, doesn’t try to convince me to have hope , for which I am immensely grateful. I feel like I would actually scream if he does, my vocal cords be damned.
Luther offers me a place to sleep in his house when we finally land in D.C. I thank him, but ultimately decline. I know why he’s offering: he doesn’t want me to be alone. And while his intentions are good, that is exactly what I need right now. Well, maybe not alone alone. Just alone with you. But that can’t be, so alone it is. In italics. Just me, Benji, and the four walls of my living room. I open my apartment door, and get a sneezing fit as my feet kick up the dust gathered from a couple of weeks on the furniture. Great, just great. I throw the duffel bag onto the ottoman, and walk into the kitchen, opening the cabinets to look for a glass. I pour myself two fingers of the strongest scotch I have and down it in one go. The liquid burns a path down my oesophagus, and with the soreness of my throat, I repress the urge to cough myself sick, mainly because I don’t feel like cleaning whiskey and bile off my kitchen floor.
I plop down on my sofa and stare at the ceiling. I don’t even bother to turn on the light before, so I’m just watching the light from the streetlamp outside filtering through the half drawn curtain forming lines on the white paint of the ceiling. After a while they get blurrier and blurrier, as I lose my glasses and the scotch starts doing its magic on me. The attempt to pour myself a fourth drink can be seen wasted on the floor in front of my coffee table, so I’m straight up drinking from the bottle now, leaving a thread of saliva attached to the rim from my bottom lip. My back muscles ache like hell from sleeping on that bloody cot in the medical tent. A cot is not a bed, after all, the word says it. But I don’t wish to go to mine. Just like that cabin in Kashmir where Ilsa and I met Lane, it has too many memories for me to be comfortable lying there, much less sleeping in it.
The memories are of you, of course.
It all started right on this very sofa, actually. It was a Saturday night and we’d just had one of those get-togethers that came to pass once every thousand years, e. g. when all of us were in the country, in the same city, at the same time. I had just waved Jane goodbye and closed the door to my apartment when I turned around and saw you, picking up the several cartons of pizza and cans of beer strewn across the glass surface of my coffee table.
“You don’t have to do that, Ethan,” I said, just as I did every time you stayed back after everyone was gone to help me clean up. I bet by then you were waiting for me to say that, because a second later you answered the same thing you always did:
“I’m glad to help, Benji.”
When we were done throwing everything into the bin, I offered you one of the last two beers from the six pack, and we drank them on the sofa, our knees brushing every now and then through the fabric of our jeans. I was feeling pretty buzzed by then, and I could think of nothing more that I want to kiss you, repeating it like a mantra in my head while I stared at you, the movement of your throat swallowing, the way your green eyes sparkled under the light of my lamp.
This did me in.
I leaned over the little space we had left between our bodies and pressed my lips to yours. They were still wet with beer, but I didn’t mind. You stayed still, hands never leaving your lap, while one of mine flew up to your flushed cheek, cradling it softly. But I realised my mistake soon enough (though, in my state, it seemed like a good ten seconds had passed but surely had been only a couple of them) and I pulled away, my breathing ragged with the first vestiges of panic.
“Oh God,” I whispered. “God, Ethan, I’m so sorry…”
I buried my face in my hands, begging for divine lightning to split the earth under my feet and swallow me whole. How could I’ve been so bloody stupid? Was I really that drunk? Why were you—?
Why were you placing your hands on my wrists?
I parted my fingers slowly to peer at you, like a little boy watching a horror movie all alone. You were crouching in front of me (how did you move so fast?), and you gently forced my hands down, taking them in yours. Bloody hell, I knew what was coming then. You, looking up at me with a small pitying smile on your stupidly handsome face, ready to tell me that I shouldn’t worry, that it was just a drunken mistake. No harm done, Benj . And I would laugh, embarrassed, and agree with everything you just said, and then you’d send me to bed and I would obey without protest, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to sleep but willing to do anything to not watch you leave. You wouldn’t mention a word of what happened at the office on Monday and I would do the same (you would probably even forget about it, brushing it off as what it really was, a confusion, a beer-fueled mistake , while I’m at my computer daydreaming of how warm your lips felt against mine).
None of that happened, though.
Well, you did look up at me, and there was a smile gracing your lips. But it was one of your soft fond ones that you had reserved for when I said or did something that amused you and you’d just look at me and say You’re a fool, Benji Dunn, shaking your head. I used to overreact all the time, letting my flair for the dramatics take over me, and each time you would wait patiently for me to come to my senses and calm down. That’s what you were doing back then.
