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Benji wakes in a cold sweat and sits bolt upright, heaving. His chest is tight and his shoulders feel heavy with phantom weight. He wants to throw up, forces the bile back down his throat instead because the last thing he wants to do is throw up all over himself in bed.
It feels like he’s dying. He worries for a split second that he is dying.
He exhales slowly, closes his eyes and recites the multiplication tables in his head to reign in his thoughts—at least, he tries to, but he sees Lane’s face instead, the way the man’s eyes had stared straight through him, straight into him, and he sees the sneer on his lips when he said, “Get him ready,” like Benji had been a doll to play dress-up with.
Panic attack, his brain supplies unhelpfully. In addition, he supplies himself with methods to help someone having a panic attack, but the information fails to be of use. After all, he’s the one doing the panicking.
So he sits in bed and lets it pass. It feels like it takes an eternity.
He reminds himself that he’s in a hotel room in downtown London and will be flying back out to America with Ethan by next week, that it’s been two days since Solomon Lane was detained and put away. That he’s taking a break after helping stop the end of the world at the hands of the Syndicate. That he’s not being forced to sit in a crowded restaurant and speak for a monster.
Exhaustion washes over him like a tide coming in. He slides out of bed and pads to the bathroom, peeling off his clothes. They’re drenched in sweat and he leaves them on the floor in a wet heap, promising himself he’ll take care of it later.
He takes a hot shower and doesn’t notice the way his skin colors red or the way steam fills the small space, tries not to notice the ache of the bruises on his ribs and arms and ignores the feeling that he’s being watched. He washes Lane’s gaze from his skin and it feels like the return of equanimity.
#
“Benji?”
“Yup, yeah?” Benji untwists in his chair to face Ethan. “What?”
“You doing okay?” Ethan asks. There’s a look on his face that Benji can’t place—maybe he doesn’t want to place it, because it looks an awful lot like concern and there’s nothing to be concerned about.
“Absolutely. I’m doing great. Not sleeping much, but that always happens after a mission. I mean, remember the last one? Phew, I am glad we didn’t have to repeat that one. Stopping nuclear war isn’t exactly how I like to spend my weekends, or any day of the week, for that matter,” Benji rambles. He can’t help it. He doesn’t like the way Ethan’s eyes flit up and down him, narrowed, calculating, assessing. His chest hurts and his breath catches someplace in his throat.
Benji fidgets. He glances over his shoulder again at the rest of the restaurant, gaze lingering on the corners.
“Okay,” Ethan finally responds and Benji is grateful he doesn’t press. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Shouldn’t have to talk about it. Everyone had something happen during this mission, especially Ethan—the man died, for God’s sake. Benji can deal with this on his own like he did the last time. Not because he wants to, but because it’s what he just has to do.
#
He’s standing in the middle of the crowded London terminal, Ethan at his side, when he feels hands on his shoulders, gripping so tight he knows his skin will be bruised. The hands pull him back, cover his mouth and Benji’s breath hitches. He wants to scream but the sound catches in his throat, strangling him, terror making his stomach drop and his heart start pounding. He can’t hear anything past the blood roaring in his ears and he feels nothing but hands pulling, tearing at his clothes. They’re yanking and dragging and he wants to fight but he’s paralyzed with fear, the world is moving in slow motion and he has so much time to react but he can’t, his body won’t budge, his brain is stalled like a computer seizing up and his lungs ache for air and he’s gasping, hand clutching at his own chest—
“You’re in Heathrow Airport, terminal three,” a familiar voice says close to his ear. His first instinct is to jerk away but he knows this voice and can trust this voice. The owner of this voice has always, without fail, kept him safe. “You’ve just finished going through security checks with me, Ethan Hunt. We’re on our way to the gate to catch our departing flight to Los Angeles, which will board in seventy minutes. The airline is British Airways, and we’re taking public flights because we’re going on a well-needed vacation in California, where we will be laying on beaches and doing all the tourist-y things you’ve wanted to do for years and haven’t had time to before.”
