Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Today wasn't Benji's day. Scratch that, it hadn't been Benji's week. Perhaps month, if he truly wanted to push it.

He'd fallen sick on the third of February, which, he thinks, was a grand way of starting the year. He'd gone to the doctor's where he'd been told it was bronchitis, and he'd said "really ? How long's it going to last ?", to which the fucking doctor had said, "oh, up to three weeks."

Which was not cutting it. He was hot, then cold, and his lungs were killing him, and he had a constant migraine, he felt exhausted, no, really, he could do without the month of mild pain.

But that wasn't today's topic. Today's topic was the brand new mission Hunley had laid down to them, the main reason why he was locking his electric BMW in the IMF's parking lot, and was making his way up to the tenth floor, made exclusively for his team. He was already tired of it, and considered asking for vacations, to at least try and solve that bronchitis issue with minimal collateral damages.

He rode the lifts in silence, scarf tight around his neck (never too tight, though. Never to remind him of the rope,) and leather gloves covering his ice cold hands. He fucking hated the weather in D.C., hated it as much as London's, which kind of said a lot. Eventually he reached his destination and got out, making a beeline to the conference room of the floor, keeping his scarf on but discarding his heavy jacket on one of the wide desks.

"You look worse for wear," Brandt said to him, handing him a cup of scorching hot tea, "all good, man ?"

"Bronchitis," he mutters, dropping himself on the nearest chair, "doctor said it'll last for at least three bloody weeks."

"Oh, shoot. Sorry to hear that, that sucks. Hopefully the mission will be low effort wise."

"Eh. I'll ask to be kept as a field tech for this one, I think," Benji sighs, scanning around the room. "Who's on for this one ?"

"Ethan and Ilsa, and then you and I."

"No Luther or Jane ?" he asks, pouting a little, "aw, man."

"They're on holiday."

"They're on HOLIDAY ?! I want to be on holiday too..."

"Maybe after this mission ?"

"Better be," he groans, putting his legs up the table.

"Don't do that," Alan Hunley immediately retorts, walking in the room with files in hand. "You'll dirty it." 

"Sorry," the agent replies, blushing a little. "Where are the rest ? Late ? That's unlike them." 

"Ethan mentioned he wanted to make an announcement, before I give you all the mission content." 

Benji frowns, then raises an eyebrow, taking a gulp from the slightly less burning drink.

"Okay ? That's...worrying, at most. I don't like the sound of it. Haven't seen him since Kashmir." 

"Neither have I," Brandt grimaces, "he didn't specify anything to you did he, Alan ?" 

While the use of his first name seemed to throw the Secretary off, he does not show it. Old habits, and what not. Plus, they'd gotten to work together, so he wasn't one to protest against a little intimacy. 

"Nothing, I'm afraid. But he—ah, talk about the devil," he says, turning around as the two missing agents made their way inside the meeting room, Ilsa going to hug Benji hello and Ethan flashing them his usual smile. "Good day to you, too." 

"Sorry for being late," the older agent offers with raised palms, "I was showing Ilsa around." 

"It looks nicer than MI6," she adds with a laugh, and Benji smiles at that. 

Isn't that true, he wants to reply, but keeps quiet. 

"Hunley said you had something to tell us," Brandt says, not losing the plot, "so I say you tell us now, so we get it out of the way." 

Ethan seems a little taken aback by his words, but nods still. He makes his way to the end of the large table, laying his hands flat on it. He takes a deep breath.

"So...as you know, I've been at the IMF...for a while," he starts, casting a meaningful glance at all of them. "It's been my life for a majority of my...life, and I've dedicated myself to it." 

Benji doesn't like the sound of it. He and Brandt send each other a look, and he's sure that his friend can tell how frightened he feels. 

"I'm thinking it's time I hang it up," Ethan finally says, and the room around Benji sways.

Oh, no.

Oh no, no, no.

"I'm taking Ilsa's offer, and...this will be my last mission," the man adds, smiling softly. "But I wanted to tell you guys, because you're...you're my friends. Family, even. So it only felt natural that I keep you in the loop." 

"Are you...sure ?" Brandt asks, first one to have recovered from such news, "hum. Is that...I mean, I'm not criticising, or anything, I'm just...curious." 

"I think it'll do me good," Ethan says, nodding. "I've been thinking about it, since Kashmir, actually." 

You've been thinking about leaving since Kashmir, but not to send me a text ? A call ? Oh, that's fucking beautiful, Ethan, Benji wants to yell, and he feels his anger bubble dangerously in his chest. 

"Well...I can't say I'm not disappointed," Hunley says, shaking his head, "but if it's your wish, you're more than welcome to hand in your resignation after this mission. You were the best, Ethan Hunt." 

"I know the future of the IMF is in good hands," the other man smiles, chin pointing at Brandt and Benji, Benji whose fists were so tightened he could feel his nails dig in his skin. 

"I hope you don't mind me stealing your golden ticket away," Ilsa jokes, and Benji feels like throwing a chair at her.

Concentrate, he berates himself. Focus. Deep breaths. You know what to do when that happens. Focus. Benjamin, FOCUS ! 

"Congrats," he offers, and he sounds like he's just drank acid. "You two deserve it." 

He can't bring himself to smile, and Ethan frowns slightly.

"Are you...okay, Benji ?" 

"Bronchitis," he says, which is technically not a lie, "I can't stop coughing." 

"Oh. I'm sorry, do you maybe want to be off this mission, or..." 

"I'm good. But anyway, you guys deserve a well deserved retirement," Benji continues bravely, and now he can feel blood pooling on his palms. "Should we get to the mission's content ?" 

Hunley nods, waiting for Ilsa to sit while Ethan kept standing, sending worried glances at his friend. Voice aside, he could feel something was off about him. And why was he wearing a scarf inside ? It wasn't even that cold. 

"Right. This mission is a special one, something that's been requested by MI6, MI5, and the DGSE."

"DGSE," Brandt mutters, "French ?" 

"Double nationality," Hunley explains with a nod. "It's him," he turns to the giant screen, tapping on his tablet as everyone followed, "MP Mongtomery Laurent Duncan Cavendish. Mouthful, I know." 

Benji thinks he's going to puke.

He feels the bile rise in his throat, and before he can even count to three he's slamming himself towards the closest bin, giving back his last dinner in ragged breaths, puking until he couldn't breathe anymore. Painful tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, and he's grasping the edges of the bin like he might die. 

Minutes pass and a presence at his left calls out to him. He turns slightly around to find a deeply worried Brandt kneeling, offering his a water bottle and a chewing gum. 

He tears himself away from the bin and breathes in, wheezing, hand on his covered throat. He nods difficultly, accepting his friend's offers, and downs the water in less than minutes. The deep menthol of the gum helps with the bitter taste of bile. 

"Fuck," he finally croaks out, "I'm sorry. Hum. Bronchitis." 

"I think you should be on house rest," Brandt mumbles, helping him up.

"I'm good, mate." 

Ethan seemed frozen in place, more and more concerned about his friend. Ilsa offered Benji a pat on his arm, reassuring and caring. 

Benji flinches from her touch.

When she tries to find his gaze, he's already looking away.

"As I was saying..." Hunley starts again, licking his lips, "Duncan Cavendish. Franco-British Conservatory MP. He's known for being pro-death penalty, pro-nuclear, and other nice little things. He's quite liked in the UK, and he's visiting D.C for a conference. We've been asked to protect him." 

"I thought he was well liked ?" 

"Can't be loved by everyone," Hunley offers. "He's not exactly young either, he's going on his 65th birthday, so he's...an easy prey. Mrs. Faust is representing the MI6 for us." 

"Would you look at that," Brandt says, brandishing his phone, "he's a fucking fortune Forbes 50 ! One of the top ten ancestral families in the UK, this guy is like—like, British Rockerfeller. That's fucking ballistic." 

"He's an arms dealer," Benji then suddenly calls out, bringing everyone to stare at him. "I'm..." he pauses, considering his options. A lie was nice. "I know him. I mean, before the IMF, I've had a few encounters with him, and I know from reliable sources that he has multiple deals with nuclear weapon dealers. He's dangerous. Worse, he's a bloody terrorist." 

"We know," Hunley sighs, visibly embarrassed.

"What ?!" 

"He's an affiliate to MI6 and the DGSE, he's...well, a double agent, in a way." 

"That's bullshit," Benji protests, "he's—he's a triple agent. He does not work for the interests of the DGSE or MI6 !" 

"Either way," Ethan cuts him off, arms crossed, "we will have to protect the man. Not that I enjoy it, now that you've told us this, but we will make do. When does he land ?" 

"He already did," the Secretary says. "You will meet him at the Lafayette restaurant, making it look like a business casual lunch. You will need to ask for John Buckingham. Then, you will escort him back to the Waldorf Astoria. The DGSE is worried some actual arms dealers might want him out of the picture." 

"I can go to the restaurant," Benji offers, raising his hand. "Then we'll meet you at the Astoria." 

"Are you sure ?" Ethan asks, "do you know where both are ?" 

"I do, yes." 

"If Benji goes, that leaves us with time for research on him, so that's a good plan," Ilsa nods. "Will you be able to handle the presentations ? I mean, you're both Brits, that should flow easily." 

"I'll manage," Benji happily replies, feeling the feeling of newfound mania creep in his veins and into his brain. "Trust me, yeah ?" 

"Always," Ethan smiles, putting his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Okay, let's head to the hotel." 

"I'll meet you there." 

They all nod at each other, silently agreeing on the next course of action. 

"Benji," Hunley says, taking him to the side, "you have around 30 minutes before he heads to the Lafayette. Are you sure you don't want to pop by a pharmacy, in the meantime ? I wouldn't want you vomiting out of nowhere." 

"I'm alright, sir," Benji lies outwardly, sending him his brightest smile, munching on his already bland tasting gum. "It'll be good to me, to be back in the field, yeah ?" 

"I've read the file," his superior mutters, lowering his voice, "how are you holding up ?" 

A shrug.

"It almost doesn't hurt anymore." 

"I see. Have you checked with one of the IMF's psychiatrists ?" 

"Didn't have the time," he admits, "I took another mission immediately after Kashmir, as you should know." 

"Yeah, yes, the Nice once. Good job on this one, by the way." 

"Thank you, sir." 

"Good luck for this mission, agent Dunn." 

Benji nods, eyes wide and pupils blown. He wonders if the blue of his irises is still even visible. 

Heading out to his car, he can't help but shiver, the cold winter of early February hitting his not groomed beard with icy swabs, and he hurries getting back into the BMW, not needing to put the GPS to locate the restaurant. 

The thing was, he'd gone there a few times before. Mostly with dates, because it was an easy, and quite upscale place, and because what he was looking for, with those dates, was a good fuck. And he knew that a good restaurant always made them more likely to fulfill his wishes. With a sigh he finds a parking spot, turning his car off and slamming the door behind him. 

He makes his way up to the restaurant, hands in his pockets. The lobby boy recognises him, because as soon as he spots him his face breaks in a wide grin, and he nods at him to enter. Benji grins back, even if it's a little more hypocritical. A woman is standing behind a tall desk, a book spread open in front of her. 

"Hello," he says, smiling politely. "I'm meeting a coworker. Reservation is under John Buckingham." 

She nods at him, looking down the list.

"Of course. He's on table 14, near the window."

"Oh, he's already here ?" 

"He arrived a few minutes ago, yes," she replies, looking around.

Benji simply nods again, walking past her.

He stops for a few seconds, straightening his jacket and squaring his shoulders. This was possibly the most important meeting of his life, he couldn't afford to fuck it up. His team was counting on him.

He just hopped...he just hopped the other man wouldn't throw a fit in the restaurant. 

Terror wasn't the exact word he would use to define himself in this very moment. Reluctant, guarded, perhaps more. He wasn't afraid. Had stopped being afraid of things less than mass murderers and explosives a long time ago. Maybe the hanging had messed up with his head. 

Wetting his lips, he makes his way towards the table, fists clenched again. 

Twenty years, he thinks. What's twenty years, in a lifetime ? He was only twenty-four, the last time they'd seen each other. Decades had passed. Things were different.

He was different. 

Or at least, he hoped he was. 

When he spots the man, his hearts drops to his stomach. He looked the same. They looked the same.

Twenty years. 

He walks up to the table, noting that the man was focused on a sudoku grid. He sits across him, unbuttoning his suit jacket.

"Old habits die hard, do they not ?" he asks, his classic Londoner's accent switching immediately to the Queen's English. "Hello." 

Montgomery Duncan Cavendish's eyes shoot up to meet his, gold and blue meeting their likewise pair. 

He looks like he was about to collapse. 

"It's been a while," Benji continues, hands folded on his legs. "I was sent to protect you. I'm Agent Dunn. Nice to meet you again." 

"You," Montgomery says stupidly, looking like he couldn't quite believe it. "It's you, you're—" 

"It's me, yes. How unlikely we'd meet again, huh ?" 

There are visible tears shining in the other man's eyes, which seems to take Benji aback. He couldn't say he'd ever seen him that expressive. And he'd known him for a full twenty-four years. 

"You haven't changed," Montgomery chokes out, reaching to grab the younger man's hands in his, which were shaking uncontrollably. "Oh, I cannot believe it..." 

"Well, I have a few more wrinkles," Benji offers, laughing dryly. "I mean, so do you." 

"When I tell your mother this, oh, she will be...my God, she will be so delighted, I—" 

"No, stop, I—I don't think you should tell her," he cuts him off, shaking his head. "Not quite so soon, at least." 

A frown.

"Oh. Oh. God, if you're here to protect me, that means you're working...you're not MI6, are you ? No, that can't be. I would've known. What has become of you ?" 

