Work Text:
He doesn't look up, when you come inside. Doesn't even act like anything's wrong.
Slowly you set your bag onto the coffee table in the living room and make your way over to the study. "Hey," you say, and still he doesn't look up. "Ben," you say a little louder, and this time he mumbles a greeting but squints a little more at the book in front of him. He's reading the same line, over and over again. Like he can't focus.
"Ben," you say. "Why didn't you tell me?"
(He should have at least guessed that Juliet would tell you, right?)
His eyes dart from the page for a milisecond. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're usually a much better liar."
You would know. As Alex's de facto second parent, you've spent a lot of time around Ben. You've made peace with the fact that the man is essentially a compulsive liar at this point, even to you. It used to kind of sting, like he couldn't trust you, so he thought he had to lie, but no. it's just habit, or something.
Slowly, he takes his glasses off, and rubs at his eyes. "What do you want me to say?" He asks through his hands that now cup his entire face. "Yes, I have a tumor. No, I didn't think that was possible, either. I've only known for three days. Yes, if - if I die I want you to take care of Alex. Does that cover everything?"
"No, it doesn't! What - what are your chances?"
"I don't know!"
He doesn't shout. Benjamin Linus doesn't shout, merely fixes you with a harsher glare than usual. It has the intended effect, you suppose. He's worried about this, though. He goes back to rubbing at his eyes, and for some reason you decide to stop him by grabbing his hands in both of yours. He startles, but doesn't pull away or glare again.
Big, blue eyes blink up at you, and before you can work out something to say, he speaks. "Please don't ruin this by getting sentimental."
You drop his hands like they're on fire.
please don't ruin this
don't ruin this
Oh. He doesn't want - he doesn't want you to admit you have feelings, because he's dying. Because he already knows. He doesn't want you to ruin your camaraderie, your longstanding, sixteen years of friendship and platonic co-parenting just because he's dying.
"I have faith," his talking only half cuts through the haze you're in. "That it will work out. Have faith with me." He's looking at his hands, now and his glasses are back on his head, all proper and distant like your lapse in judgment hadn't even occurred to begin with.
You nod, but it feels like it's through the crashing ocean waves. Like you're head is heavy and you can only really halfway understand what you're agreeing to.