But you weren’t as cool about the whole situation as you tried to make me believe, were you? Back then it had taken me a while to notice, but now that I think about it, it was right there, plain as day. The way your eyes strayed down to my mouth, the blush in your cheeks that ran down to your neck, the way you were visibly trying not to bite on your bottom lip. I had hoped, during that second everything dawned on me, as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water over my head, bringing me down to planet Earth, please let this be true and not just the beer talking.
I was just acting on a hunch, and in retrospect, thank fuck I did. I leaned down and captured your lips again with mine again, and this time you were a lot more responsive. You placed your warm hand on my nape, bringing me closer, until our chests touched and we were both kneeling on the floor. As I tried to deepen the kiss, running the tip of my tongue along your lower lip, your hands quickly untucked my shirt from the waistband of my trousers and I shuddered at the feel of your palms caressing the skin of my lower back, featherlight.
“Ethan–” I whispered, sounding more like a whine, when we parted to catch our breaths. “Sofa.”
“I have a better idea,” you said, and stood up, stretching your hand for me to take.
You led me to my room, just at the end of the hallway, and I had barely stepped into it when you kissed me, and it occurred to me that was the first time you did it (I had initiated the last two). And you didn’t stop there. I felt you leaving kisses along my jaw, never minding my stubble, and down my neck, sucking a small bruise on my rabbit-fast pulse. I was still in shock, my mind struggling to believe this was really happening, but at least it sobered me up a bit. You felt so good against me, even more so when you pushed me gently backwards until the back of my calves hit the bed, and I let myself fall on it, you climbing on top of me, straddling my hips. You kissed me again and again, muttering sweet nothings in between each kiss, leaving me mad with lust.
You finally got to quickly unbutton my shirt with those nimble fingers of yours, and I sat up to let it fall off my shoulders.
“Jesus Christ, Benj,” you said breathlessly as you stared at my bare chest, running the pad of your finger around one of my nipples.
I shuddered, my head hitting the mattress under me. I fisted the sheets until I remembered that this was mutual and I was actually allowed to touch you, so I sat up again and tugged you closer to me so I could pull your black plain shirt up your head. You were a sight for sore eyes, your tanned skin and flat stomach, your defined muscles. God, you could have told me right then you wanted to rip me to shreds and I would have let you. I would have probably even thanked you for the honour of dying by your hand.
But when you pulled down my trousers and boxer briefs, and put your lips around the head of my cock, I thought dying could wait. I preferred to live forever, just seeing you looking up at me with those green eyes shining like a rainy forest, your tongue circling my slit, sucking, taking every inch of me like you were born for it. I brought my hands up to your hair, finding it so incredibly soft.
“You’re so perfect,” I said, because what else could I have said? It was obvious to me, like the sun’s hot and water’s wet, but I still felt you needed to know, that you might be unaware of it and it was my duty to illuminate you.
You laughed around the skin of my cockhead, slippery with your saliva.
“Right back at you, Benji.”
I didn’t want to come so soon, wanting to feel you inside me, and you cursed under your breath. I pointed at the nightstand, where there was a bottle of lube hidden in my drawer. You grabbed it and came back to bed in under two seconds, telling me to turn around so I could lie on my stomach. You were just about to grab a pillow and put it under me so my hips would be raised for you, but in a spur of the moment, I said:
“No, I want to look at you.”
You swallowed visibly and nodded, climbing onto the bed on your knees and sitting up against the headboard, taking off the rest of your clothes at long last. We were both tested regularly for work purposes, so we didn’t bother grabbing a condom. I just wanted you so badly I felt my blood thrumming. I straddled your hips, throwing my arms around your neck to kiss you, gasping around your bottom lip when I heard you uncap the lube bottle and spread some on your fingers. A few seconds later one of them was taunting my entrance and I shifted impatiently, moaning your name over and over again, a hair away from outright begging you to hurry up. Your mouth latched onto my neck, providing a distraction (not that I needed any, with your naked body under me, but it was very much welcome nonetheless) as you pushed your finger in, then another, and a couple of minutes later another one, stretching me nicely.
I unbuttoned your jeans and slipped my hand under the waistband of your boxers, and you lifted your hips slightly to push them down your thighs. We were both too desperate to do anything else. I poured some lube on my right hand, rubbing it with the left to warm the liquid up before gripping the base of your cock, drawing my hand up and down your length, thumbing the underside of the head with every stroke. I heard you curse, your face buried in my neck, your warm breath sending a delicious chill down my spine.