"Indeed I am not with MI6, no. I'm with the IMF. Impossible Mission Force," Benji explains, retracting his hands from the other man's. "We've been asked by the DGSE and MI6 to protect you during the duration of your stay here. We think people are out for you." 

"Who isn't ?" 

That makes them both laugh. Montgomery dabs at his eyes, shaking his head disbelievingly. 

"This isn't ARCH.tech," Benji says, "but it's in the same milieu. We're good, you know ?" 

"I would hope so, if you're the ones in charge of looking out for me. God, I missed you. Your mother was so torn after you died, she never was quite the same, you know." 

"Good to know you handled it just fine." 

"It's not that. I'm less...expressive than she is." 

"Yes, I suppose I got all the heart from her, and the brains from you," he replies, guarded still. "If the mission goes well, I'll come visit you too. Is she alright ?"

Montgomery nods, eyes closed.

"She's still very active at the Royal Court of Justice, she's good as ever. Had a few clients the past months." 

"That's nice. I didn't expect less of her," Benji says, slightly dreamily. "You're still MP ?" 

"I am, yes. C'mon, your father isn't that old, I'm only 65 !" 

"And you're still a Tory ?" 

That makes his father groan and roll his eyes. 

"What, like I could've had a change of heart in the past twenty or so years and head towards the Labour to make friends with Keir ? Please." 

"Well," his son mutters, grabbing a gressini and munching on it, "I sure as hell didn't vote Republican here." 

"You did inherit your mother's heart," Montgomery grumbles. "That reminds me, does your team know ?" he asks, "about you being my son." 

"'course not. And it will remain this way." 

"I understand," he nods, pensive. "So, Dunn, huh ? I suppose it makes sense you've changed your name." 

"I just shortened the Duncan," Benji snorts, "it's not like I've been very inventive." 

"They don't know about you, then." 

"Why would they ? I left it behind me when I died." 

"Could it be...are you ashamed of us, Benjamin ?" 

That makes the younger man laugh, good naturally. 

"Benjamin, God...it's been a while since someone's called me this." 

"Why ? Have you changed your first name, too ?" 

"No, no," he shakes his head, "friends call me Benji, is all." 

Montgomery shrugs, picking at the empty plate in front of him. 

"You're Benjamin to me." 

"I know I am. Look, let's not beat around the bush," he adds, leaning forward, "I asked to come pick you up specifically so I could ask you about some information that is not mandated by the IMF or MI6. Listen, are you still dealing with you-know-who ?" 

His father frowns, looking around worriedly. Moments pass before he finally nods.

"My team thinks you're a double agent for MI6. I know you're not," Benji says, "I know you're only doing this for your own advantages, and I tried to warn them. They didn't want to listen, but oh, well. So, anyway. You're still in the business, is what I gather." 

"Massà is still in high demand," the other man grimaces, "he's hooked me on good offers." 

"What about d'Enghien ?" 

"How come you know all of this ?" 

"Dad, I worked for ARCH.tech for over five years," Benji retorts annoyedly, "I know my names. Plus, they'd come to dine at home sometimes." 

"Well, they still do." 

"For fuck's sake, dad ! Do you understand how messed up this is ?! I'm making money from taking down people like you," he seethes, voice incredibly low, "you're still in bloody cahoots with them ?!"

"I'm not the one who chose to mess his career up at ARCH because of a little issue !" his father retorts, just as pissed, "I surely did not ask you to join your bloody—your bloody IFM." 

"IMF," Benji sneers, "like the fucking Monetary Fund. Look, you need to cut ties with Massà and d'Enghien." 

That makes Montgomery bark a laugh, taking the both of them aback.

"Please, they're my best clients and sellers," he protests, "be serious." 

"I am bloody serious ! Who even might be against you ? There's a whole list of people who want your ass ! From Keir Starmer to—to some fucking messed up terrorists who thinks you're MI6 ! You're not MI6 ! You're ARCH !" 

"ARCH.tech is MI6."  

"You bloody well know your—our branch wasn't. I've dealt with rogue agents before, this isn't any different," Benji angrily remarks, "don't feed me your bullshit ! And it wasn't a little issue that made me leave ARCH." 

"But it was." 

"Two hundred people died, dad," he almost yells, trying his best to remain calm and, most importantly, quiet, "with the weapons I greenlit !" 

"A hundred and eighty-six," Montgomery corrects him, hissing when Benji pinches his arm. "It could've been worse. You had a bright future." 

"Wow, yes, great, I sure love killing innocent people, including babies and little kids ! Wow, that makes me sleep just so well at night !" 

"Don't make me believe you do not kill people in this line of work." 

"I kill bad guys," Benji retorts, "people who bring harm to the balance of the fucking world ! People like you !" 

"Well, then, kill me," his father says easily, spreading his arms. "I'm all yours." 

"Don't be a fucking twat," the younger man groans, dropping his face in his hands. "I'm not...God, I'm not going to kill you. You just need to pretend you don't know me until the whole mission is over. Then you fly back to good ole' London, and everything blows over." 

"And you come say hi to your mother." 

"Maybe." 

"Benjamin." 

"Dad, look, I'm—I'm a fucking spy. Can you get that into that thick fucking skull of yours ? I'm not even supposed to exist. I supposedly died twenty years ago, do you remember ?!" 

"Well, I'm not going to tell Aunt Margaret about—" 

"No, wait, you can tell Maggie, I like her." 

"Benjamin." 

"Father." 

"What I'm trying to say, Benjamin, is that I am not stopping my business just because you're suddenly a good person who cares." 

"Well, in my defense, I was always a person who sort of cared." 

"Yes, yes, you get what I mean. Are you going to finish that bloody gressini ?" 

Benji does so in minimal time, then gets up and extends his hand to his father. 

"You're awaited at the Astoria." 

"Rest of your team ?" 

"Yeah. They're all very perceptive, so better put on your best act to convince them we're not fucking related." 

"You do realise we look and sound the exact same, right ?" 

"Put on a BAFTA winning performance, then, I don't care." 

He leads his father back to his car, letting him open the door for himself, knowing perfectly well they had chauffeurs back in London, and puts the pedal to the metal. They don't speak for the entirety of the drive, Benji focusing on the road and Montgomery focusing on literally anything else. They make their way to the hotel in minimal time, which had nothing to do with Benji controlling the traffic lights, thank you very much. 

Surely enough he spots his team at the entrance, standing perfectly straight, and, surprisingly enough, Ethan's wearing a suit. Who was he trying to impress ? 

They walk towards them, Benji staying slightly behind his father, looking around in his periphery in case anyone tried to show up and shoot them all dead. 

"MP Duncan Cavendish," Brandt says first, going to shake his hand, "it's good to see you in one piece. I hope your flight has been pleasant. I'm William Brandt, Assistant Secretary to the IMF." 

"It was alright, yes, thank you very much," Montgomery smiles, nodding at them, going to shake their hands. "It's a pleasure to meet the team sent to protect me. I know I'm not exactly in my prime, but I do have a dan in judo." 

"Well, maybe you can do our job. I'm Ethan Hunt, team leader," Ethan jokes, showing him inside, "you do not have bags ?" 

"They were transferred immediately from the airport to there." 

"I'm MI6, Ilsa Faust," Ilsa then says, nodding at him, "I'm working alongside the IMF to ensure your safety." 

"Man, they only had to send someone from the DGSE and I'd be bloody packed," the MP laughs, and Benji rolls his eyes. "Will you be camping outside my bedroom door ?" he jokes, "I worry I can be noisy at night, I snore." 

"Yeah, yeah," Benji grumbles, "we're going to stand there all night and fucking play cards." 

The MP seems surprised by his words. They both know why. His Queen's English left room for the Londoner accent to be back.

"We will guard your room," Ilsa sighs, sending him a consternated glance, "but you shouldn't worry about your snores. We've heard worse." 

"Yeah, like Will's." 

"Stop embarrassing me in front of a client," Brandt protests, ears red. "I don't snore." 

"But you do," Benji remarks, puckering his lips. "Anyway, that's your room, sir." 

They all stop, standing outside a massive wooden door, and Benji unlocks it, letting them inside a ridiculously huge suite, nicely decorated, where bags were indeed at the bottom of the bed. 

"They do treat their MPs well," Ilsa mutters, looking around. "We will let you change, and then we'll send someone up. If that is alright with you, sir." 

"That's perfect, thank you very much," he smiles, nodding slightly. "I will see you soon. Please call me Montgomery, or Monte. I realise that my name is a mouthful." 

"Thank you, Monte," Ethan nods, grinning barely. "We'll make sure to be on time for duty." 

"Then, all's well." 

They excuse themselves, walking down until they exit the hotel altogether, finding a bar to settle down. Non-alcoholics drinks ordered, Benji is the first one to break the silence. 

"So, what'd you find on the guy ?" 

"So, he's from old money, as expected," Ethan replies, earning a mumble from Brandt, "his family got rich during World War Two by being in the weaponry business and politics. The Cavendish are also a family from noble descent, from what I've heard. As Will said before, Forbes 50. Duncan Cavendish is pro-nuclear, pro-death penalty, and in cahoots with the American government, apparently. His wife is a barrister at the Royal Court of Justice, her name is Beatrice Duncan Cavendish, née Duncan. They apparently had a son, but he died when he was 24." 

"Oh," Benji morosely says, staring at his drink, "sorry to hear that." 

"We couldn't find much info on him, though, apart from his name and a few more info. Theodore Duncan Cavendish, attended Oxford, worked in the private sector for a weapon industry...ARCH.tech, if I recall correctly." 

"We thought," Ilsa says, licking her lips, "maybe you could look him up your records ?" 

Benji frowns.

"Beg your pardon ?" 

"Well, you attended Oxford, no ?" 

"...sure ?" 

"We checked, he would've gone there around the same time as you. Maybe you can try and find him ?" 

Benji's heart drops.

He'd have to create a whole new portfolio for a whole new person. Fucking peachy.

"Sure, darling. Theodore Duncan Cavendish, you said ?" 

"Yeah." 

"Consider it done," he smiles. "What else have you got ?" 

"Well, Montgo—sorry, this is so long to say, mind if I call him Monty, like he said ?" Brandt asks, not waiting for an answer, "anyway, Monty attended Cambridge, with a first in Politics. He's been dealing with governmental issues for a while, and he's been supporting ARCH.tech openly. We think that maybe it has to do with it." 

"That people from ARCH.tech might have it against him ?" Benji wonders, pretending like he didn't already know all the answers, "people gone rogue à la Syndicate ?" 

"In a way, yes," Ethan says. "He's been putting stops to many ARCH projects, from the reports we read. Maybe they despise him for it." 

"Mm. Maybe, yes." 

"Either way," Brandt grumbles, "we can't put our personal opinions in the way of the mission. I'm saying this because Ilsa was pretty upset about having to protect a...what'd you say it's called ?" 

"A Tory," she mutters.

"Well, he's rich, he's not going to be Labour," Benji jokes, earning a smile from her. "I'm sure he and Keir go out golfing every now and then." 

Which, he knows he used to go golfing with Michael Foot, so the latter wouldn't surprise him. 

"I feel like that's a joke we won't get, us filthy Americans," Ethan laughs. "I suppose Keir is part of the opposition ?" 

"Yeah, Labour," Ilsa smiles. 

"I'm not a dirty American," Brandt protests, bringing the eyes on him. "I'm Germano-American. And not Americano-German, there's an important distinction." 

"You're German ?!" Benji almost yells, making them all flinch, "wait, you're European ?!" 

"Well, yeah ? My parents were both German, they emigrated in the US after World War two, and all. I mean, I'm called Brandt, Benji." 

"Eh, fair enough." 

"Is your first name really William, then ?" Ethan asks, "or..." 

To this Brandt seems bashful, licking his lower lip and taking a sip of his drink.

"Oh my God, your name isn't William," Ilsa says, bursting out laughing. "No way." 

"My full name is technically Wilhem Johannes Brandt," he admits, red in the face. "I made people call me William because they wouldn't stop butchering it." 

"To be fair, my full name also isn't Ilsa Faust," Ilsa adds, shrugging lightly.

"What, really ?" 

"Yeah ! I'm technically Ilsa Astrid Hedqvist Faust. I'm half Swedish, remember ?" 

"Well, I'm just Ethan Matthew Hunt. What about you, Benji ?" 

"Huh ?" 

"Are you just Benjamin Dunn ?" Ilsa asks with a smile, "or do you have a middle name ?" 

"Oh," he says a little stupidly. "Yes, just Benjamin Dunn. I'm not very original, I suppose. Damn my parents, am I right ?" he laughs. 

"Well, Benjamin is a very pretty name," Ethan grins at him, and that makes Benji flush.

"It's not that pretty. Hum. But thanks, I suppose. Who's up for the first round of night watch, tonight ? I'm not too busy, I can do it." 

"Are you sure ?" 

"Sure, man," he says with a shrug. "I'll talk politics with him, can be interesting. Plus, hey, Ethan, it's your last mission. I'll leave you to do the actual fun stuff, rather than rot in a bedroom with a guy who snores." 

"That's nice. I don't think this mission will be too high profile, despite who we have to protect. For tomorrow's conference, we were thinking this," Ethan says, laying his palms flat on the table, "Ilsa will be camping above, right under the roof, as the acting sniper. William be on recon around the room, moving with the crowd, while I'll be close to Monte. And you, Benji, you'll make sure that no bombs might explode during the meeting. If that's alright with you." 

"Yeah. Makes sense." 

"Yeah ?" 

Benji shrugs again, picking at the lemon slice in his drink. He's too busy thinking about the horrors coding and creating a whole new person might take him, especially because his team could very well just directly call Oxford, and then his plan would be toast. He'd have to generate a fake face, too, which was annoying because if there was one thing he disliked, it was AI. This shit would take over the world, someday. 