He starts to come back, realizes that he’s standing in the middle of the walkway and people are flowing around them like a river flowing around a rock. Ethan stands next to him, a reassuring presence, and Benji falters, his legs giving out.
Ethan wraps an arm around Benji’s shoulders, keeping him from collapsing completely. “Hey, c’mon, let’s find somewhere to sit. We don’t have to be at the gate for another fifty minutes anyway.” Ethan picks up Benji’s carry-on (he doesn’t even know when he dropped it) and steers Benji to the nearest chair.
The row is empty and Ethan is gentle as he lowers Benji into the chair. “Wait here,” he says, and before Benji can reply, Ethan’s gone. Benji blinks and Ethan’s back, sitting in the chair next to him, holding out a water bottle.
“That was quick,” Benji says dumbly.
“Not really,” Ethan says. “There was a long line.”
Benji frowns, brows wrinkling. Did he just lose time?
“Take it,” Ethan says. Benji does.
He doesn’t realize how warm he is until the cold plastic touches his skin. His hands are shaking but he manages to unscrew the cap and take a few sips. The water helps his stomach settle and he sighs, sinking into the chair. That was embarrassing and the way Ethan’s looking at him suggests that there’s no avoiding a conversation. He can’t imagine how he would be able to pass this one off as a random happenstance anyway.
“Do you wanna tell me what that was?” Ethan says. “You’ve never freaked out in an airport before.” His tone isn’t accusatory, isn’t angry. It’s quiet and Benji feels like he’s some frightened animal that Ethan is trying to calm down.
Benji glances at Ethan then looks away, stares at the floor three feet in front of him. The fingers of his left hand dig into his thigh, nails pressing through the fabric of his jeans. He wants it to hurt—needs it to hurt. That way he’ll be distracted from his own thoughts. “The crowd. It just—” he swallows the thick lump in his throat, fails at not sounding choked. “Reminded me of the tube station. When we found Ilsa.”
Ethan’s lips press into a thin line. He places his hand over Benji’s and pries his fingers away from his leg. He squeezes Benji’s hand. “You’re safe,” Ethan says. “Lane is locked away in a high-security prison. He can’t do anything anymore.”
“I know,” Benji whispers, ducking his head. “But knowing hasn’t helped.”
The look Ethan gives him this time is sympathetic. Or is it pitying? Benji doesn’t want pity. He just wants to be able to sleep without seeing Lane’s beady eyes staring at him in his dreams. But Ethan keeps looking at him, seems to be deciding what the next best thing for him to say is and Benji hates it. He doesn’t want Ethan to worry about him anymore. They went through that. It’s done. Benji’s an experienced agent, he can handle some nightmares. Others, Ethan included, have gone through worse.
“Knowing never helps,” Ethan says eventually. “But neither will dealing with this alone.”
“Because you and Brandt have been so good about getting help,” Benji grinds out between clenched teeth. He can’t help but be angry—who does Ethan think he is, telling him how to cope? Ethan never asks for help. He does everything alone.
Well, maybe that isn’t so true. He’d needed Benji at the opera that night in Austria. He’d needed Benji to get the ledger. He’d needed Benji’s help to get to Lane.
Ethan just shakes his head, a bemused smile tugging at his lips. “I won’t argue with you there. My ability to ask for help has always been pretty shaky. But you would know that.” He moves his hand to grip Benji’s shoulder. “You feeling well enough to head to the gate now? We’ve got a long flight ahead of us.”
“Yeah,” Benji says. He stands. Ethan watches him, there to assist if needed, but Benji’s regained his bearings. “Let’s go. The sooner we’re laying on California’s sandy beaches, the better.”
#
It gets easier with Ethan there, helping him keep his mind busy. He almost forgets that Lane ever happened to him.
