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The first thing Benji says, absurdly, is, “You’re meant to be in Singapore.”
One issue with that is that he’s not meant to know where Ethan was; another, more pressing, issue is that Ethan is clearly in Benji’s apartment and bleeding all over his carpet, so when it comes down to it his whereabouts aren’t priority number one.
“I could use some help,” is all Ethan says, hand pressed tight to the shoulder that appears to be producing all the blood.
“Right, yeah, of course.” Benji’s frozen for a couple more seconds before he pulls himself together. “Bathroom’s through this way—well, you know where the bathroom is. Just come through and I’ll think of something.”
He’s got a first aid kit, but it’s hardly one to be proud of, just simple bandages and antiseptic and nothing in the league of the injury Ethan’s sporting. It’ll have to do.
“See, this is what happens when I take time off,” he babbles. “You go and get yourself into all sorts of trouble. I thought Ilsa was with you—hang on, is she—?”
“She’s fine,” Ethan says, sitting heavily on the side of Benji’s bathtub. Spots of blood keep dripping off him, but to Benji’s untrained eye they seem to be slowing down, which must be a good sign. “We got split up in Denmark—it’s a long story.”
“One that I am most certainly not authorized to know,” Benji says.
“I trust you,” Ethan shrugs, and then winces when the movement jolts his injury.
“You realise, of course, that I am not a medical professional,” Benji says, while Ethan undoes the buttons of a shirt that may once have been white. It’s hard to tell, between the dirt and the blood. Benji hovers, hands twitching by his sides. If it’s painful to remove the garment, Ethan doesn’t let it show.
The gash is smaller than Benji might have expected, given the volume of blood—it’s reassuring, but not enough that his heart slows back to normal. He digs a flannel out from under the sink, starts running water until it turns warm. He notices, dimly, the shaking of his hands.
“You’re okay,” he says, more to hear it than to receive an answer.
“I’m fine,” Ethan says. “I’m always fine.”
“You’re a bloody liar, is what you are,” Benji admonishes, stuck on whether to administer the water or antiseptic first, because his brain isn’t currently working. “Ankle’s not even done healing yet, and now you’re out getting shot.”
“It’s not a bullet wound,” Ethan says. “It’s a knife wound.”
“That makes me feel so much better, thanks.”
“It should. If there’s one thing I like about this country,” Ethan says, because they’re in Benji’s London flat, where he’s meant to be resting and relaxing and taking time off, “it’s that I’m less likely to get shot.”
Benji notices, as he begins the process of cleaning off the blood, that Ethan’s stomach is essentially one big bruise. There are small cuts up and down both arms, all tucked into the tapestry of scars Ethan has accrued over the years. And—he’s seen Ethan injured before, was there when half the bones in his body were broken and he had to be handcuffed to the hospital bed to stop him leaving too soon. But he’s never been in a position where he’s the one, inexplicably, that Ethan has chosen for help. He tries not to think about the reasons Ethan might be avoiding hospitals, and instead assesses the knife wound. It’s small but deep, still bleeding sluggishly.
“Benji,” Ethan says. His voice is soft. “I really am okay.”
“Mm.”
“It’s just that you look—”
“I know what I look like,” Benji says tightly. “Sorry. It’s just that ten minutes ago I was watching Antiques Roadshow and now I’ve got to—does this need stitches? It looks like it needs stitches.”
Ethan nods grimly. “I’d go somewhere else, but—”
“Bad people looking for you, no other contacts in London, I get it.”
“I’ve got other contacts in London,” Ethan says, a little huffily. Like he thinks Benji would think less of him for not having fifty-two contingency plans in any given scenario.
“I don’t suppose you brought your own sewing kit,” Benji says.
Ethan shakes his head. “You can glue it shut.” At this, Benji has to clutch at Ethan’s less injured shoulder for support. “Or staple it?”
“Fucking Christ,” Benji says, getting to his feet. “Hang on, I bet my nana gave me a sewing kit for Christmas years ago and I just chucked it under the bed. If I come back and find you with a stapler, I’m kicking you out.”