He tunes out his friends' conversation, focusing on the tasks at hands. There's bitterness at the back of his throat, making its dangerous way to his tongue, messing with the flavour of the drink. Even the sweetness of the lime could not dim the pit of anxiety at the bottom of his stomach.

It's not like it felt good to know that Ethan would leave them all for Ilsa and a life away from the fighting. He gets it, truly, he does. Ethan's been there for so long, if there was someone who had the right to hang it up, it was him.

Our last mission, he silently muses, eyes falling on Ethan's hands, curled around his own glass. He doesn't dare look at him completely, he's scared he might not be able to hide the resentment from his eyes, otherwise. The other three are laughing and chatting idly, and he's finding himself rotting in his chair, wrathful, hands shaking with a scorching need to hit something. Or someone. He's not so sure himself. 

"I'll get going," he finally says, after what felt like hours of keeping quiet, getting up at once. "He's waiting for me." 

"Need comms ? I can be on standby for the night," Ethan offers, ever the gentleman. 

"I'm not risking much with a 65 years old parliamentary," Benji jokes, but his tone sounds drier than intended. "No, I'm fine. There are weapons in that hotel room, we'll manage." 

"There are ?" Ilsa asks, surprised, "how come—" 

"It's a special room issued and used by the IMF when we get those clients," Brandt explains, shooting a surprised look at his friend. "Didn't know you were aware of it." 

"Ah, I mentioned going to the Astoria a few times to Hunley. I asked why we had a room constantly booked, that's when he told me," Benji replies carefully.

"You go there often ?" Ethan asks, eyes wide in that puppy manner of his. "I had no idea." 

"Usually for one-night-stands," his friends says, shrugging slightly, not seeing the genuine look of distress passing by the other man's features. "Anyway. The conference is tomorrow, at 1pm. We will meet you down the hotel lobby at 12, and we'll all drive there. Is that okay ?" 

"It's perfect. Have a good night, Benji." 

"Thanks, Will." 

He leaves them without adding much more, back turned to three deeply surprised agents. 

"Benji brings fuck buddies to a luxury hotel ?" Brandt says first, disbelieving, "well, now I want to be his fuck buddy." 

"It's not that unorthodox," Ilsa laughs, "but he does do things grandly, even for one-night-stands. I respect that." 

"He also knew where the restaurant was," he adds, "remember ? You think he brings them there, too ?" 

"Oh, that's also a possibility." 

Ethan was silent, brewing his friend's words. Why should it matter, that Benji was having sex with people ? Why would, and should he care ? Benji was his own person. He was allowed to do whatever he fancied. Including...

He closes his eyes, feeling a migraine creep up on him.

It wasn't his business who Benji was fucking. 

He doesn't care. He doesn't care, it's just Benji. His friend—his best friend Benji. 

Quiet, reserved Benji. 

That makes his train of thoughts halt.

When had Benji become so silent ? He hadn't seen him since Kashmir, and he hadn't called, because he was told that his friend was on an assignment in France, and he did not want to disturb him, but his behaviour surely was odd. 

One thing about Benji, is that he liked to talk. He talked to fill the uneasy silence, or the usual silence, he was great on roadtrips, because he always had something to say, to make you learn, or to make you laugh about. That was one of the many things Ethan lo—liked about him. Benji was synonym with brightness, warmth, like sunshine bottled up in one person. Nothing in common with the man he'd met again, after almost a year. This Benji was cold, and dry. Maybe he was not speaking much due to his illness, but Ethan knew better.

He saw how his face scrunched up in barely hidden anger when the MP spoke, and he saw how he blanched when he'd told them about him leaving. Was he...mad at him ? Out of all people, he'd thought that Benji would get it. He was his closest friend ! Surely he would be happy for him, right ? 

Then, why did his words sound so fake ? Why did he look so withdrawn within himself ? 

He'd looked pretty annoyed at the beginning of the meeting, but the mission didn't seem to help. 

"—an. Ethan," someone was saying to his right, "Ethan !" 

He clutches to the little attention he had left to raise his head back up, staring at Brandt who was snapping his fingers at him. 

"You good, man ?" 

".....yes," he finally says, shaking his head and finishing the last of his drink. "Sorry, I got...sidetracked." 

"As long as you don't do it tomorrow," Ilsa jokes, "you'll be good." 

"'course I won't," he meagerly laughs, feeling faint. "You can count on me." 

She smiles, taking his hand and holding it in her own.

"I know." 

"Delivery here !" Benji's loud voice booms in the gigantic room, brandishing a fuming bag, "I got us fish n' chips." 

"I doubt it'll be as good as our Motherland's," Mongtomery grins, looking at his son put the bag on the table in the living room, emptying its content carefully. "But, thank you. Are you alone, tonight ?" 

"Yeah," he says, dropping in one of the most comfortable looking sofas, "I told them we'd talk politics." 

"Well, you were always a bright young man, I don't know why you didn't go down my path." 

"That again ?" Benji protests, taking his suit jacket off, "I told you, I'm not interested. Plus, I did follow your path. I went to ARCH.tech." 

His father rolls his eyes, going to grab a soggy fry. 

"You know what I mean, Benjamin." 

"No, I don't, actually ! You think I wasted myself with Mathematics and Computer Science at bloody Oxford." 

"Well, you did. Had I not pushed you to go to ARCH, God knows where you'd be." 

Benji shoots him a dark look, arms crossed over his chest.

"Listen," Montgomery finally says, leaning barely, laying a hand on his shoulder, feeling him flinch, "people like you...God, you had such a brilliant future ahead of you." 

"People like me," his son repeats, careful with his words. "What, sons of nobles ?" 

"Geniuses," the other man seethes, his grip tightening. "You're a genius, do not be coy with me." 

"Don't see what you're talking about." 

"Oh, please, stop acting like you're so much above recognising your own talent ! Do you know how proud I was, of you ? An IQ above Einstein's, doing brilliantly in both school and society, and yet you decided to dye your hair and hang with the punks at Oxford. This IMF thing—it's not you, Benjamin. You always cared more than I did, but less than the average person. You know that I'm right." 

Benji shudders, going to eat a piece of fish with the wooden spoon that was given to him. He munches on it for a while, seemingly thinking through his father's words. 

It's not like he was wrong—but he didn't know him anymore. Twenty years had changed him. Almost dying countless times had changed him. He was not the same man as he used to be. 

He was better. He was kinder. 

And hell, it's not like he'd grown up sociopathic, he was a highly sensitive and sweet person, thank you very much. He just liked to prioritise things above others, and lives were never at the top of his scale. Though, that had changed after the whole ARCH.tech debacle. 

"Did you know," he says instead, voice monotonous, "that I had to stay at a level L-2 clearance ? For seven whole fucking years. Because the IMF, when they found me, they were afraid of what I could do. They feared I might put that technology to bad use, can you believe ?" he laughs, "who am I, Solomon Lane ?" 

His father frowns.

"The terrorist who corrupted a branch of MI6 ?" 

"Himself ! We're on first name basis, him and I," Benji smiles, snide and horrible. "But anyway, I had to wait until I was 32 to actually be able to ask to get promoted as a Field Agent. They wanted to test my loyalty." 

"They found you after the ARCH issue ?" 

"Yeah. Said I could be of use. In hindsight, I guess they'd rather have the crazy guy on their side than the other way 'round." 

"It's not being crazy," Montgomery protests. "Your...the way your mind works, it's different from the usual person. Yes, it was deplorable, what happened, but it was not your fault, fully." 

"That's horseshit," Benji groans, "I killed those people, with weapons I built. The IMF was...I guess, scared of what I could do ? You should be lucky I mellowed. I used to be less forgiving." 

"Well, you've killed more as a spy I assume, have you not ?" 

A shrug.

"You know you're better than being the friendly hero, Benjamin. You know this." 

"I'm not the hero," he bites back. "The funny side character, at most." 

"You undermine yourself." 

"You don't know me !" he then yells, hotly, getting back up, "we haven't seen each other in twenty years ! I've changed ! I'm not—I'm not twenty four any-fucking-more !" 

"Ben—" 

"Don't Benjamin me ! I've played the part of the funny, quirky technician long enough ! I got people to like me !" 

"People liked you before you became Benji Dunn," his dad retorts, munching on his food. "But I do suppose that being an heir to the Duncan Cavendish family would not cut it with the secret agent lifestyle. I get it, fine. You're a good person, now. Whatever this means." 

Benji seems to fight with himself for a few seconds, grappling with options, scenarios, and weighting the pros and cons. What he was about to ask was risky, and he did not want to mess this up. 

There was no going back after this. It was either a hit or miss, and he couldn't afford to miss. The entirety of the IMF would hate him, but it didn't matter at this point. 

Well, it mattered a little. 

He was, just—so....

He was so angry. 

His jaw is tensed.

I'm sorry, Ethan, he thinks. I can't let you leave the IMF just now. 

You're fucking insane, his voice tells him.

I know, he replies. 

"I need to ask you a favour," he tells his dad, leaning forward, setting himself back on the sofa. "But it's delicate." 

Montgomery raises an eyebrow, and Benji feels a little sick at how similar their mannerisms were. 

"Ask away," the MP says, still. "I'll see what I can do." 

Benji breathes in, clenching and unclenching his fists. There was dried blood under his fingertips and nails. 

"I need you to contact Massà and d'Enghien for me." 

There's shock, on his father's face. But soon it dimmers, and lets place to something like understanding. 

He grins, and Benji knows he's won. 

Ilsa, Brandt and Ethan were still at the same bar, late into the night. They stuck to mocktails, but the conversations flew easily in between the three of them, and soon it drove back to the client they were supposed to protect. More precisely, to his odd resemblance to their friend. 

"It's—I mean, have you seen the guy's eyes ? It's heterochromia, isn't it ?" Brandt was saying, "his entire right eye is brown and then the right one is blue with a bit of brown." 

"Oh, yeah," Ethan notes, "definitely full and sectoral heterochromia. Like Benji." 

Ilsa frowns.

"He has sectoral heterochromia ?" 

"Well, yeah ? He has brown in his right eye, and a circle of brown around the pupil in the left one," he says, looking at his friends like he wasn't insane for noticing this. "It's very visible under my office light," he adds, slightly sheepish. 

"Well, I can't help but notice that it's a little funny they sound so much alike." 

"Oh, I'm glad I'm not the only one to notice that !" Brandt exclaims, "they have the exact same voice, just a different accent. But you're the Brit here, I could be wrong." 

"I guess, Duncav's voice is a little higher," Ilsa says, "but he has a posher accent than Benji does. I'd say, Queen's English ? Probably, but he's an MP, so I'm not surprised." 

"Is it like the Received Pronunciation ?" Ethan asks, "the posh-posh one ?" 

"Sure, yeah. But don't you think they look alike physically, too ?" 

The other two men look at each other, cocking their heads to the side.

"A little bit, I guess ?" 

"Well, if Benji's face had sharper features and if he was older, I suppose. I don't stare at Benji all day," Brandt giggles, "but sure, yeah. I hope tonight will be quiet for the both of them, we need Benji to be up and ready for tomorrow. By the way, what's the conference about ?" 

"Something about reviewing the role of Iran in the JCPOA, uh, they're being provided with a lot of enriched uranium these days, which isn't good." 

"Oh, so Iran does have the nuclear bomb, huh ?" 

"No idea," Ethan grimaces, "it could. But some specialists are meeting tomorrow to review it all, from what I gathered. The whole bomb thing with Lane was bad enough, I just hope there isn't going to be a nuclear threat." 

"Well, hope away, boy," Brandt groans, "because who knows what those weirdos have in store for us. At least, I'm thinking, this time we won't have Lane on our tail. This guy was fucked up as it was, I do not miss him." 

"And you weren't at Kashmir," his friend sighs, "Ilsa, Benji, Luther and Julia—my ex-wife, had to diffuse bombs while I was chasing a guy in a helicopter." 

A frown.

"So—were you running after a helicopter, or, like..." 

"No, no. I was piloting a heli, going after another one." 

"Damn, Ethan," Brandt laughs, "you're one of a kind, aren't you ?" 

"Well, I'm just glad Luther, Jules and Benji got out unharmed." 

This time, it's Ilsa's time to frown. She turns towards Ethan, shooting him a surprised look.

"What do you mean, unharmed ?" 

"...as in, didn't get hurt ?" he replies, a little lost. "You and Lane fought, but nothing happened to the others. Isn't that...I mean, that's what happened, right ?" he presses on, suddenly worried. "That's what the report mentioned." 

"Didn't Benji have a messed up face ?" Brandt adds, just as concerned. "He must've gotten into a fight, too ? No ?" 

"Well, the report mentioned Ilsa," Ethan points at her, "fighting Lane and strangling him. It just said, 'with the help of agent Dunn.'" 

"Nothing more ?" 

"Not really, no ?" 

"That's odd," Ilsa says, scratching her cheek. "I—huh. They didn't give you my report, then. The IMF must've changed it." 

"What ? Why ? I don't like where this is going," Ethan panickedly chuckles, "why would they change it ?" 

"I...don't know, actually." 

"What did your report say ?" the other man asks, "d—" 

"I can't tell you that, and you know it." 

"Ilsa, it's just us," her friend says, looking at her desperately.

"It's classified. Now that I'm reinstated at MI6, I'd like for things to stay that way." 

"No, I get it, really, I do, it's just—“ 

"And you didn't ask Benji ?" 

"I haven't seen him in over a year," Ethan admits, "he was on a long mission by the time I was cleared again for field duties." 

"I see. Well you can just ask him tomorrow," she nods, focusing on her glass. "Sorry, I need to use the loo. Be right back." 