They spend two weeks in Southern California. They tour Los Angeles and, like promised, Ethan takes Benji to all the tourist spots. They visit the Griffith Observatory twice (once during the day and once at night so they can look at the stars). They walk along the Promenade, listening to the street artists play music (one woman, a violinist, plays covers of pop songs to a background beat; her bow is steady and the violin sings, and Benji thinks he falls in love with her sound there and then). They do a little bit of shopping but there’s little Benji can think to buy, and he decides that teasing Ethan while he tries on tacky, colorful shirts with “California” stitched across them in cursive is more fun. He does buy Jane an Oscar trophy that says “Best Mom,” though. Ethan rolls his eyes but Benji smiles to himself—knowing Jane, she’ll find it funny.
Ethan drags Benji to the Santa Monica pier and they ride the ferris wheel together, and Benji forces Ethan to take selfies with him when they stop at the top. They have bland pier food for lunch and sit on the beach, and Ethan throws sand on Benji. Benji squawks and shouts at Ethan about getting sand in his camera (“it’s expensive, dammit!”), but he’s laughing and Ethan flashes a grin as bright as the California sun.
The California sun shines with a ferocity Benji has only experienced in Dubai. Benji manages to avoid a sunburn by keeping to the shade as much as possible. It’s warm, almost unbearably so, being mid-August. The sweltering heat is enough to make him feel faint and Ethan hands him a water bottle to drink what seems like every thirty minutes. It’s not humid like Casablanca but the temperature shoots up to almost 100 degrees Fahrenheit around noon and doesn’t drop again until the sun goes down.
The nights, however, are cool, a comfortable 70—sometimes 60—degrees, and Ethan takes him to an outdoor restaurant by the water. The breeze rolls in from the ocean, he hears the sound of waves crashing against the shore, and the moonlight dances off the rippling water like some intricate ballet that his eyes can’t follow all the parts of. Benji feels like he’s experiencing paradise.
Even then, he can’t help but keep looking over his shoulder and searching all the lurking shadows. He can’t shake off the feeling of being watched. He feels bad, constantly being alert, because half the time he misses what Ethan’s saying to him due to searching his surroundings instead and has to ask him to repeat it. If Ethan is annoyed, he says nothing about it.
On their fourth day, they drive south to Anaheim and visit the theme parks. Ethan is surprisingly not big on thrill rides.
“C’mon, Ethan, it’s a roller coaster park. You have to go on them!” Benji says, and eventually Ethan succumbs to Benji’s persuasive methods (which consist of jabbing him in the ribs and calling him a “weenie who’ll hang onto the outside of an aeroplane but not go on the bloody Silver Bullet at Knotts Berry Farm”).
Ethan, of course, shoots back with, “I get enough thrill on missions, thanks,” but he lets Benji drag him on all the biggest roller coasters anyway, his smile never faltering.
They go to Disneyland and Benji buys Brandt a t-shirt. It has SHIELD across it in bold lettering, and Benji thinks it’s appropriate because “the IMF is basically SHIELD minus the super heroes.” He somehow gets Ethan to wear Micky Mouse ears with him long enough to get a picture, which he sends to Brandt and Luther. They can’t decide what to get Luther, so they appropriate one of the many Indie CDs Benji had bought in LA. Benji street-passes dozens of people with his 3DS and Ethan rolls his eyes every time Benji pulls it out while they stand in line.
It’s the most relaxing trip he’s ever had in his life, but he’s exhausted throughout its duration. He sleeps poorly, jolted awake by nightmares, and fails to return to sleep after he calms down. Lane’s voice curls around his neck like a vice and slips out of his own mouth like smoke. The bomb’s weight rests on his shoulders like the Earth on Atlas’s and he wonders how he can dare compare his own burden to the Titan’s.
Benji is able to forget them during the day but the dreams can’t—and don’t—escape Ethan’s notice. They’re sharing a hotel room, after all. It’s easier and costs less, but there’s a lack of privacy that naturally comes with the arrangement.
Mid-way through the eighth night Benji is startled awake by one of the nightmares and he gasps audibly, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and running down his temples into his hairline. He shakes and can’t sit up, so he raises his arms and covers his mouth to muffle his sobs. He mumbles the times tables rapid-fire into his fingers, two and two is four, two and three is six, two and four is eight and keeps going.