*
It takes two hours to get Ethan to a state where Benji isn’t worried he’s going to bleed out during the night. Ethan insists all his fretting is irrational, but he’s also pale and unsteady and not qualified to make calls about his own health after the time he attempted to go undercover in a known terrorist’s home while concussed.
Around an hour in, Benji had become aware of how shirtless Ethan is, but he’s dealing with it.
“I’ll get you some ice,” he says, when Ethan is settled somewhat comfortably on the sofa. “Or a bag of frozen peas, at least. Something.”
“Thank you,” Ethan says. His eyes are closed, head tipped back against the arm of Benji’s shitty threadbare couch. What Benji hates most of all is how vulnerable he looks like this. This man could die, he thinks, and it clenches down on his heart and his lungs and makes it harder than usual to resist the urge to touch him.
He fetches the bloody peas and grabs a packet of the strongest pain relief medication he has, which amounts to a 49p packet of paracetamol. And, while he’s at it, he makes tea, because he knows there’s actually two things Ethan likes about England.
“Benji,” Ethan says, the moment he’s back. “I wanted to tell you, I—there isn’t anyone else I would…that I would trust like this.”
His eyes are still closed, but there’s a furrow to his brow that wasn’t there before. Benji wants to smooth it away, doesn’t know how.
“Thanks,” he says, voice small. “I, um. I brought tea.”
Ethan’s eyes flick open, but his frown only gets deeper.
“It’s just that I missed you,” he says. “I didn’t… Well, strictly speaking I didn’t need to follow this lead to London, but I knew that you were here. And it’s only been a couple weeks, but I just—I need you on my team.”
There’s a flush crawling across Benji’s skin. He sets the tray of mugs and sugar and milk down on the coffee table and stares fixedly at the framed Fight Club poster above Ethan’s head.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he tries, and hears Ethan’s frustrated noise.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I can’t read your mind, Ethan,” Benji says. “Drink your tea.”
Ethan takes it with a lot of sugar, more sugar than he’d ever allow in something he ate. Ethan’s diet comprises mostly of depressing-looking chicken salads without any dressing, but he drinks coffee and tea with four sugars apiece. Benji sometimes wonders what Ethan’s resting heart rate is.
Benji drinks tea black, no sugar. He doesn’t actually like the taste very much, but it reminds him of his mum, dead for eleven years this spring. He curls into the armchair a ninety-degree angle from Ethan and sips at his drink.
“I’m not letting you leave for at least a few days,” he says. “Or until you get back into contact with Ilsa.”
“You don’t have a guest room,” Ethan points out.
“So you’ll take my bed.”
“And you’ll sleep…?”
“On the couch.”
“This couch?” To make his point, Ethan stretches his legs out to their full length. His knees hook easily over the arm of the sofa, and he’s a few inches shorter than Benji.
“I’ve done it before,” Benji says. He’d been apocalyptically drunk at the time and had regretted it for three weeks, but he’s done it.
“I know your chiropractor,” Ethan points out, because there’s one on the IMF payroll, “and I will tell on you.”
Benji thinks it over. Michelle is terrifying.
He takes a breath. “Well,” he says, “the bed’s a Queen-size. We’d both fit.”
Ethan’s gaze darts to him, then away. “I’m sure we would,” he says.
*
It’s not even the first time they’ve shared a bed. Safehouses being what they often are, Benji’s been in a fair few situations where he’s had to curl up with Ethan in a single, either shivering or sweating depending on the climate. They’ve even developed a way to do it comfortably, Ethan’s head on Benji’s shoulder and legs stacked together—all professional and not at all something Benji obsesses about for the weeks following.
Still, it’s different having someone in your bed.
Ethan always takes the left side. He sits down on that side, his side. Somehow that’s even worse, the thought that they’ve got a sort of routine to this shit. That this comes naturally to them by this point, without an awkward negotiation about who goes where.
Come to think of it, Benji’s never had to share a bed with Brandt or Luther.
He shakes himself out of his thoughts and wrenches open his chest of drawers, grabbing the first pair of sweatpants he sees.