Then you were breaching me, sending a jolt of pain mixed with pleasure, inch by inch until the back of my thighs touched yours. I begged you to move, and I saw you frown, a bit insecure over the thought of hurting me, but I couldn’t have cared less if you did. You obliged, gripping the sides of my hips, actually lifting me, enough so your cock would almost be out of my hole before pushing me down, setting a slow but sure pace. I threw my head back, choking a curse, and you laughed against my jaw. My fingers found their way to your hair, and I pressed the side of my face against your head, inhaling your scent, while you repeated the same motions, increasing in speed when you heard me moan loudly, knowing you had found my prostate by the proud look on your face (bastard).
After a short while, I put my hands on your forearms to stop you, and started moving in circles to let you rest and get your strength back. It served just as well, judging by the choked groan you let out. You snaked your hand between our bodies, and closed it around my cock steadily leaking precome, unattended so far. I whined (rather embarrassingly, I’m afraid), and felt my balls draw up, so I whispered:
“I’m not gonna last much longer.”
You kissed my lips, almost chaste, and said I know, Benj. And I knew it was alright, that I didn’t have to hold myself back. Not that I was, but it was good to know you didn’t mind. Just like the way you didn’t mind that I was practically shredding your back to ribbons with my nails, short as they were, but I wasn’t completely aware of it until much later and probably you weren’t either, too lost in your own pleasure to feel any pain, or being kind enough not to say anything. Either way, your hand sped up and after almost a minute I came sudden and hard, panting against your shoulder.
My thighs trembled slightly, and when I was finally aware of my surroundings again, I noticed you were nearly there as well, so I squeezed my insides, knowing the impact that action would have around your cock, rhythmically, once, twice, until you grunted and came, hips stuttering under me. I kept doing that a few more times until you placed your hand on my back, silently letting me know I could stop, trying to catch your breath with your sweaty forehead pressed to my collarbone. I was faring no better, but in that moment I was too elated to do more than chuckle when you finally tipped your head back against the board, a content smile playing on your lips, fingertips tracing my spine absentmindedly.
After that, everything is pretty blurry due to the inebriated state I am currently in, but I remember you lying me down next to you, chest pressed against my back. We were silent for a while, but it was nothing awkward, just the two of us existing in the same place, in each other’s presence. Despite your body warmth, I was starting to feel chilly, and you probably noticed it before I even did because you gently nudged me to get up and under the bed sheets, embracing me again after we were both back in place, me facing you now. I was trying to memorise the look on your face, your lidded eyes, your nose, your lips. Just in case. (In case you realised you made a huge mistake in the morning and promptly disappeared from my apartment and my life). Yes, I was pretty dramatic back then, wasn’t I? You knew it, though. Yet I saw you do the same, your hand pressed to my cheek, thumb grazing the corner of my mouth. Appraising.
What were you thinking about me? I had no way to know, and I certainly wasn’t going to ask, dreading the answer (I still do, though I truly have no way to know now, not anymore). What did you see? That is a dangerous question as well. My insecurities could answer it all too well, I guess: nothing someone like you could ever want. I wasn’t and I’m not nearly as beautiful as you, so what drew you to my bed that night? Certainly not the beer (you looked pretty much sober before and after that experience, you definitely were, and still you hadn’t fled as if the devil were on your heels). But still, I remember you, at least for a second, looking at me like I was beautiful. I couldn’t have imagined it, could I? Not after what happened next. Because you closed the gap between us and kissed me, slowly, exploring. Drawing it out, making it feel good for me.
We were up for another round, but this time we didn’t bother taking it much further than mutual handjobs, moaning into each other’s mouths. You kissed my forehead before getting up and out of bed, slipping into the bathroom and coming back a minute later with a clean wet rag I kept under the sink. I was bone tired by then, maybe because my body was so relaxed that I felt like I was floating, and my mind barely registered as you wiped the rag across my belly and chest to clean every trace of come (both mine and yours) and sweat from my skin. Through the haze, I can almost picture the fond look in your eyes. My head hit the pillow, and I was out like a light.
I woke up with the sun in my face, groaning into the mattress at the sudden assault of light in my eyes, like a thousand tiny needles. My head was a battlefield, and my brain cells were definitely losing the battle, cannoned to smithereens. My throat felt parched, and my bladder was screaming to be emptied, so I had no other option but to gather all my energy and go to the bathroom and then into the kitchen for a glass of water. I helped myself up with my elbows, and turned my head (too fast, bad idea ) around to look for my phone wherever the little fucker was, when last night suddenly came rushing in. Our Saturday get-together, beers, you .
You.
Shit .
The place beside me was empty. You were gone. We shagged last night and now you were gone. Oh bloody hell , I thought (or exclaimed, I don’t exactly recall), running a hand through my face, though I was wide awake already. For a few moments I was there, sitting up in bed debating with myself whether to look for my phone and call you (most sensible thing) or breaking out into a panic attack (definitely not sensible but easier to do), until I noticed the glass of water (fresh, by the look of it) and the two aspirin next to it on my nightstand. There was a note under the glass, drops of condensation smudging the ink of the first word a little bit, but there it was. Your neat handwriting.
