Chapter Text
A muffled thud broke the silence of the quiet night. It was quiet like it can only be in the countryside, far removed from the constant buzz of cars and of the sounds of people hurrying past each other in an unending, invisible race. That night -like all other night, at least until that thud- had been as empty as empty can be, barely disturbed by the sound of the wind; sometimes, Benji felt like the wind even increased the air of calmness that permeated this place. Because if you could hear the wind, that was only because there was no other sound to cover it up. No screams, no shouts. No bullets ricocheting, just a few inches away, too close to his face. No half-desperate pleas over the comms, Ethan really need this now, fully-desperate typing on a broken keyboard. Not even the beat of his own heart, so loud and fast that he fears it'll just give up and stop, at some point.
This was why he always came there, after missions. Not always for long. Sometimes, for just a day or two, even though it meant double as much in airplanes and trains, and then busses and taxi. It meant peace, to him.
The house itself was a stately old thing, all creaking staircases and worn-out carpets with either broken bits of Crayola, tea stains or lost glasses, depending on the median age of the current residents. It had been passed in his family for ages, getting bombed, then reconstructed, then flooded and finally reconstructed, hopefully for the last time. If not for the fact that it was at the arse end of Shropshire, it would be a valuable edifice: it was even rumored to be the last resting place of a lost Van Gogh, even though Benji, his cousins and many generations of bored teenagers had spent long summer hours looking for it in vain. Not that it stopped him from opening a few old cabinets, from time to time. You never know. Officially, it was in the ownership of great-aunt Muriel, the female equivalent of an 19th-century confirmed bachelor -a phrase whose implication had become clearer when he'd reached adulthood himself. She'd probably be offended to be described as stately, like the house, but the fact was that she fit so well in that mass of old furniture and lively family gatherings that she could as well be the familiar spirit of the place. She'd lived there most of her adult life; she claimed that the calm was the perfect place to write. But as old age caught up even to the best ones, and she'd moved into an assisted living flat one town over just as he'd become a field agent. It had, for all of his life, been the background of innumerable family gathering and summer holidays. He'd gotten drunk for the first time just below the pear tree, and puked on the cherubim statue one of Aunt Muriel's girlfriend had brought back from Carrara. After his mother's death, they'd come up here with his cousins, and again after his father had passed, both time spending long hours walking through the field, unable to speak. It was where they celebrated birthdays and anniversaries, and where they mourned. And now, it was where he came to rest.
If he had been alone, he'd have gotten up to investigate: you could never be too prudent, especially in his line of work. But his family had decided to join him, for once, and had arrived in dispersed order over the last few days. There was Muriel, two of his aunts and uncles, at least eight cousins, some of whom had brought their own young family along. Someone had probably hit one of the many decorative trinkets on their way to the bathroom. No reason to be worried. He turned around, hit his pillow a few times, and tried to fall back to sleep.
It had been nearly a week since he had arrived, in the middle of the night, so exhausted he'd slept on the sofa instead of making the bed. He'd been in the hospital for two weeks after Kashmir, and he hadn't been able to wait to go home. As if being there would let him forget.
It had, to some degree, worked. Running around the house, constantly catching up and blabbering nonsense with his family had been a remarkable way to block out what had happened -that is, until it didn't. Just yesterday, he'd had to leave the dining table because he'd started feeling Lane's noose around his throat, again. Kneeling on the rug in his room, his breath shuddering out of him as he desperately tried to control it, he'd closed so tight he saw stars and dug his nails into his palms until the pain was the only thing he could feel, just praying for it to stop. He knew he'd get better, he always did, in the end; but it didn't stop him from wishing...
Wishing what, exactly?
He shouldn't complain so much. He wasn't the one who'd gotten it the worst, not by far.
How were the others? Ilsa had been bruised and battered in their fight against Lane, but she'd always been strong. Stronger than him. Luther was a mystery in his own right, always there with desperately needed help at the perfect moment. But even Luther had been shaken up by the events.
And Ethan.
Ethan, who'd so very nearly died.
Who probably blamed himself for what had happened.
Who'd saved his life, and so many others, once again.
And who was probably alone somewhere, waiting to heal.