“Here,” he says, tossing them to Ethan. “You can wear these. I’ll be in the bathroom.”
There’s not much chance of Ethan asking for help in a situation like this, not more than he already has. Because Benji’s known to pick his battles every once in a while, he’ll trust Ethan to get partially dressed without reopening his stab wound. That’s the kind of deep trust you develop with a colleague you’re a little in love with after thirteen years on the job together.
He brushes his teeth in something of a daze. He’d already been dressed for bed when Ethan arrived, Star Trek t-shirt and sweats, and he looks a little despairingly at the picture he makes in the mirror. Ethan, who has just been stabbed, looks considerably more put together than Benji does.
That’s just the way his life seems to work these days.
He keeps his eyes trained away from the lingering slashes of brick red along the rim of the bathtub. He’ll clean up tomorrow, but for now he just wants to sleep this whole experience off.
When he re-enters the bedroom, Ethan’s lying on his uninjured shoulder, facing towards the middle of the bed. Benji gets in beside him, staying resolutely on his back and shutting his eyes, staying stock still so as not to rustle the sheets.
Just as he’s drifting off, he thinks he hears Ethan say something, so quietly it could be the start of a dream.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m imagining it.
It doesn’t make any sense, but then, neither does Benji’s dream about being on a rocket shaped like the Eiffel Tower.
*
Muscle memory. There’s no other explanation for why they’ve ended up like this, half-twisted together—as close as it’s possible to be without jostling Ethan’s shoulder, really. Benji’s traitorous brain has decided it’s another safehouse situation, and that’s why his arm’s secure around Ethan’s waist and there’s a tuft of Ethan’s hair threatening to make him sneeze.
“Um,” Benji says, because the sun’s up, streaming through the open curtains, and as such there’s no way Ethan isn’t awake. “Good morning.”
“Mm,” Ethan says vaguely.
“How’s your shoulder feeling?”
He should move, probably. Or Ethan should move. Why hasn’t Ethan moved?
“Like it was sewn together by a man of limited expertise,” Ethan replies. Benji can tell he’s smiling, which is nice.
“More paracetamol?” he asks.
Gravely, Ethan says, “Benji, I do not believe the paracetamol had much of an effect on the stab wound.”
“Maybe you just didn’t take enough.”
“I took the recommended amount.”
Benji hums. “I can go out and get you something stronger, once you get off me.”
“What if I’m comfortable here?” Ethan asks. Benji’s entire digestive system does an enthusiastic somersault.
“Um, like, specifically…?”
“With you, yes.”
Benji swallows. “That would be,” he says, “different.”
He feels Ethan’s head tilting back, and for a few embarrassing moments he can’t bring himself to look down and meet his eyes. When he does, Ethan’s expression is as soft as he’s ever seen it, an open book under sleep-ruffled hair. Benji breathes out slowly.
“Benji,” Ethan says. It’s always nice to hear Ethan say his name, with a little teasing lilt to the syllables, like there’s a joke they’re both in on. Or—Benji had thought he’d been in on it. His entire world is feeling a little off-axis right now. “If you want, I can get up and we can never mention this again. I’ll make scrambled eggs, and nothing has to change—”
“No, I don’t want that,” Benji says, too quickly. “I’m just trying to understand—I mean, me? Really?”
Ethan’s laugh is like its own melody. “Yes, Benji, you.”
The way he leans up is hesitant, both for the shoulder and—Benji thinks, maybe—a hint of nervousness. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ethan nervous before, so he could be imagining it, but when he finally touches his lips to Benji’s the pressure is soft, barely-there. It’s up to Benji to bring his hand to the back of Ethan’s head, deepening the kiss as much as he can without exposing either of them to the perils of morning breath. He still feels hazy and half-asleep, even as his heart thunders in his chest.
When Ethan draws back, Benji lets out a breathless half-laugh.
“I never thought I’d get to do that with you,” he confesses in a rush, and revels in the way Ethan’s eyes crinkle in response, smile bright and unguarded.
Ethan sits up and traces a finger along the curve of Benji’s lips.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll still make you breakfast.”