Drink these, you’ll feel better.
See you on Monday!
Love, E.
Ten words and a letter. My heart was beating so fast I felt sick and I was grinning like a lovestruck idiot (which I was, fuck me), reading it over and over, my eyes catching on the Love, E. So you weren’t regretting it, which was good because I surely wasn’t either. You probably had to leave earlier to do whatever important thing a superspy agent like yourself did on a regular basis… or just for a 5am run, knowing you. And you promised (well, not a promise, more like a fact) that we would be seeing each other on Monday at HQ, and since you didn’t regret what happened last night, you would have no reason to ignore me at the office, out of embarrassment or disgust or something like that. Probably you would ask if I was up to repeating it. I choked on the water at that thought.
On Monday, we did end up bumping into each other at the office, and you invited me for a cup of the god-awful coffee we had over there, and even though I wouldn’t usually drink it, not even under pain of death, I said yes because I just wanted to be alone with you for a little while. And you did end up asking if I was willing (yes, you said that, blushing noticeably and not meeting my eyes) to come over to your place and basically fuck each other’s brains out (that last bit added by me, mentally of course, you had more grace than that), and I said yes so fast you frowned, looking amused and relieved and a little fond, all at the same time.
What would have happened if I had said no? Not that I would (or could) have, considering I was pretty head over heels with you by then. But still, hypothetically. I can even picture your face, looking crestfallen and embarrassed that you even asked, thinking you had fucked our friendship up irreparably, mouth gaping, stuttering an apology before fleeing the room. Or maybe you would have brushed it off, no harm done, clapping my shoulder before jokingly saying your loss, Benj and winking at me, pouring yourself another cup of coffee. None of them sound right, somehow. The first scenario would have probably been something I would have done if I had ever been rejected by you (probably that night at my own apartment when I kissed you twice), and the second… well, it just didn’t sound like you. Not even when you used to joke. You wouldn’t have treated this (whatever we had), treated me , like I was just another conquest. I just know you wouldn’t have.
I wish you had, though.
My vision is swimming now, staring at my ceiling in the dark, but I don’t care. I lift the bottle to my lips again and only a few drops fall onto my face. I let the bottle fall from my hand, crashing noisily against the hardwood of the floor. I don’t even care if the glass broke. If you had treated me like I was just a warm body to fuck into whenever you felt like it, I would have been hurt, of course, but after a while I would have accepted it for what it was. Wasn’t that thought just pathetic ? I would have let you feed me any amount of crumbs you wanted, like a dog at your feet. I would have probably considered myself lucky for it. Who could have denied you? You could have had anyone you wanted in your bed with just a snap of your fingers (yes, myself included). Every other IMF agent (except Luther, bless him) either wanted to be you or wanted to be with you. It was actually a running joke around the office, by the way, but it doesn’t make it any less true. Us mortals never stood a chance with you, did we?
But you were never cruel. And you certainly never took advantage of your quasi-legendary status and your killer good looks to worm your way into someone’s bed. Didn’t need to. I actually witnessed you a couple of times politely declining offers to go for a coffee or late supper-leading-to-something-else from flustered agents. And you never turned to me and said can you believe this guy/girl? in camaraderie when they left the room. That’s how I know that you wouldn’t have been with me out of pity or worse, guilt . It was comforting to know back then, that despite whatever I thought about myself, you saw something in me that was both desirable and also made you want to stay even we weren’t fucking, just watching a dumb movie on late night cable, tangled in bed with my head on your chest, or you laughing your arse off at me trying to cook pancakes in the morning and failing completely. You’d say they were good, burned and unappetizing as they were, and I’d call you a bloody liar, which would make you laugh again but wouldn’t contradict me.
You used to laugh a lot with me. But never at me. And what wouldn’t I give to hear you laugh again, even if it is at me?
I feel tears prickling hot and unwanted at the corners of my eyes. Get a bloody grip, Dunn. I swallow down a sob forming in my throat. Stay right there and die , I want to yell at it. This is all so pathetic even you would laugh if you could see me right now. You’d have enough laughing material to last you for a lifetime and after that, surely. I try to stand from the sofa and my boots crunch on broken glass. Just perfect . I am too drunk to even try another way to avoid it and just drop myself back down onto the sofa, resigning myself to stay here until morning. It is for the best, I suppose. Because I really don’t have the strength or bravery right now to go into my room and feel you there, like a ghost coming to haunt me from the depths of hell.
No matter how much I wish you did.