That was it; what he wished. He knew it was stupid, and that it wouldn't change anything. Worse, it was maybe selfish. Just a pointless fantasy. But he still wished Ethan were here, so he could hug him. Until his panic subsided, or until he'd told him how grateful, and proud, he was. He didn't know.
And as he imagined taking Ethan in his arms, the warmth of his skin through his clothes and the feel of his hair under his fingers, he fell asleep again.
A scream pierced the heavy air. Benji jumped to his feet, grabbed his gun from its designated spot in the bedside table, and ran downstairs. He wasn't scared, not yet. He was just focused, so intensely that it left nothing else, like he was on mission. Or at least like he tried to be. The voice was Muriel; she was speaking now, loudly, with an edge of fear. There was someone in the house.
Benji quietened his footsteps as he reached the last corner, his gun drawn. Had someone tracked him there? Was there only one intruder? Was his family in danger?
"I don't care for your explanations at all, young man! I'm calling the police right now!"
He had to get Muriel safe first. With a shuddering breath, he rounded the corner, pointing his gun at the dark shape ahead of him, finger on the trigger.
It was Ethan.
"Fuck! I nearly..." He barely caught himself, quickly hiding the gun behind his back.
Muriel was brandishing a silver candelabra that looked to be about as heavy as it was old, and seemed on the brink of pummeling Ethan with it. And given how much rage she was radiating, he wouldn't bet on Ethan's chances.
"I heard a noise and came downstairs to check, I was scared one of the little ones had hurt themselves, I know it's ridiculous but you can never be too careful, you know children..." after a good breath, she went on, raising the candelabra above her head "And there was a man there! All in black, gave me such a fright! We need to call-"
"It's alright, I know him! Don't worry," he interrupted her. Given her shocked air, it might not have been as reassuring as he hoped it to be.
"Benji, why on earth are you inviting friends over in the middle of the night? Without telling us?"
"Aunt Muriel, it's just a misunderstanding. I'm sure you're tired. Can we talk about this tomorrow?" He desperately needed to talk to Ethan alone. Was there an emergency? Were they in danger?
Ethan, thankfully, had the good grace of looking embarrassed. And unhurt, for which he was overwhelmingly relieved.
"Don't you dare..."
"Benji? Muriel? What's happening?" Shit. Now his cousins were awake. Jenny was coming down the stairs, Michael just behind her. And a few seconds later, his whole family, in various state of nighttime dishevelment, was assembled.
"And who the hell is that?"
"Is that a burglar?"
"Benji knows him, he says. So you should really better explain!" Muriel said, looking slightly accusatory.
They were waiting to listen to his explanation for the presence of a strange man in their ancestral home. An explanation he hadn't invented yet.
Think. Ethan, quite obviously, had broken in. But he couldn't say that without them assuming that he was a criminal, or revealing his true profession, which was out of the question. There was also the matter of him showing up in the middle of the night, which excluded him being someone hired to fix something, explaining how he had the key.
He took a good look at their startled faces. Ethan was gesturing vaguely, probably trying to convey a wordless (and well deserved) apology for the current mess. The silence dragged on.
Pressure. He was good with it. He could come up with something.
"Boyfriend! He's my boyfriend."
It came out at least a few tones higher than his usual speaking voice, for reason he didn't want to dwell on.
Ethan's face, for one instant, showed true, unadulterated surprise. Or was it dismay? Well, that hurt. But no time to think of that. One eye blink later, Ethan had settled into a mildly embarrassed, entirely charming smile. God, he was good at that. And how was his family taking it?
Some frowning, but no one calling him a liar yet. Good. "He didn't break in, obviously, I gave him a key!"
Benji kicked himself. Way to go, really. Could he have put that in an even more suspect way?
"Did we really all get up because Benji's boyfriend came over?"
"Yes, right! I'm going back to bed."
"Why are you here? Did anything happen?" Benji whispered to Ethan, trying to hide his concern.
"Everything's fine. I just wanted to see you," Ethan answered, loud enough for the others to hear. Which meant it was just a nice excuse, and not the truth.
Well, that didn't explain much, but at least it excluded them being in impending danger.
