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Mr. Benedict is a wonderfully kind, intelligent, empathetic person, very aware of his own faults in all regards, except one. The most important fault, he can’t see his own self-worth.
On an early Thursday morning in December, Mr. Benedict decides to cook his team breakfast. It is just the adults (the children had all piled into Reynie and Ms. Perumals’ house last night and aren’t expected back until late this evening) and Mr. B decided there is no better time to take advantage of his insomnia than today.
He manages to scrounge up some eggs and peppers and some white onions, the kind that makes his eyes sting (the kind that Rhonda makes that happy humming noise at), and starts cracking eggs over a high heat pan. Much to his alarm, the egg does not crack neatly. Bits of shell ooze down into the pan and sit right alongside the sizzling egg white.
Rushing to grab a spoon, Nicholas tries his best to pull the evasive shell pieces from the egg whites.
Nothing is working.
The pan is sizzling too loud in his ears and he still hasn’t mixed the yolk with the whites and why didn’t he cut the peppers and onions first? He sets the spoon aside, scrubs his dry eyes with his hand and reaches for the shell piece.
Got it!
There’s egg burning on his fingertips, but he got the shell out and he’s mentally celebrating and trying to shake the egg and shell off his hand and—oh no the edges of the egg are burning!
The sharp acridic scent stings his nose and the pan is so loud. Grabbing the spoon, Nicholas scrapes desperately at the sides of the now-sunny-side-up egg. The scrape of the metal spoon against the metal pan along with the sizzling, and burning smell sets his teeth on edge. He scratches desperately to get the egg off the bottom of the pan, but it’s too late. The bottom is hopelessly burned.
Nose stinging, ears overly-acute, eyes burning, Nicholas moves the pan off the heat and buries his head in his palm.
Just once.
Just one thing.
If he could only do something substantial for the team that has helped him through so much. Milligan putting his life on the line to keep them safe, Number Two cooking and keeping pillows nearby and a sharp eye on the time for him to rest, and Rhonda out on missions under one guise or another to gather information on his brother. Everything is because of his own failure—
A large hand closes over his elbow, turning him away from yet another mistake and into a hug.
Milligan’s arms close around Nicholas as he shakes, eyes burning, but tears refusing to come. He feels someone swoop past them toward the fridge and Milligan guides Nicholas over to the sitting room to sit on the couch while Number Two takes over in the kitchen.
Still shaking, Nicholas tries to pull away as they sit, but Milligan pulls him tighter and squeezes, rubbing his shoulders and back. He’s talking. Nicholas can hear him talking, but none of the words seem to connect to his brain.
He can hear Milligan’s soothing voice telling him that it’s alright and that they all love cooking for him and that they appreciated Nicholas trying to do something for them and it’s all well-meant, but all Nicholas can process is the in between.
The “don’t try to help, we’d rather you didn’t” and the “it was a nice attempt at being useful.” And Nicholas…Nicholas still can’t cry.
He feels the grief burning in his too-tight chest and knows that he’ll pass out any second, but right now, he’s forced to feel every second of his own uselessness and, buried in Milligan’s shoulder, where no one can see, Nicholas opens his mouth in a silent cry, wishing he tears would come, wishing he could process his grief without interruption, wishing his family could rest—
He wakes up, still tucked into Milligan’s side. There’s the smell of omelets, the correct one, not burning, and that pleasant stingy zing of cooked white onions and what smells like ham and Nicholas stirs out of the warm, kind arms of his closest friend.
He immediately regrets the unkind words he’d put into his friend’s mouth, even if he hadn’t spoken them outloud.
“I apologize to you all. I should not have…” tried to help. Tried to do something for you.
“Mr. Benedict.” His name is hard in Number Two’s mouth and he flinches. “Nicholas,” she tries again, softer, “it is six in the morning. You clearly have not slept, nor have you ever made omelets before. It was very sweet of you to think of us, but you don’t need to ‘pull your weight’ around here.”
Nicholas fully flinches at that, missing the glare Rhonda aims at Number Two. She means well, she’s just a touch too blunt for Nicholas to take her words at anything other than face value right now.
“What Number Two means, Mr. Benedict, is that you already do so much. The house, the research, the hours and hours you put into sorting through information and news to catch wind of your br-Dr. Curtain, you do enough, but please! Let us take care of you.” Rhonda kneels in front of him, taking his left hand. “You know us, you’ve listened to our pain and our lives before you brought us here. How could you possibly think that simply being you isn’t enough?”
Nicholas looks up toward his family and sees the apology in Number Two’s eyes and the love in all three. His chest loosens and brings his hand up to scrub his eyes again. “I’m sorry. You’re right, Rhonda. Thank you.”
As he puts his hand back down, Milligan catches his wrist and pulls his hand back up for inspection. The index and middle finger are bright red and throbbing.
Milligan looks him in the eye. “Let’s get you patched up.”
The rest of the team moves into action. Rhonda retrieves the first aid kit, and Number Two plates him a portion of omelet (with a healthy spread of pesto on top), but Milligan hardly moves at all. He sits, a strong, reassuring presence at Nicholas’ side, only moving to wrap an arm back around his friend’s shoulders.
Once Nicholas’ fingers are cleaned and wrapped, and his family is cuddled onto the couch beside him, he takes a bite of the omelet. Today. Right now. It is the most wonderful thing he’s ever tasted.
Finally, he begins to cry.