She makes her way towards the back of the bar, closing the bathroom's door gingerly. Her own reflection stares back at her, accusatory, and a little blurry. 

It wouldn't make sense, that someone had changed the file. Why would the IMF not want Ethan and Brandt to know about what happened to Benji ? It had been bad enough to witness it, clearly someone had tampered with it willingly. 

She takes her phone one, dialing Benji's number as quickly as she could manage.

It rings once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Four times.

Fi—

[Hello ?] his voice answers, oddly neutral and just a tiny bit annoyed, [who's that ?]

"It's me, Benji. Huh. Ilsa." 

[Oh, hey Ilsa !] he replies, tone immediately more cheerful, and she can't help but note how fake it sounded, [can I help you with anything ? The boys bein' annoying, aye ?]

"No, it's not that," she says, and her concern must be hearable, because he doesn't interrupt her as she tries to find her words, "we were talking about Kashmir." 

[Ah, yeah. Not a fun time, for sure.] 

"Benji, Ethan isn't aware of what happened to you," she finally settles on saying, worry clear in her tone. "He has no idea about—" 

[My neck ?] he cuts her off, and his voice is cold as ice, bordering on mocking. She doesn't like it. She feels her jaw clench. [Yeah, I know. I rewrote a bit of the IMF's report files they gave to him. Be a nice girl and don't tell him, yeah ? No one but you knows. And, ah, well, Lane, but I wouldn't worry about him too much. It passed, and there's not use bothering Ethan with that now, is there ?] 

"Well I—“ she stutters, clearly lost by his words, "I told Ethan that my report was different. I told him to ask you tomorrow about it, I didn't realise that—" 

[It's fine, I'll make up a lie.]

"Why don't you just...tell him ?" 

[Ilsa,] he says, clearly exasperated, [in a whole year he hasn't bothered asking. Why would he give a shit now ? No, as I said, be good and don't say a word to him about it. Okay ?] 

She doesn't like how forceful he's sounding. She hates how he seems like a whole different person. 

This can't be good, she thinks. How come Ethan hadn't asked ? Not even a text ? A call ? That was hard to believe. But then again, why would Benji lie to her about that ?

"Yeah, alright," she settles on saying, closing her eyes. "Not a word. Okay. I'll leave you to your mission. Good night, Benji." 

[Oh, and, Ilsa ?]

She stares at her reflection.

"Yes ?" 

[Take care of Ethan, okay ?]

Ilsa laughs, slightly surprised.

"Isn't that your job, as his assigned partner ?" 

There's a low chuckle, at the other end of the line.

[Not for long, not anymore, right ?]

Oh. 

Oh, could he be that he was...

"Benji—" 

[Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you two are getting out the field, it'll do you good. But be careful. Okay ? Alright, night.]

There was the tiniest hint of warning in that sentence, she notes. 

Be careful.

Be.

Careful.

Of who ? she wants to ask her phone, call hung up.

Of you, Benji ?

She leaves the bathroom, hands in her pockets, and more troubled than before. Ethan and Brandt are deep in some conversation she can't hear from where she's standing, but she makes her way back to the table nonetheless. 

"Sorry," she says, "had a call from MI6. They're hoping we're handling the case alright." 

"They should've asked Benji about that," Brandt jokes, making Ethan snort. "Anyway, who wants another Virgin Mojito ?" 

Benji can feel his father's eyes on him when he hangs up, and he feels the headache make his way towards his forehead as he turns back around. 

"Yes, yes, go ahead, ask." 

Montgomery raises his hand in a defensive gesture, almost as if surrendering. 

"What, on Earth, happened in Kashmir ?" he then says, tone even, "and why did you not tell your friend Ethan about that neck of yours ?" 

"We were on a mission whose details I can't disclose to you," his son replies, cracking his joints. "I got caught up in some scheme, and I got hanged." 

The older man rises to his feet, almost running towards him, laying his hands on his shoulders.

"HANGED ?!" he all but yells, "are you okay ?!" 

"Well, I did pass out a bit at some point," Benji offers, "but it's fine, now. I just have a scar," he adds, tugging his black turtleneck down, showing the very red and even hypertrophic wound around his neck. "Not pretty, I know. Doctors said it'll dim with time, but that I'll always have it. And I didn't tell my teammate because..." he shrugs, tugging the collar of his turtleneck back up, "he didn't contact me after the mission. I guess he didn't really care about my state, so I didn't want to bother him with it." 

"Does it still hurt ?" his father asks, staring cross-eyed at the cloth, "tell me you follow a proper treatment for this." 

"W—'course I do ! I dealt with it like a champ for a whole year, while on a mission. No, it's healing up nicely, only hurts if I really press on it. Are you going to finish your chips ?" 

"What ? Ah, no, you can have them." 

"Cheers." 

Benji goes over to the table to take the remnants of the soggy fries, shoving them all in his mouth at once, earning a scorn of disgust from his father.

"Anyway, it's like a battle scar, innit ? I got a few more of them since I joined the field, so it's not like I mind. Though, all things considered, I would've loved not having to, you know, get strangled for a full five minutes." 

"You sound overly detached from it," Montgomery notes, "I do not know if I should be delighted or worried to tell your dear mother that the prospect of being hurt leaves you insensible. You sounded more concerned about the two hundred-ish people you killed back then, earlier." 

"Hey, I'm picking my battles," Benji laughs, "I'm just saying. It's unlike you to worry about me." 

"Well, a few hours earlier and here I was, still thinking my only son had died twenty years ago. Turns out he not only did survive, but is also an American spy hired to protect from God-knows-who. Funny how life works, indeed."

"You know, you really sound delighted." 

"Benjamin, we thought you died from an overdose when you were 24. Do you realise the state that left us in ?" 

"That doesn't explain why the inheritance is still to my name," Benji replies smoothly.

His father frowns, licking his lower lip.

"How do you know that ?" 

"Dad. I'm a hacker. I checked." 

"Well, if you must know," he sighs, "your mother was too heartbroken to do anything about it. I wanted to donate it to charities, or whatnot, but she insisted that you might come back to us. That then, it'll be yours." 

"Oh, aren't you a darling," Benji laughs good naturally, "I guess she wasn't wrong, in the end. Good to know I'm still loaded." 

"This is a serious topic." 

"I'm being serious ! I'm just saying that being a spy and the heir to a top ten fortune in the UK is hilarious, like—" 

"Benjamin Theodore Duncan Cavendish," his father growls, low and cautious, "you better keep quiet." 

"I'm not twenty anymore, if I want to laugh I will laugh," the younger man bites back, the faintest smile on his lips. "Hope you don't mind me asking but—we're still good for tomorrow, yeah ?" 

"We are. I even called them, you saw me, rest assured." 

"Good. Tomorrow I'll be on comms and on hacking duties, so I'll need a good excuse to come out. Ilsa is acting sniper, Brandt is recon, and Ethan will be close to you. It needs to happen as near to him as possible, you hear ?" 

"Are you trying to traumatise the poor lad ?" 

"No," Benji groans, "I'm not petty. I'm pissed. Thank you for doing this for me, by the way." 

"Well, you did promise to visit Kataigis again, in exchange." 

"It's only because I miss Mrs. Considine. She's still here, right ?" 

"80 and still kicking. It's a shock just how hyperactive that woman is." 

"She always truly was the best of us," he muses, smiling widely. "Remember when I fell from my first horse and I thought she was going to scream at me ?" 

"She had told you not to try and gallop too soon." 

"It was fun." 

"Your broken arm was not." 

"I've had it worse than a broken arm those past years," he offers, gesturing at him. "So you know about the hanging, but I was also strapped to a bomb. Then I had to kill a bunch of men, and at some point, I got abducted. That was right before the whole bomb-thing, custody of Solomon Lane, by the way." 

"He did this to you ?" 

"Huh-uh. Mmm, what else...? Oh ! I got into at least ten different car crashes, Ethan really isn't a good driver. Well I mean, he is, he's spectacular, really, but then we also wreck the car, almost every bloody time. Man, it's a wonder how I never broke my neck with all these shenanigans." 

"You will do me a good one," his dad grimaces, "and do not ever, ever, mention this to your mother. The poor woman will have a bloody panic attack if you were to tell her about your multiples mishaps." 

"The tea time would be delightful, though," Benji retorts in good humour, "hey, mum, did I tell you about the time I dove in the Seine to retrieve the still alive body of a mass murderer ? It was pretty dirty, in there. Same guy then almost killed me. In the same week ! Busy times, aye ?" 

"That aside, which is highly gross, but the way, does this life...allow you some time for...personal growth ?" 

Benji blinks.

"What, like meditation ? Ethan does it. I think it's yoga." 

"No, I mean...in your personal life. Do you have a...girlfriend, perhaps ?" 

That makes his son scoff, shaking his head and looking away from him. He bites off the nail of his thumb.

"You haven't changed, haven't you ?"

"I don't understand." 

"You know goddamn well I'm not interested in having a girlfriend, dad." 

There's a silence, where both men stare at each other. Montgomery is the first one to give up, running a hand on his tired face before moving away from the younger man, sitting on the bed.

"So it wasn't a phase, I take it." 

"You could always ask the men I bring to this hotel to fuck," Benji crudely retorts. "It was never a phase, I'm afraid." 

"Look, Benjamin, I..." 

He sighs deeply, eyes closed.

"I can't say I'm happy about it. But you're not twenty anymore. God, you're an adult, and you..." he shrugs. "I'm just happy you're not dead." 

"Ah, is that so ?" 

"Yes, Benjamin. I wonder why you seem to have so much trouble believing me." 

"So, let's say, hypothetically, if I were, tomorrow, to bring you some farmer from deep down Wisconsin, and told you he was the love of my life," his son says, eyes narrowed, "you would still keep me on the inheritance ?" 

Montgomery barks a laugh. It's warm, this time. Genuinely amused.

"Well, your mother kept you there for over twenty years, it's not some farm boy who'll change that. I can't say I support it. You know I can't. But if..." he scratches the side of his eye with his ring finger, "if it's what makes you happy...sure. Okay." 

"....wow, dad. All of that and you still won't join the Labour Party ?" Benji jokes, cocking his head to the side, "colour me surprised." 

"Stop speaking nonsense. Anyway, it's quite late, isn't it ?" 

"Yeah. A little past one." 

"I say, I will go to bed." 

A shrug.

"Okay, you do you. Don't snore too much," his son smiles, going to leave the main room, ready to camp for the whole night. "Sleep well, Mr. Duncan Cavendish." 

Montgomery pauses, before smiling, too.

"And you, Mr. Dunn." 

He makes his way out of the room, heading towards the bathrooms of the floor. There are a few utilities that are always left in the cupboards, a first aid kit, toothbrushes, soaps, and a razor. His eyes drift to this one, and he takes it with a steady hand, staring back at his reflection. He starts shaving gingerly, a bit disgruntled by the fact they didn't have any shaving cream, but he smiles with satisfaction when he notices that he hasn't cut himself in the process. The double meaning of the sentence doesn't escape him, and he snorts, alone in the room. 

He cleans the blade, putting it back into the cupboard.

Chapter Text

The night had passed relatively nicely, nothing had bothered Benji other than his father's snores, but he had enough practice to be able to tune them out. He'd slept around three hours, which was a lot, for him, and had still woken up before his father, a little before 9am. The sun outside was peeking behind the heavy velvet curtains, and as he wiped his eyes clean, he got up to open them, making as much noise as possible. That seemed to work, because the other man stirred awake, cursing lowly.

"Someone had a good night of sleep," Benji mocks him, turning around to look him up and down, hands on his hips. "You were very noisy. Have you checked for sleep apnea ?"

"I don't have sleep apnea," Montgomery groans, running a hand through his hair, "what's the time ?"

"9.12am. You have time to wash up and get ready. And I have the time to find my gadgets."

"Gadgets ?"

"I think the IMF sent them here before you arrived," he muses, moving to one of the massive cupboards, taking out a craft envelop, in which a pair of slim-rimmed glasses were, and putting them on immediately.

<WELCOME, AGENT B. DUNN>

He smiles, satisfied.

There was another contraption, but he simply brushes past it, waiting for the right time to use it.

"When are they coming ?"

"They said they'd be here in ten minutes," his father replies, checking his phone. "They asked the room number."

"777."

"Noted. Are you sure about this ?"

Benji shrugs, playing with the glasses he'd taken off.

"I guess, yeah."

"You guess ?"

"I know what I'm doing, dad," he retorts, his annoyance growing which each of the other man's new words. "I'm not a rookie."

Not anymore, at least.

"I'm doing this for the greater good," he continues, "it's the only right thing to do."

"Without concerting your team about this ?"

Another shrug.

"They'll understand. It's Ethan's—the short one, our leader—"

"I know who Ethan is. I don’t have Alzheimer's yet."

"Well, anyway, it's Ethan's last mission. So it doesn't matter what I do or what I don't. All that matters is that we wrap it up with minimal damage."

"Your plan doesn't include minimal damage," his father remarks. "It includes damage, full stop."

"Tu ne peux pas avoir le beurre, l'argent du beurre, et le cul de la crémière," Benji notes, unphased.

"Oh, voilà qui est tellement mature Benjamin, vraiment, bravo !"

"Will you just let me do things my way for once, without protesting ?"

"You make it sound like I'm a tyrant."

Benji doesn't add anything, but his eyes tell enough. The next few minutes are spent in silence as he was taking hold of the second contraption, trying desperately to not show how shaken and anxious he truly felt. There was no way he could mess this up. They all relied on him. Hopes were on him, it all dawned on him a little too much, the weight on his shoulders almost unbearable.