And, one after the other, his aunts and cousins trickled back upstairs, some catching a look at Ethan behind their shoulder. Muriel lingered back, examining Ethan intensely until they were the only one left. Benji had seen him look more comfortable while being interrogated by mob enforcers, although he was very sure he was the only one who had noticed. His facade was nearly perfect. But there was still tension in his shoulder, at the corners of his mouth. It made Benji want to do something stupid. Like hugging him.
"Well, you certainly pick them handsome, my dear," Muriel said, patting Ethan's cheek. "Let's just talk for a little bit, shall we?"
They sat down in the parlour. Benji and Ethan were side by side on the patined Chesterfield sofa, not daring to rest their back. He felt strangely similar to when Muriel had caught him smoking one of her cigars when he was twelve. He was an adult man, damn it. What if his so-far-never-mentioned boyfriend decided to make an impromptu visit in the middle of the night a cause a generalized panic among the flock of his family?
Muriel sat across from them, the candelabra still within hand's reach on the coffee table between them. She was as stern as a schoolmistress on inspection day. Muriel didn't get angry. Muriel, on the other hand, had the uncanny ability to radiate her disapproval, which more often than not made him wish that she'd just scream at him.
With a sight, she stood and poured herself a glass of whiskey from the crystal tumbler on the table in the corner. After a good gulp, she gestured at them with her glass, in a wordless offer which they both politely refused.
"So. Tell me. Name and profession, and known allergies"
"Aunt Muriel, do you really think it's necessary to..."
"Yes. What kind of house do you think this is?" She drank some whiskey and continued, "And Benji, love, I just want to get to know your companion. Would you really deny an old lady?" Just for effect, she batted her eyes.
She'd been the first person he'd come out to as a teenager. Even before he knew that the roommates were girlfriend, her aura of eccentricity had made her feel like a safe haven. She'd hugged him, told him that she loved him and so did his parents. Made him feel welcomed, and understood. It was stupid -they weren't a couple, and never would be, but he suddenly wanted Muriel to like Ethan so badly that it made him feel like his insides had twisted into a knot.
Benji sighted.
"Of course not, Aunt Muriel."
The only matter now was to convince Muriel that they were indeed a couple. Without coordinating stories. And, Benji wished desperately, without betraying how much he wished that they actually were. What had he done to deserve this?
"Tell me about yourself"
"My name is Ethan, I'm an engineer," he said with an easy smile. "I don't suffer from any allergies, as far as I know."
"Good, good. What kind of engineer?"
"I work at the Virginia Department of Transportation. I studied mechanical engineering."
"Hm. Why?"
Was Muriel going to follow every question by another, even more pointed one?
"I wanted to work in aeronautics, at first," he said, looking slightly sheepish. "Working for the NASA was my childhood dream."
Really? Benji tried very hard not to look too surprised. He wanted to ask about it so badly that he had to bite his tongue: was Ethan actually a covert space nerd? And when, and why had he given it up?
"So, tell me. How did you meet my wonderful nephew there?"
Benji waited on the answer with bated breath. He remembered their first meeting to the second, or so he liked to think. The great Ethan Hunt, all the way in the lower floors of the IMF, had needed his help. He wasn't sure he'd recovered from the shock yet. It was before he'd realized how much more Ethan was -kinder, braver- than he'd thought possible, before he'd learned to read his moods from the way he tensed his shoulders, before he'd realized how sad his smile sometimes was. Before he'd loved him. He wondered -what did Ethan remember of their first meeting?
"We contracted his company to do some IT work for us and... Benji was amazing. No matter what went wrong, he could always fix it." He laughed a little. "I bothered him with all of the problems I could think of for weeks before I found the courage to ask him out for a coffee."
What a sweet story. Just a pity that it was a lie.
But he could work with that.
"I couldn't believe you were so bad with computers! I was starting to wonder if I should slip you a flyer for a remedial class!" Laughing, with a warm smile and just a point of fond irritation. A story that had been repeated again and again between them, an inside joke. He squeezed Ethan's hand to make the point.
Ethan entwined his fingers in Benji's and turned to him. He stopped breathing for an instant.
At least, he didn't have to fake the sickly sweet lovelorn look of the fool in love. Which hopefully would only impress Ethan with his acting skills and not make him realize how out of his depth he actually was. Finger crossed.