Soon enough there's a knock at the door, and he moves swiftly to go open it, face to face with two men, smaller than him. The first one had jet dark hair with a single white strand in front of his face, and kind black eyes. The second one had short, grey-ish hair, and seemed extremely fidgety.

They made their way inside the room, visibly tensed, until they locked eyes with the MP. The first man walked up to him to shake his hand, his partner trailing not too far behind.

"It's good to see you again, Chanteraide," Montgomery says, nodding solemnly at him. "You too, Hadrien."

"It's been a while," the man with the white streak, Chanteraide, replies smoothly. "How are things ?"

"They're well. I take it you remember my son, Benjamin ?"

That makes the new arrivals turn their heads at once, visibly shocked.

"Your son ? I thought he was called Theodore ?" d'Enghien asks, "that's not possible, we went to his funeral."

"No," Chanteraide says, "it was only his name at ARCH.tech, remember ? Anyway, how come you're alive ?" 

"That's the whole thing, about being a spy, I guess," Benji says, amused. "I aged a few years, though, so I won't take it personal if you really did not recognise me."

"Don't be a fool," Chanteraide smiles widely, "it's lovely to have you back, Ben !" he exclaims, going to pull him in a tight hug. "So you're intelligence, now ? MI6 ?"

"Not really, no," the other man replies, shaking his head. "I'm IMF."

"IMF ?" Hadrien asks, furrowing his brow, "I've never heard of it."

"Yeah, that's the whole point. Anyway, I had a favour to ask, hence why I asked you to come here. Are you in ?"

Massà and d'Enghien exchange looks, clearly weighting the pros and cons.

"Are you in ?" Benji asks again, forceful.

"Okay," Chanteraide finally says, straightening his posture. "Yes, we're in. We're in, alright. What do you need us to do ?"

Benji walks up to the machine, vaguely gesturing at it. The glasses on his face inform him of the specifics regarding the two men in front of him. Both researched by intelligence, they'd dabbled in arms dealing for a long time. Surprisingly, not one had seemed to ever catch them. Surely, it couldn't be that difficult. Massà was convicted for murder, some story dating back to fifteen years ago or so, where he'd killed a household that had to do with some shady weaponry deals. D'Enghien was a fucking psychopath, all things considered, and he was at the head of Development and Research at ARCH.tech. The only reason they still worked together, his glasses tell him, is because they were partners. As in, partners in life. Lovers. Benji shouldn't be too surprised by it, all things considered, he'd rarely seen one without the other. It's like they were conjoined twins, or whatever the word was. Even now, their bodies seemed to not know how to not be in each other's personal space. It would be sweet, if it wasn't so fucking weird.

He smiles.

"Who's the better actor out of you two ?"

"My weapons are ready," Ilsa says, making her way towards her teammate, "IMF was kind enough to lend me a Winchester Magnum."

"Oh, that's nice," Ethan distractedly replies, buttoning up his shirt and styling his hair in a way that would allow him to properly see. He'd let them grow in the past year, and he liked it, it looked nice, but it had his cons. "Is Will ready ?"

"He'll be in short while."

She moves to properly face him, noting how off he seemed. There was a crease in between his brows, and his hands were not as steady as they should be. He was cocking his gun, locking security and shoving it in the back of his dress pants. All without looking at her.

"Ethan," Ilsa whispers, laying her hand on his cheek, forcing him to meet her eyes, worried. "Are you alright ?"

He's silent for a few seconds before raising his own hand, covering hers.

"I'm fine. I guess I'm just...concerned ? About Benji."

"So am I," she admits. "He shouldn't be going on a mission with a bronchitis, it could get worse, and honestly he—"

"No, not that," he says, cutting her off, "I meant...when I told them I was retiring. He didn't look so good. I thought he'd be supportive, and happy for me. Instead he just looked..." he pauses, scratching his temple, "he looked like he didn't care. At best. Like he didn't like it, at worst."

Ilsa shakes her head, thumb smoothing the slight stubble.

"Ethan, he's been by your side for so long...of course he's going to be upset that you're leaving. You're his best friend."

"But I'm not leaving him," Ethan protests, "I'm leaving the IMF."

"Look, let's keep this between us, but, yesterday, I called him. While I was in the loo."

"Oh."

"Yeah. And he asked me to take care of you. And...to be careful. He's worried about you leaving, Ethan, and it's normal. You've known him for a while. He's family to you, isn't he ?"

Ethan looks down at his feet, flushing.

"Yeah. I...yeah, family."

"And I know there's a bond between you two, something special," she adds, "and I don't want to come in the middle of it. He cares for you in a way I cannot replicate. But I care, too. And I know we'll look after each other, won't we ?"

He nods, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. Eyes who don't glint. Eyes empty.

"So don't worry about him too much. Okay ? Talk to him, it'll do you good."

"I don't want him to think I'm abandoning him."

"I don't think that's how he sees it."

"I don't know, Ilsa. I really don't. I need him, I...I'm not leaving him behind. I could never."

She drops her hand, something like understanding dawning on her. Her eyes widen slightly, and her lips part. No words come out.

"Then go talk to him, after the mission," she settles on saying. "Yeah ?"

"Yeah. I'll do that. Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"Am I interrupting something ?" Brandt cockily asks as he makes his way in the room, perfectly groomed, sporting his usual dark grey suit, "having a moment, are you ?"

"Piss off," Ilsa laughs, pulling away from her friend. "All ready ?"

"All is," he nods. "Let's head out."

They all make their way towards the conference centre, which was talking place inside a massive, 70 floors building, which was highly impressive. And slightly scary, too. The walk to get to it isn't silent, but it's not as animated as the previous day, at the bar. They're all focused on the mission at hand, and Ilsa can't help but think back to the conversation she'd just had with Ethan.

He wasn't ready to leave Benji, how would that work with him being retired ? It's not like they could never meet again, of course not, but they wouldn't be seeing each other everyday. They had places to travel, places Ilsa wanted to see, and share with Ethan. Could it be that he was that dependent on his teammate ?

She shouldn't be surprised. She'd just hoped that dependence had dimmed. Which was, apparently, not the case. If so, why hadn't he phoned Benji, throughout that whole year ? It still made no sense to her. Even if he knew he was on a mission, it's not like it would've killed him to shoot him a text. At least a get better soon card, as well. He didn't know about Benji's injuries in Kashmir, sure. But he must've known that Benji had fought, no ? He was badly messed up, physically wise, when they'd gone back to the tent. She'd tried to shield him from Ethan's view, upon Benji's request, but it seemed that Ethan himself hadn't bothered to check on him.

It was highly unlike him, and she didn't like it. Not one bit of it. She couldn't allow herself to be distracted by it either, she had a mission to follow, orders to put to work. But even if this was her last mission, she hated that it seemed to start so sour. She'd have to talk to Benji as well. Make sense of what he'd said to her just yesterday. Had he really threatened her, or was it simply a word of caution on his part ? He'd always been the most prudent of them all, hadn't he ?

They're at the bottom of the building before she even notices how her feet hurt from all the walking, holding her fake flute bag on her bag, sniper gun carefully packed inside.

She can see Ethan physically recoil as he spots the other two men. From the corner of her eyes, she can see how pale Brandt himself had turned.

"Are you..."

The words die in her throat as Lane makes his way towards her, a wide smile on his face. He's holding a leather bag, and is wearing his classic black turtleneck under a heavy trench coat, dark, too. To his side, Montgomery Duncan Cavendish was unphased, typing on his phone and not noticing them.

"Hey, you guys," a foreign voice calls out to them, and that's when it hits her.

It wasn't Lane. It was Benji.

Benji, in glasses, a turtleneck, freshly shaved. The glasses threw her off, and the cold look in his eyes truly did not help. She'd never seen him without a beard.

"Hey," she forcefully replies, swallowing down the flash of genuine helplessness she'd just felt. "Had a good night ?"

"Well, he did snore," Benji jokes, "but other than that, it was fine. He's an okay guy, all other worrying things aside. Anyway, are we ready to go ?"

"You shaved," Ethan stupidly remarks, looking at him like he was insane.

His friend shoots him a surprised glance, caressing his naked jaw.

"Huh. Yes, I guess I did ? It had been a while."

You look like Lane, Ethan wants to say. It's scaring me a little.

"That aside, on what floor is the conference held ?" Brandt asks, breaking the uneasy silence, "we need to set our things up."

"Floor 21," Montgomery replies finally, looking up from his phone. "Will it be alright ?"

"Well, this isn't our first rodeo. We came early to make sure all would be planned perfectly. Ilsa, Brandt, lead recon. I'll stick with Monte and Benji for a few minutes more."

"Roger that," Ilsa says, she and her teammate disappearing in the massive hallway, making their way towards the elevators.

"I need to use the loo," the MP suddenly says, "do I have to be accompanied, or..."

"I'm sure you can handle that just well," Benji snorts. "But be quick."

"Yes, yes. I will not be too long, I promise."

He makes his way towards the symbols of a man and a woman a few meters away, leaving the other two men alone, in perfect silence. If Benji doesn't seem to mind it, Ethan starts to fidget, visibly uncomfortable.

"Are you alright, mate ?" the first man asks, frowning, "you look restless."

"I'm okay" Ethan mumbles. "I—I just hadn't seen you clean shaved in a while. Since India, actually."

"Ah, yeah. That was a bunch of years back, wasn't it ? I guess I wanted a change of scenery. If I look atrocious, though, feel free to tell me."

"You look good !" his friend panickedly yells, making a few heads turn towards them, "hum. You don't look atrocious, or anything. I was just surprised, I think."

He grimaces, closing his eyes before letting out a groan, visibly fighting with whether or not to tell him what was on his mind.

"If you have anything to say to me," Benji kindly offers, "you can. You don't have to, of course. But, ah. I'd be all ears."

"How did you know..."

"I know you, mate. After all those years, I've picked up on your quirks. C'mon, tell good ole' Benji's what's on your mind."

Ethan wets his upper lip, fiddling with his left fingers, twisting them in an attempt to contain his anxiety.

"It's about...yesterday," he begins, cautious. "Remember, when I told you all I'd be quitting ?"

"Yes, I remember that."

"You looked..." he pouts a little, ears flushing, "you looked upset. And...I guess, what I wanted to say, is that I don't...it's not like I'm leaving forever. I'm just...going away, for a bit. But that doesn't mean I won't check on you, or Luther, or Will and Jane. I don't want you to think I'm abandoning you, or something."

Benji stares at him, eyes slightly narrowed. There's not a hint of playfulness in his eyes, and that terrifies Ethan.

"Why are you leaving, then ?" he simply asks, hands in his pockets. "Are you having enough of the IMF ?"

"No. It's not that," Ethan protests slightly, "it's just...Ilsa...she and I..."

"You're together, then," Benji completes for him, face still neutral. "Can't say I'm surprised. You make a lovely couple."

"We're not together," his friend hurriedly replies, hands raised defensively. "Not...yet ? It's complicated, her and I."

Benji cocks his head to the side, genuinely surprised.

"I don't see how it is. You love her, you get with her and leave the IMF. Isn't that the whole point, like you did with Julia ? At least this time, Ilsa will be able to fight back if she does get abducted. It's not like your life is going to be boring, anyway. You're literally Ethan Hunt and Ilsa Faust."

"No, it's not that. I do care about her, a lot, I just..." he closes his eyes, clearly frustrated with himself, "I don't know if I love her. Like I loved Julia."

"You'd be a fool not to."

"Do you really think so ?"

"I don't think it's my job to tell you this, and to make a decision, Ethan," Benji coldly says, maintaining eye contact.

Ethan can't help but feel like his irises were devoid of any light, too alike Lane's. The exact same shade of blue. Only the small part of gold brought them apart.

"I care about you, mate, really, I do, but it isn't to me that you should be saying this. I don't know what goes on in your head. Only you can make a choice."

"Ilsa told me you h—"

"I'm back," Montgomery happily called, trotting back towards the two men, "I did as quick as I could manage. Shall we go ?"

Benji's eyes are boring into Ethan's, and he doesn't look away when he says, "sure, let's move."

Ethan trails behind them, sheepish, feeling helpless. This wasn't the reacting he'd hoped to get from Benji, far from it. He couldn't fathom why his friend seemed so against him leaving. Why he looked like he didn't care.

They were friends.

Why didn't he care ?

"This is quite the place," the MP remarks as they head inside the actual room, vast, made to welcome around 300 people, "I'm a little anxious, now. Hopefully I won't make a fool of myself."

[Comms check for Empire,] Brandt's voice resonates in his left ear, [Tiberius checking in.]

[Livia checking in,] Ilsa says at the same time. [I'm in good position, have visual over the scene, I can take down anyone upon request. All good on your side ?]

"Empire checking in, Caligula responding," Benji replies easily, and Ethan wonders why he'd chosen that one emperor. "We're moving with the MP. He's sitting first row, fifth seat to the left. Visual check, Ilsa ?"

[All good,] she nods to herself.

[I looked up all the exits,] Brandt adds, [two at the back of the room, row 8, and two right where you're standing. [In need of emergency, we need to evacuate through the back exits, they lead to the staircases and the elevators.]

"Copy," Ethan nods. "Benji's moving outside to deal with any external threats. He'll check the room for possible hidden weapons."

"Have a nice conference, sir," Benji smiles at the MP, crooked. "If you need me, I'm a call away. See you after this, Ethan."

"Wait, Benji."

A pause.

"Yes ?"

"I...."

Ethan hesitates, holding his friend's wrist in his hand, barely applying pressure. He lets go after a few seconds.

"Be careful, yeah ?"

"...sure. I will."

He moves away, disappearing behind locked doors.

"So, sir," Ethan says, turning back to Montgomery, "you're pro-nuclear, isn't it ?"

"Quite, yes," the MP replies. "I know you must think I'm some not well adjusted maniac who thinks we should send each other nuclear ogives, but I promise you, it's not like that."

"I wouldn't assume, sir."

"The topic of today's conference is in regards to, and if, Iran should be let free to develop their nuclear weapon. We want to review the challenges in the Levant, and in the Middle Eastern region in general. It's...worrying us. As you must know, as I'm sure you've done your research on me, I work for ARCH.tech as well as my job as a parliamentary. ARCH's goal is so ensure the safety of the world by manufacturing and distributing them to trusted individuals. Or, in many more cases, governments."

"Are governments trustful ?" Ethan jokingly remarks, making the other man smile, "I did not know that, about ARCH. We have indeed researched you—nothing against you, it's the job."

"I understand completely."

"And we found you had a son, Theodore, who worked for ARCH, too."

To these words, Montgomery visibly tenses.

"We know he died, and I understand if you do not wish to talk about it, but—do you think, by any chance, that his death could be linked to his work ?"

"No, no," the older man immediately sighs, "nothing that has to do with it, I'm afraid. My son...Theodore," he says, difficultly, "was an addict. He'd...frequently get high, on hard drugs. When he was 24, he overdosed on meth. Died on the way to the hospital."

"Oh. Sir, I'm so sorry."

"My wife and I never quite recovered," he continues, "as you can imagine. He was our only son, the apple of our eye. He did not OD due to anything work related, or perhaps, yes, the mental charge of it all, but not—" a shake of his head, "it wasn't someone from our job, an enemy, that took him out.

"And you do not know who might want to take you out, I suppose ?"

"I have blocked the sending of weapons to multiple Middle Eastern and Southern Asian countries in the past years, and I know many people were quite unhappy with it. But individuals, I could not pinpoint. There are many of us, at ARCH. The lunch lady could want me dead, for all I know," he adds, joking a little. "I do not usually fear for my life. Perhaps today is different."

Ethan nods, staring straight ahead.

"Perhaps, yes. Benji, the room's filling up. How's it looking ?"

[Mm, nothing major, I fear. Some people have guns, but it's Security. Computers, tablets, phones...the usual. This is a little boring, I must say.]

"Okay, keep looking. Ilsa, Brandt anything ?"

[Nothing,] they reply in tandem. [Maybe this is going to be a calm operation,] the Brit adds, with a small smile.

An announcer comes out on stage, calling for everyone to sit as Ethan tapped his comms, staying close to the MP, on the front row. Names were called, of politicians and experts he'd never heard before, save for a few—mostly Russians and Americans, but he tunes it out. His eyes focus on the stage, upon which Montgomery had been called, and he turns around briefly to try and check with Ilsa. Mostly, she'd be directing her aim towards the front of the room, or the corners. He trusts her enough to know she'll be a quicker shot than anyone trying to aim at their client.

The meeting advance without many icks—he finds himself groaning at few times at what the men and women on stage say, but nothing too major.

An hour passes by.

Then, two.

Then—

[—ait,] Benji's voice crackles in his ear, [wait, please,] he calls out, [shit !]

"Benji," Ethan mutters, "Benji ! Are you okay ?"

[Don't—]

"Wait, hold," his friend presses on, taking his phone out, getting a clear view of his friend, outside the room, crouching, "what is happening ?" he asks, voice low, "are you—"

Oddly enough, it's not Benji's view, he sees. It's Benji. Like someone was holding his phone and pointing the camera at him.

That doesn't make sense, he thinks, growing more and more concerned by the second.

"What the..."

He's being filmed, he realises, horrified.

"Benji !"

[Please,] Benji was begging, [please don't shoot, please !]

"Will," Ethan frantically seethes into his comms, "get out the room ! Benji's in danger !"

[I'm getting him,] his teammate assures him. [Moving out right now.]

[Please, please don't shoot, fuck, I'll do anything !]

[Ethan, what's going on with Benji ?!] Ilsa worriedly asks, [is he...]

"I don't know ! Brandt is getting him, but I—"

[YOU !] Brandt yells, appearing on Ethan's screen, too far to aim, [don't you fucking dare—]

BANG !

Before Ethan can do anything, Benji's face is marked by a small dot on his forehead.

Blood comes gushing out, and his friend collapses to the floor.

He drops his phone, conference long forgotten, rushing out with a yell.

There, Benji is lying in a pool of his own blood, eyes still open, a single tear making its way down his cheek. Ethan falls to his knees, a hand on his mouth to prevent the screech from escaping his lips.

"WHAT THE FUCK ?!" Brandt yells, rushing to the corpse's, side, shaking it ruthlessly, "Benji, BENJI !"

[WHAT IS HAPPENING ?!] Ilsa yells in their ears, [WHAT HAPPENED TO BENJI ?!]

"He got shot," he replies, whispering difficultly, tears shining in his eyes, letting himself fall to the floor, hand on his eyes, "oh, God, he got shot."

[Where ?] she insists, face pale as can be, [where, Will ?!]

"In—on—" he hiccups, holding back bile, "in the head. He's—he—he got shot in the head. He's dead. Ilsa, evacuate Montgomery asap."

"Benji," Ethan was saying, right besides him, holding his face desperately, "please, Benji, do something, B—"

"It's no use," Brandt croaks out, "Ethan, he's not..."

"Benji," his friend kept on going, "Benji, wake up, you need to wake up, please—"

"Ethan..."

"No," Ethan begged, hot tears flowing freely on his cheeks, shaking his entire body, "please, no, no—"

Brandt closes his eyes.

They stay down, covered in blood and gore, in the empty hallway, waiting for Ilsa and the MP to meet them.

They don't know how much time passes, but suddenly she's there, they're both here, and she's holding back a gasp.

"Oh, good God," the MP chokes out, raising a hand to his mouth, "what the..."

"We need to go back to the IMF," Brandt blankly says, gesturing at Ethan to move aside, which he doesn't do. "Ethan, I called the sweepers. We need to bring them the body."

"He's not dead," his teammate insists, "he's not—"

"Ethan," Ilsa says, voice soft and cajoling, laying her hand on his shoulder, "please. Let's go back to headquarters. Okay ?"

"But Benji—"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She feels helpless. Benji's eyes are closed, now, but she can't imagine the fear he'd felt, alone, facing a gunman. Her heart constricts, and the pain she's feeling, she can't really rationalise it. It's scorching hot, and it makes her head hurt. Like she can't quite believe the man in front of her, her dear friend, was dead. Like it was only a matter of time before it happened.

She'd seen people die, in her line of work. None quite hit her like Benji did. Benji, who was so wonderful, and smart, and dependable, and bright. Benji, who made them laugh no matter what.

Benji, who had the most beautiful smile she'd ever seen. Who knew how to listen to you, and understand you.

Darling, gentle, angel, warm Benji.

He was lying in a puddle of his own blood. She follows the movement of his body as Brandt took his own jacket off and laid it on their dead friend's face. He took him in his arms and carried him all the way down, staining the fabric. Ethan's not moving, he's barely blinking, actually. Even Duncan Cavendish looked sick.

The sweepers take hold of the body, and they all get in the car, silent. Ethan is holding the dead body's hand. Cold. It's cold. The rigor mortis would set it, and his skin would stop being so soft.

She feels like crying.

"I'm sorry," the MP says, breaking the silence. "For your friend. I'm so sorry."

"The job prepares us to such things," Brandt valiantly replies, not even managing to smile. He looks as broken as he feels. "Fuck, sorry," he adds, starting to cry on his sleeve. "Sorry."

The walk to the IMF is silent, and Ilsa does not try to approach Ethan. He'd withdrawn within himself, looking straight ahead of him, eyes empty. Face stricken with tears.

Hunley is the first one to walk up to them, sending a worried glance at Brandt.

"Why is the MP here ?" he asks, looking around, "where's Benji ? Why are you covered in blood ?"

"He's with the sweepers," Ilsa says, voice soft.

"What ?"

"He got shot. In the head," she specifies, and watches how his face crumbles. "I'm sorry. He was outside the room, scanning for possible...for possible bombs, or other weapons, and then—I don't know, he called Ethan, and when Brandt got to him he—" she swallows, feeling the tears burn her eyes, "he was dead."

"I'm going to see forensics," Ethan suddenly says, speaking for the first time in a half hour. "I need to see him."

He doesn't wait for an answer before turning on his heels and heading down the building, where he knows the Department of Forensics was. Benji's body had probably been transferred there already, and he felt sick.

He makes his way down the stairs, pushing the heavy doors.

"Sir ?" a man in a white coat calls out to him, "are you lost ? This is..."

"My friend just got killed in the field," he says, voice cold and wavering dangerously, like he might burst into to tears at any moment. "I'm looking for him. I—I need to talk. To him."

The man's face softens, and he nods.

"Who's your friend ?"

"Benji Dunn."

"Oh. Right. Shot in the head, I think ?"

Ethan nods.

"We just put him in a block. This way, please."

He leads him to smaller rooms, where bodies were laid down, a white cloth spread over them. Benji's body was alone in his, bullet still lodged in his forehead.

"I'll leave you to it," the man gently says, closing the door behind them.

Ethan stays there, staring at his friend. He feels the tears streak his cheeks and the snot build in his nose, but he doesn't do anything about it. He screams in pain, leaning over the body, face resting on his friend's chest, screaming bloody murder, gasping for air, begging the gods above that this was just a farce, that it hadn't happened, that Benji was alright, that he wasn't dead.

He wants to apologise.

He wants to beg him to forgive him, for not daring, for running away, he pleads him, he wants Benji to know that he could never have given up on him. That he couldn't possibly leave now, not anymore. That he'd failed him.

That Benji was dead by his fault.

He was a failure. He was afraid. Had been afraid to talk to him, for a whole year. He'd barely gotten him back that he'd lost him. He'd been so scared to contact him. He was a coward. Why hadn't he contacted him ? What was it that he didn't know, about Kashmir ?

He doesn't dare grab his hand. It feels too desecrating. Like he shouldn't be allowed to even be in his presence. Like he didn't quite deserve. Not after not being here for him.

Benji looked so peaceful, like this. More calm than he'd seemed, for the past two days. He'd been on constant watch, high strung and a little cold, and could Ethan blame him ? Seeing him for the first time in a year, and he tells him he's leaving for good. God, had he been in his place, he would've punched him.

Leaving with Ilsa was his only way to try and rationalise the fact that Benji and him could never be anything. And that was unfair, he realises it now. It was unfair to make Ilsa hope for something that could never happen. It was unfair to Benji to hurt him like that. That's all he was good at. Hurting people he cared about.

He runs a hand on his face, feels the hot tears wet his palm. He lets himself falls to the floor, head resting on the cold wall. He's shaking, and wailing, and sobbing, and he's forgotten every ounce of decorum he once had.

He just wants Benji back. He'd do anything to have him back. He'd trade their lives, truly, he'd do it.

Somewhere alone the line he hears footsteps coming his way, and as he raises his head, eyes bloodshot, he sees Brandt looking at the body, eyes just as red.

His friend makes his way towards him, sitting down next to him.

"I'm sorry," he hears him say. "I'm sorry. This hurts like a motherfucker."

Ethan doesn't answer.

"We know that you and Benji shared a special bond. We know how hard it is on you. So I'm...I'm sorry."

"It should've been me," the other man whispers, tone crushed, eyes still closed. "He doesn't deserve—" he hiccups, "he shouldn't be lying there. I should."

Brandt sneaks an arm behind his friend's shoulders, drawing them closer.

"Be honest," Ethan says, soft, "Benji wouldn't have wanted me to leave, right ?"

"Not really," he admits. "He really...he was hurt that you didn't call, after Kashmir."

"I wanted to," Ethan sobs, head in his hands, "but I was so scared. I was scared of bothering him. I don't know. What happened in Kashmir, Will ? What does Ilsa and you know that I don't ? "

"I don't...Ethan..."

"Please, Will," he begs, grabbing the man's shirt, "please. Tell me."

"I..."

Brandt sighs, tugging at his collar a little. He breathes out.

"It's Lane," he says, "when he was in that barrack with him."

"What did Lane..."

"He hung him," he finally admits, and watches how Ethan's face is distorted with genuine and world crushing anguish. "Yeah. He hung him, for—I don't remember, Benji said, around two or three minutes. He left Kashmir as soon as he was cleared so he could be admitted to another mission, huh, in France, I think, if I recall correctly. Yeah. In, huh, Nice. He had scars, actually. On his neck. I think it's called hypertrophic scars ? It's really not pretty. He was going to keep those for life, they'd just...you know, dim."

"...I had no idea."

"I was going to ask you if you hadn't noticed how many scarves and turtlenecks he'd been wearing, but your haven't seen him since, so..."

"But in Kashmir, when you all came to see me, in the hospital bed, he didn't...seem...he didn't seem..."

"It was mostly adrenaline. He collapsed and puked his brains out a little after. Good that you weren't here to see it, it was not pretty."

"And I didn't check on him. God, I'm such a..."

"I shouldn't be telling you this," Brandt says, looking back up at the corpse, "but he hadn't been feeling okay for a while. Since before Kashmir, I think."

Ethan frowns, turning his face to properly stare at him.

"What—what do you mean ?"

"I know because we mentioned it a bit when we had our game nights, and Alan really wanted him to see a psychiatrist, but Benji didn't really have the time. Anyway...he was...God, I shouldn't be saying. I'm only saying this because he'd dead, okay, but Benji...Benji, he was cutting himself."

His friend feels dizzy.

"...what ?"

"He showed me the scars, when I asked. It's...there are a lot," Brandt mutters, gaze unfocusing. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, it's just, it's so personal, I didn't want to invade his privacy, and—"

"No, Will," Ethan continues, pushing through the migraine, "Benji doesn't self-harm."