"Well, you seem to have made an impression. I can assure you my nephew doesn't always have such glassy eyes."
Ethan laughed. He felt his cheek redden.
"And what was your life like, before you made a fool out of yourself for my nephew's sake?"
"I was born in upstate New York, but we moved to Wisconsin when I was a few years old. My parents had a farm."
He knew most of Ethan's story, but hearing it told to Muriel made the situation seem even more surreal. The atmosphere in the room had turned, Benji could feel it in the pit of his stomach. Ethan was, for some reason, telling the truth. It was so, so much more dangerous. Because it felt real.
"Hm. Did you like being a farm boy?"
"It was... wonderful, when I was a child. There was so much to do - I loved running after my father and try to help him, even before I could lift a shovel."
Benji chuckled, despite himself. He could see him perfectly: Ethan, barely taller than three apples, running around and creating mischief. Things really hadn't changed much.
"But as I grew older, I started to notice how hard it was for my parents. There was never... No matter how hard they worked, there was never enough money. "
Why Ethan was opening up now, even though he'd never mentioned it before, Benji didn't know. It was so rare for him to speak of his own problems, his own pain - Benji desperately wished it hadn't been a forced confession to a woman he'd never met before, for the sake of a fake relationship with his work colleague. Benji had never prodded him about his childhood. Now, he wished he had.
"It got worse after my father died."
You could feel the edge of pain in Ethan's voice, which just about broke Benji's heart.
"How old were you?"
"Thirteen."
"And yet, you managed to escape to college?"
"I enlisted after high school and studied under the GI bill."
"Why? Was it just the money?"
Her mouth was slightly pursed. She didn't have much love for the military as an institution, and barely more for soldiers. She'd travelled enough and seen enough wars to know what some men thought their right to do once they had a gun in their hand, and regarded anyone involved in them with wariness. Benji wanted to jump up and defend Ethan.
"I thought that I could help."
In anyone else's mouth, it would have sounded pompous, or foolish. But Ethan's voice had none of that. It was simple. Sincere, and true. But Benji knew, knew how far that statement went. It wasn't just in the military, when he'd been barely more than a child, with hopes and dreams to do some good; it was what drove Ethan, now, for the past 30 years and probably until he died.
"And could you?" Muriel laughed a little, wryly. Not because she didn't believe Ethan, Benji thought, but because she knew how useful good intentions were, once you were faced with reality.
"Sometimes."
Benji thought of all the people he'd seen Ethan rescue, himself very much included. And all the one he hadn't been able to save. Again, Ethan never complained, never bothered anyone with how he felt, but Benji knew how painful it was for him, every time. Because no matter how hard he tried, it would never be enough to save everyone.
Muriel huffed with something like approval. At least, Ethan's answers seemed to have convinced her that he wasn't a murderous burglar. She finished her whiskey in one gulp and set the glass down on the table, with enough force to make him wonder how many glasses she'd broken in her youth.
"And I hope you're not the type to hide a wife and children," she said, half-jokingly but still eyeing the candelabra with insistence.
"My wife died five years ago. We didn't have any children."
Again, the truth, or as close as possible.
Benji winced. Clearly, this wasn't the answer that Muriel was expecting.
"I'm very sorry to hear that," she said, with regret.
Knowing that Julia was alive, and happy with her husband and her vocation had been an unexpected relief. He couldn't imagine what Ethan had been through. One more thing that he'd have to ask, once they finally were alone. He couldn't wait for it, even if it was just to ask Ethan what the hell he was doing, but at the same time it seemed like a terrifying perspective. Hearing Ethan speaking with Muriel, in the house he'd practically grown up in was surreal enough on its own, but the way in which she'd strong armed him into talking about himself felt exceedingly intrusive.
There it was: Ethan, his life, in more details that he'd ever dared to ask. Why hadn't he lied?
Muriel rose and gently patted Ethan on the shoulder. At the very least, the interrogation was over, and Benji breathed with relief.
"Well, you seem like a wonderful young man. I won't keep you up any longer. You'll share a room, of course?"
Of course.
His room, its beautiful wood paneling and 19th-century secretary, its view on the garden.
And its one bed.