"...huh ? No, he does. I've seen the scars."

"Where ?"

"Huh ?"

"Where, Will ?"

Brandt tugs at his sleeves, showing his clear wrist.

"Hum, from there," he points at the bottom of his palm, "to there, I think ?" he finished, pointing at the top of his forearm. "Why ?"

"I didn't see any marks on his wrists when I held in hand in the car."

"That's not possible."

Ethan gets back up, holding himself to the wall, before moving towards the corpse.

He pulls at the turtleneck's sleeve, revealing a perfectly smooth wrist. Brandt stares, mouth agape.

"But that's not...Ethan, I saw the marks."

"I believe you."

Ethan tugs down at the collar of the cloth, revealing a minuscule chip, barely under the man's Adam's apple.

"Fuck," he spits out, suddenly gripping the bottom of his chin, pulling, and pulling, and—

And the mask comes undone, revealing a man with short grey hair.

The other man in the room swallows a scream.

"Someone planned this," Ethan seethes, eyes wild, gripping the mask to the point where his nails tore the fabric, "someone wanted us to think that Benji died."

"I don't follow," Hunley protests, raising his hand in a gesture of annoyance, "Benji isn't dead ?"

"It was a man in a mask !" Ethan yells back, "do we even know who that is ?! Why did he have a mask ?! How did he manage to—to even—"

"Yep, got it," Brandt supplies, moving close to the massive screen in the room, "Hadrien d'Enghien. Chief of Operations at ARCH.tech. He was widely known for being cruel and for greenlighting a bunch of unsecured weapons to shady people. Amongst them, a terrorist group in Iran. But what's more concerning, is that he knew—" he turns around, pointing at the MP, "your son."

"Well, yes," Montgomery grimaces, "they had to converse with each other a lot. They had disagreements, mostly. Theodore thought Hadrien was too careless with how he was handling the weapons." 

"Careless ?" 

"Theodore was Chief of Projects, which is a little under Chief Op. Basically, Theodore handled the making of the weapons, while Hadrien handled to whom it would be sold, alongside propositions from Theodore. They were known for clashing a lot, mostly because my son was much younger but better than him." 

"Anything else, Brandt ?" 

"Well, he was married, from what I found. I asked Youssef to pull his file, and he'd been common in law with a certain...Chanteraide," he stumbles on the name, "Massà, for over three years." 

"Wait," Ethan says, frowning, "Massà. That sounds familiar." 

"MI6 had to deal with him a few years back," Ilsa shoots back, just as concerned, "he killed a man, his two kids, and his wife because the guy had sold him fake weapons. Happened in the UK." 

"And we had to deal with him because he was in cahoots with Lane," Brandt supplies, "they're both French." 

"Where is Benji, then ?" Hunley asks, preoccupied, "and how come d'Enghien had any access to a face mask machine ?" 

"The room is mostly used by the IMF, no ?" 

"Huh ? Yes, it is." 

"Maybe that was one of the gadgets in supply. Now, that means he had to get Benji t—" 

Ethan crosses the room in five big strides, holding Montgomery's arm so forcefully the latter worries he'd break it, staring at him like a madman. 

"What happened, yesterday night ? Or this morning ?" 

"What ?" 

"Only three people in our team know how to operate a face mask machine," Ethan growls, "me, Luther, and Benji. Whatever happened means that he was forced to use his face for d'Enghien, and I need to know why." 

"Look, Hunt—" 

"Why did a criminal have Benji's face," he continues, holding his arm tighter, "Mr. Duncan Cavendish ?" 

The other man battles with himself for a few seconds before closing his eyes, getting out of the other's grip, massaging his hurt muscle. 

"Fine. Alright, it was...they took us by surprise," he admits, casting his eyes down. "They wanted—me, mostly. They said it didn't really matter who was guarding the room, that they only needed his face. They wanted to use his face to pretend like your friend Benjamin was escorting me out of the room safely, after they'd knocked the real one out, to shoot me dead, and then your friend. They said they had it all planned." 

"I don't understand," Brandt says, looking at his teammates, "how did they get your room number ? How did they know there would be a machine ? More so, why not kill you immediately ?" 

"They said they wanted to shock you, I don't know, really make you see it happen," the MP sighs, head in his hands. "I don't know how things turned sour so quickly, but in the end, it's d'Enghien who got killed. Trust me, I'm as lost as you are." 

Ethan turns back to the screen, staring at the figure of the dead man a little desperately.

"We need to find—when and what was your son's last work with ARCH ?" 

"Beg your pardon ?"

"The last mission he had to take, before he died. What was it, do you remember ?" 

Montgomery licks his lips, looking around in panic.

"Huh—some assignment about Iran, I think ? He'd greenlit some weapons." 

"With d'Enghien's accord ?" 

"I—yes. Yes, they'd agreed on it both." 

"Will." 

"On it." 

A few minutes passed before Brandt was able to send his search on the main screen, long lines of code and massive blueprints filling it. It anything, it looked intimidating.

"Yes," the MP chokes out, "this, exactly." 

"Accident in Qaen," he says, "one hundred and eighty-six people died. The weapons sent were used by a militia to take down opponents in the region. That was his last assignment ?" 

Montgomery nods again, shameful.

"Yes, he...he quit right after. He could not handle being the reason so many people died. He overdosed shortly after." 

"And d'Enghien ? Did he mind ?" 

"Not really, no. He was just glad my son left." 

"I see." 

"They," Ilsa suddenly pipes up, eyes wide. "Just now, you said they took us by surprise. And Brandt followed suit by using the same pronouns. It wasn't just d'Enghien. Was there someone else ? No, scratch that. There was someone else. Who ? Massà ?" 

A gulp.

"Massà and d'Enghien. And now the latter is dead, and the former has Benji, most probably, captive. Could it be that they had issues, in their marriage ?" she asks, mostly for herself, "is that why he'd kill his husband ?" 

"I don't...know," Montgomery lies. "I don't know, truly." 

"We need to find Massà, that'll lead us to Benji." 

"Look, guys," Brandt says, ever the realist, "I don't want to rain on your parade, but..." 

He pauses, crossing his arms and leaning on the wall, sending each person in the room a forceful look. 

"If they knew in which room to go to, if they knew there'd be a machine..." 

"There's a mole," Ethan completes. "Someone who heard of it, and who...told them. But that's not possible. I know it's not you, guys, or neither is it you, Mr. Secretary." 

"Well, that leaves us with..." 

They all turn to stare at the MP, who looked less and less reassured by the second. 

"What ? Oh, please, do not be foolish. I didn't even know what a face mask machine was before today." 

"But maybe Benji gave you a little gadget tour," Brandt whispers, contrite. "That sounds like something he'd do. And then, you jumped on the opportunity to call your little friends." 

"Massà and d'Enghien are not my friends !" he protests, "d'Enghien was a coworker, at most." 

"But you knew them. You knew them, and you knew—was this your plan since the beginning, sir ? To have one of us dead ?" 

"No !" the older man tries to retort, walking backwards, "it was not, I can promise !" 

Hunley's phone suddenly rings, and he moves to leave the room to answer, sending a last worried glance at Brandt, before disappearing.

"A father, riddled with guilt after his son overdoses after a major incident at his job, incident in which d'Enghien was part of, you never get over it. You hear you're invited to the States for a conference, and you're told security would be employed to keep you safe. You jump on the occasion to call back old acquaintances, your force Benji to trade his face with him, knowing that Massà and d'Enghien had marital problems, you coerce the former to kill his lover. And for maximum shock value, you let it pretend it was our friend who died," Ethan seethes, starting dangerously at him. "You tell d'Enghien that you need him to wear Benji's face so you can swap them, and—" 

"That does not make any sense," Montgomery bites back, "why would I need Benjamin's face ?! I did not wish for anyone to die. This wasn't my goal, and I am not behind any machiavellous plan. I came here for a conference." 

"He's right, Ethan," Brandt grimaces, "it makes zero sense. Now, we just—we need to find Benji, and—“

"And what ? What else is MP Duncan Cavendish hiding from us ? What else is ARCH.tech responsible for ?! What if th—" 

"The mission's over," Hunley says, back in the room, cutting him off. All the agents can do is stare at him, mouth agape. His face betrays nothing but upset. "I just got off the phone with your superior, Mrs. Faust." 

"With HCO Westley Spall ?" she asks, frowning, "why did he call—“ 

"They have Massà. And they know we have d'Enghien's dead body. They'd been on their traces for a while, and he called me to tell me to terminate the mission, and they were already coming to retrieve the men, alongside DGSE agents." 

"What do you mean," she articulates carefully, "they have Massà ?"

"He walked back to the French Ambassy, admitting to everything. Turning himself him. Hence the DGSE." 

"What the fuck ?" Brandt says, forgetting all decorum, "what the fuck is that all about ?" 

"This was a...double mission," Hunley admits. "First to protect MP Duncan Cavendish, second, to draw Massà and d'Enghien close to him, to get them better. At best, it would've been a deathless mission, but we have to go with the flow." 

"Two missions ?" Ethan replies, clearly lost, "why wasn't I informed ?" 

"Because you were not involved in the second mission." 

"But then, who w—oh." 

He pauses, and everything makes sense to the rest of them, at last.

They'd been played like fools for the entirety of the mission. They'd been puppets. Chess pieces. Nothing more, nothing less. 

"Montgomery Duncan Cavendish is working alongside MI6 and ARCH.tech to protect unwanted weaponry from falling into the hands of people we might regard as terrorists," the Secretary explains slowly, sitting himself down behind the desk. "Him going to this conference was a bait to attract the other two. Especially since we knew they had history in between them. Only one agent was made aware of this." 

"Are you saying—“ 

"He had to be careful, and he was the one who planned everything. The face mask. Meeting him alone. The surprise killing was, well, a surprise, but HCO Spall didn't seem to mind. As long as one of them was alive, MI6 and the DGSE were satisfied. Oh, and," he turns around, towards the door, "you can come in, by the way." 

The door opens, and Benji makes his way in, face looking utterly neutral. He was still sporting his black turtleneck and glasses, and there was a faint trace of red on his face, like he'd scrubbed it but not quite well enough. He made his way inside the room without looking at anyone or anything in particular, sitting as well, putting his legs up on the table.

"Hello again," he says, neutral, and a little restless. "Missed me ?" 

Ethan sways on his feet, and it takes Ilsa and Brandt to catch him before he completely crumbles to the ground. His entire body is shaking, and Benji stares at him surprisedly. 

"I know I owe you guys some explanations, but I was really busy with scaring Massà shitless so he'd hand himself in. I didn't really mean to film d'Enghien get shot, but I couldn't hold the—" he stops himself, coughs in his elbow, "the phone and the gun properly. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you about my little mission, by the way." 

"Wh—“ Ilsa stutters, arms dropped at her sides, "you—you're not MI6." 

"What ?" he asks, genuinely taken aback, "no, 'course I'm not. I'm IMF. I was asked by Lee personally to deal with this, since I have a...since I'm linked to them." 

"You're linked to them ?" 

Benji runs a hand through his hair, messing it up and letting it fall on his forehead. He takes his glasses off. 

"Well, Mrs. Ilsa Astrid Hedqvist Faust, it's time I come clean. Turns out, I do have a second name. Want to know what it is ?" 

She doesn't reply, fearful, expectant, and a little shaken. 

"It's Theodore." 

It clicks.

"There's no way," Brandt immediately replies. "You're—are you saying—Benji, this isn't funny." 

"I know it's not funny. And trust me, when Lee asked me to get on to this mission, I for sure wasn't amused. You know, he and I," he points at Montgomery, "hadn't seen each other in twenty years. Which makes sense, in a way, since I was supposed to be, you know, dead." 

"You're his son," Ethan difficultly chokes out. "You're Duncan Cavendish's son." 

"Ding ding, correct ! You know, I've never been more happy to have gone by Theodore at ARCH.tech before yesterday. Sure, his son and I being called Benjamin could've been a complete coincidence but I mean, c'mon, we look and sound the same. It was meant to mean something, wasn't it ?" 

"Benji," Brandt says, completely shocked, "why didn't you say...?" 

"It's one of the few things the IMF offered me," Benji explains gently, having visibly calmed down. "A new life. A new name, a clean record. You think I slept well, after the Iranian debacle ? Let me tell you, I did not. I'm not proud of my past, I left it behind me. That's the whole point of the Choice, isn't it ? Anyway, I asked my dad to pretend not to know me, but it was nice to be able to get him alone yesterday and today. We made sure to have life changing conversations about fatherhood and whatnot." 

"Benji—" 

"Oh, and the mask thing ? My idea, by the way. I told Hadrien he would be posing as me as we'd leave the conference room to get my dad alone and extract some info from him, because I knew he had a tooth to pick with him because he'd got some projects blocked. So, as soon as he joined me, with the mask on—very troubling, by the way—I connected him to your earpieces, and I shot him. Chanteraide didn't realise what happened until I got back and showed I wasn't wearing a mask. He was very distressed, I will say. Not that I enjoyed it, but need must." 

"I thought you were dead," Ethan chokes out, incredibly pale, "I thought—I thought I saw you get shot." 

"I know. As I said, I didn't mean to make you all see this." 

But he did, he thinks to himself. To make it hurt. He wanted them—wanted Ethan to pay for not caring. Maybe it was pettiness. He doesn't care.

"It was shock to me," Montgomery says finally, walking up next to his son, and Ilsa can't quite believe they hadn't noticed how similar they looked, how their eyes had the exact same shape, "to see my son alive. A relief, too. I know this isn't the most ideal of happenings, but I'm thankful for this mission. Without it, I would've kept on believing he'd died all those years ago." 

"Yeah, yeah," Benji groans, "keep the sentimentalism for later." 

"How to you know HCO Spall ?" Ilsa asks, "if you're not MI6 ?" 

"We dated," her friend easily replies, barely smiling. "Huh, back in Oxford. I always kept contacts with him. Contacted him again after the whole Vienna debacle to have info on you," he explains, "he freaked out when he realised I wasn't dead. Was pretty happy, too. God bless, am I right ? Anyway, he does me favours, I do him favours. That's how it works. I've always been close to Lee." 

"God, so," Brandt says, massaging his temples, "you were in a covert mission to bait Massà and d'Enghien close to Duncan Cavendish, and to hand them over MI6 and the DGSE, and you got this mission because you're Duncav's son, and because your ex, Head of Cover Operations Westley Spall, asked you to do him a favour ?" 

"Yeah," Benji nods, visibly unphased. "Pretty much, yeah." 

"That's fucking...insane." 

"Well," he adds, "I am a field agent. It's not like my job is to stay inside a—" he coughs again, "a van or a room to code. I do stuff. Take initiatives. Hunley, sir, do you mind if I have a few words with my dad before he leaves with MI6 ?" 

"Of course," his superior nods, gesturing at the others to leave the room. "We'll regroup later to debrief." 

"Yeah, roger that." 

He watches them exit the room, eyes settling on Ethan who didn't seem to want to leave, sending him desperate looks. He doesn't answer to any of them. When the door closes he immediately goes to the screen, taping a few times on it, before leaning on the wall. 

"Just making sure we're not recorded."

 "This place has cameras ?" Montgomery asks, shocked, "Jesus..." 

"I hope you know that Lee wasn't happy about this mission," Benji groans, "he was really pissed that I had to kill Hadrien." 

"La faute à qui ?" his father retorts, "you called him in." 

"Huh, yeah, because Lee wanted get his hands on him. Best case scenario, he was going to the French Embassy with Massà. Do you know how annoying it is that I have to lie to Hunley and the rest of my team about this whole mission ? 'Montgomery Duncan Cavendish is working alongside MI6 and ARCH.tech to protect unwanted weaponry from falling into the hands of people we might regard as terrorists,'" he repeats, voice mocking, "my ass. You're lucky we—they need someone on the inside of ARCH.tech so they let you do your fucking stuff. Are you going to close the deals on Massà and Hadrien's behalf ?" 

"Probably," the other man says, honest. "Westley is aware of it, by the way. I know you think I'm so dangerous terrorist, but my deals are often reviewed by Westley. I'm not doing willy-nilly." 

"Well, we all know how respectful of rules Lee is, aren't we ?" Benji bites back, crossing his arms. "Hunley still thinks we led this mission so MI6 could get Massà and Hadrien. It's good that they keep on believing this."

"I hardly think them knowing it was to get their deals would be an explanation that pleases them. Would it ?" 

"No," his son admits, "it wouldn't. It wasn't fun to see myself get shot in the face, by the way. One more thing to add to my nightmares fuel, an' all." 

"You know," his father says, "that friend of yours, Ethan. He was really shaken by your death." 

Benji raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything.

"He cried all the way from the conference to here, and he went straight to the forensics to go see 'you.' That Brandt guy and the MI6 girl weren't so good, either. You're well liked, I see." 

"I'm useful to the team, I guess." 

"It's more than that," Montgomery counters, shaking his head. "He really looked sick. He kept saying that it should've been him." 

"He's self-sacrificing like that," Benji jokes, not convinced. "I guess I owe him an apology, don't I ? It's his last mission after all." 

The two men stare at each other, before the older of the two moves forward, laying a reassuring hand on the other's shoulder.

"I'm glad to have seen you again, Benjamin. Truly." 

"Yeah. I know." 

"And I won't tell your mother. But if...you're ever ready, then come visit us, in England. Okay ?" 

"Dad, I..." 

"You do not have to. But we'd greatly appreciate it. I'm not asking you to continue the Duncav's lineage. Just...give your mother some peace of mind. She's not too young anymore."

"I know." 

"Then, son," Montgomery smiles, forlorn, patting his son's cheek, withdrawing himself, "it was good seeing you. I'm proud of the man you've become." 

Benji faintly smiles, looking down at his shoes.

"Thank you. Thanks, dad. It had been a while, huh." 

"Yeah. I will maybe see you, then ?" he says, walking to the door, looking back at him, irises shining with unshed tears. "Goodbye, Benji Dunn." 

He closes the door behind him, leaving Benji alone, eyes closed. He wipes the crusted dried blood from his cheeks, swallowing thickly. 

Bronchitis be damned, his throat still hurt like a motherfucker. 

The agent makes his way out a few minutes later, looking around. There's a balcony that surround the entirety of their floor, and surely enough, Ethan's standing on it, back facing him. He's leaning on the guardrail, looking straight ahead of him. Benji walks up to him, not too close. His friend's head shoots up, staring him a little pathetically.

"Sorry for the whole thing," Benji starts, voice even. "Not a fun way to end your career at the IMF, huh ?" 

"...those were the worst hours of my life," Ethan replies, tone shaky. "I was holding you...your body, and you didn't move. You were just...dead, I suppose. It was horrible. Benji I—" he turns to fully face him, grabbing his left arm, "I never want to live through that again," he says, eyes wide. "Never."

"Huh ? Well, you won't. You're leaving," his friend remarks, clearly confused. "I let myself go a little overboard because I knew you wouldn't...sort of, mind. Since it was your last mission." 

"No," Ethan forcefully says. "It's not my last mission."

A pause.

"I don't follow." 

"Losing you today," he mutters, "God, it was—it was...it made me feel so helpless. Like when I thought they'd shot Julia." 

"Yeah, but you were married to Julia," Benji gently notes, kindness finally seeping into his tone. "We're best friends. It's not the same." 

"I don't want to lose you," Ethan chokes out, holding his arm tighter, "Benji, I really can't lose you." 

"You're very sweet, E, but I—“ 

"You're everything to me." 

"No, I'm n—" 

"Benji," he continues, more serious that he'd ever been in his life, emerald boring into sapphire and gold, "Benji, you're so precious to me. Will told me. He told me you were angry at me for not sending you a text for a whole year. For not calling." 

Benji's jaw tenses.

"And for that I'm—I'm so sorry." 

"It's fine," he lies.

"It's not okay. He told me about your neck. About...about your wrists," Ethan adds, voice soft, barely above a whisper. "And Benji, God...I'm the shittiest friend. I'm not...I was afraid of contacting you." 

"Afraid ? Afraid of what," Benji humourlessly retorts, "I don't bite." 

"I don't know," his friends sincerely admits. "I don't...I'm an idiot." 

"Yeah, you are." 

"And I wanted to apologise. For not checking with you after Kashmir. For not knowing—the fact that you tempered with the reports, and for not pushing, for not asking. He told me he hanged you. I'm so sorry, I—" he closes his eyes, "does it hurt ?" 

Benji's eyes drift to his lips, then back to his face. He gently peels off the collar of his turtleneck, revealing a large scar, slightly puffy, a little less red than it'd been at the beginning. 

"Not if I protect it," he says, feeling oddly naked under the other's eyes. "It was bad at first. I drank soup for three months straight, lost a bunch of weight. It hurt to breathe." 

"It hurt to breathe," Ethan repeats. "Oh, God, Benji." 

"It's alright, now," his friend replies, covering the scars back up. "Sometimes I forget I ever have them." 

"I should've been there." 

"But you weren't. And I'm at peace with that." 

"I want to be here for you. I want—I don't want you to be alone." 

"You know," Benji offers, trying to sound as detached as possible, "at first, for the first few months, I was alone. It was just me and my scars. I used to cut a lot, back then," he adds, and sees Ethan recoil. "I almost tried to kill myself. I wanted to. I felt alone. Lonely. It was horrible." 

"Benji—" 

"But then, I don't know. I thought, why be sad when I can be angry ? Why cry over how little Ethan cares, when I can be mad at him ? So I took the assignment in Nice and didn't look back." 

"You're mad at me." 

"A little, yeah," he admits, laughing airily. "A part of me liked that you thought I died, because I desperately wanted you to care. I guess. Well, apparently you did, so I—" 

He's cut off by Ethan's head falling on his shoulder, which, given the height difference, was more like his forehead was hitting against his upper torso. He stops himself from breathing altogether. 

"E—" 

Ethan drifts down, until he's kneeling in front of him, head cast down. Benji can't breathe.

"Ethan." 

"I don't deserve to be your friend," Ethan simply says, looking at the floor, eyes wide and full of genuine hurt. "I let you feel...feel like you should die. And I'll never forgive myself for that." 

"Ethan, get back up." 

"I'm so sorry. I'll never say it enough." 

"Ethan." 

"I wanted to leave with Ilsa," he continues, "because I thought it would spare you. Spare you from having to follow me through Hell and back. I was afraid you were getting tired of it. Tired of me. We're not getting any younger, and I wanted to spare you. I didn't—" he pauses, trying to keep the tears at bay, "I didn't want you think I was giving up on you." 

Benji hesitates, looking away.

"That's how it looked from my point of view," he says.

"I know. I realise it now. And I'm so sorry. I could never give up on you. You're too precious to me. You're—you're everything to me," he concludes, letting his head lean on the other's thigh. "I wish I'd told you sooner." 

"Those are big words, Mr. Hunt," his friend jokes, but his voice is laced with tears. "I'm not sure of what they mean, really." 

"It means that I can't live without you, Benji," Ethan sobs, holding his leg like a man lost at sea. "I don't...for the few hours I thought you died, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't fathom living in a world where you weren't. I was so scared. I don't want to live through it again." 

"Ethan..." 

"And I know I don't deserve your forgiveness after how I've behaved. But I just...I want to be with you. In any way you'll let me."

Benji kneels, face to face with Ethan, and gently, almost shyly, he takes his face in his hands. His thumb strokes the small stubble, and Ethan leans into the touch.

Warm.

Benji. 

"I wish you'd stay at the IMF. With me," he says, "I don't want you to leave." 

"I talked to Ilsa. I'm not leaving anymore." 

His friend's gesture stops.

"You did ?" he asks, unsure, voice small. "That's not nice to her." 

"It's you," Ethan whispers, covering his hand with his, sending him a tentative smile, "it's always been you. Always." 

"You mean that ?" 

"I do," he nods, resting their foreheads together. The floor hurt his knees, but he finds that he doesn't care. "I've never meant something more, Benj." 

"I think I love you, E," Benji says, soft, searching for the other's eyes, clueless. "I have, for a while. I love you." 

"Me too," Ethan replies immediately, nodding like a madman, "I love you, Benji. I love you, so much. It's—it's an honour you even let me be close to your after last year, I just—I don't want to mess this up, and—“ 

"Don't push it," the other laughs, his face finally breaking into a smile, "it's not like I'm a god or something." 

"Can I ?" he asks, his thumb caressing Benji's lower lip, where a small scar cut it in half, "be with you, I mean ?" 

"I'd love nothing more." 

"Oh." 

"Yeah, oh, idiot," Benji laughs, nuzzling his nose. "Kiss me ?" 

"Oh ! Yes. Yes, please." 

Benji leans forwards, still crouching, and when their lips meet, he holds a gasp. 

It was soft. Sweet.

Gentle.

Warm. 

His hands find the sides of Ethan's face and hold on, where Ethan's own hands settled behind Benji's neck.

They stay there, kissing soundly, desperate to touch each other, unable to keep their hands to themselves, pushing each other towards the guardrail, grasping, holding, moaning inside each other's mouths. 

Time passes before they even realise it, and by the time they pull away, their lips are red and puffy, and there's an uncomfortable tightness in their pants. Benji pulls them up, catching Ethan in a bone crushing hug. 

Ethan closes his eyes, peaceful, holding Benji against him, on his tiptoes, his hands running through the other's curly hair.   

They look at each other, smiling giddily. 

"Yeah, I'm definitely not leaving, now," the older man of the two says, earning a snort from his lover. "God, I love you." 

"I love you too," Benji grins, kissing his cheek. "I really do. And I'm sorry for pretending to be dead, and for not telling you about, you know. Being the son of one of the richest guy in the UK." 

"Yeah, about that—" 

"I'll invite you to the family's summer manor, if you want," he says, making the other gasp, "I need to go visit mum, anyway. It's not fair that only my dad knows I'm alive, y'know ?" 

"Summer manor," Ethan says, stupidly, "does that...imply you have a fall, spring, and winter manor ?" 

"Who has an autumn manor ?" Benji laughs, "no, just a summer and winter one." The look on his lover's face must be a lot, because he adds, "I mean, fortune Forbes 50, remember ?" 

"I can't believe you're the son of someone so rich. Need I remind you, I grew up in a farm."

"It's fine, I told my dad about us." 

"What ? B—h—what ? When ?!" 

"I said, hey dad, hypothetically, I know you don't like that I like men, but what if I was in love with a farmer's son ? And he said, I don't support it, but as long as you're happy, son, it's alright." 

"You've planned this," Ethan snorts, "you're a schemer." 

"Oh," Benji grins, "you have no idea." 

He looks around, noting how the sun had started to set, and how the wind had started to feel a little colder. And that wouldn't be good with—

"Oh, fuck," he says, slapping a hand on his mouth.

"Huh ? Are you okay, Benj ?" 

"I have bronchitis," he says, grimacing, "I shouldn't have kissed you ! You're going to get sick, too !" 

"Oh." 

Ethan shrugs.

"It's okay. I'll take anything you give me." 

Benji rolls his eyes at this, grabbing his hand and leading them back inside. 

"You're a sap." 

"Your sap," Ethan smiles, kissing his palm. "And I don't plan on leaving."