By the time he reaches the fifteens he comes back to reality and he feels fingers carding through his hair, hears a safe voice murmuring off to his right, “You’re gonna be fine. You’re safe, Benji. No one’s gonna hurt you anymore.”
Benji curls into Ethan’s side, gripping his nightshirt like a frightened child—and he feels like one, feels like he’s eight again, clinging to his mother’s nightgown after a particularly scary dream that leaves shadow men dancing in the dark corners of his bedroom. He sees shadow men in the hotel room too, creeping and looming over him and they all look like Lane, with his long face and snake-eyes and skin stretched too tight over bone. Benji’s breathing comes harsh and ragged and he feels lightheaded but Ethan’s there, warm and solid, and his chest stops aching and his eyes droop.
“It’s okay,” Ethan says above him. “You can go back to sleep. I’ll still be here.”
He doesn’t dream for the rest of the night.
#
“May I kiss you?”
Benji looks up from his book and squints at Ethan. “Pardon?”
They’re at Huntington Beach and Benji’s sitting in a beach chair by the bonfire pit they’ve claimed, hiding under the umbrella, reading Starship Troopers by Robert A. Heinlein. It’s a book he’s been meaning to get around to for a long time and so far, he’s enjoying it.
“May I kiss you?” Ethan repeats. The sun is behind Ethan, haloing his head, and he’s dripping from his dip in the water. His bruises are gone and his other injuries are healing well, leaving pale scars on his skin. His hair is sticking to his face and he’s got a decent tan going thanks to all the time they’ve spent outside. Benji is a little envious because he’ll never tan—even Brandt tans better than he does—and he needs sunscreen with the highest possible SPF he can find to stop from burning. Even then, he manages to burn.
“Um,” Benji says, at a loss for words. Ethan doesn’t budge. He’s looking at Benji but his gaze isn’t hurried, isn’t hurt by the hesitation. He’s merely waiting, Benji realizes, for an answer.
Benji dog-ears his book and puts it on the edge of the fire pit. “You’re not… this is a joke, right?”
Ethan’s mouth tugs down into a frown. “No, I’m not joking. C’mon, Benji, you know what it sounds like when I’m messing with you.”
And he’s right, Benji does, and though his tone of voice when asking the question was uncertain, it was serious.
“You can say no if you don’t want me to,” Ethan says.
The blood rises to his cheeks and Benji knows he won’t be able to pass this one off as a result of the heat. “It’s—it’s not that. I just.” His brain isn’t working. He feels the urge to start reciting times tables again like he does whenever he feels anxious or feels panic setting in. “Me? Of all people?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
Neither speaks. Ethan pushes his dripping hair out of his face. “I’m sorry, the timing was probably bad, huh?”
Benji stands and snorts. “You’ve always had the worst timing. I can’t believe you interrupted my reading for this,” he says and presses his lips to Ethan’s. The kiss is chaste, soft, and Ethan smells like salt and cologne and gunpowder. He drips water onto Benji’s clothes and he doesn’t care much, even if it's freezing as it touches his skin. He’ll just have to join Ethan in the water later, maybe splash some into his face as payback.
When he pulls back, Ethan is beaming at him. “I almost thought I’d read everything wrong,” he says.
Benji shoves him lightly. “And I thought you were way out of my league, so this is a surprising—though not unwelcome—turn of events.”
“You’d think that after everything you’ve done to help me, you’d give yourself a little more credit.”
“Eh,” Benji shrugs. “You’re right. I’ll take the suggestion into consideration. Okay, it’s been reviewed, and the jury is out—Ethan Hunt is still way out of Benji Dunn’s league. Who would’ve thought?”
Ethan laughs. “Alright, alright, think that if you want. I’ll just have to prove you wrong.”
“I should’ve known you’d take that as a challenge,” Benji sighs.
“Don’t expect anything less,” Ethan says and kisses Benji again.
#
Their trip winds down to an end and they’re on their last day in California. Benji is disappointed, but he also feels the need to get back to work, to return to normal life. The work will at least occupy his mind and keep away the whispers of get him ready and where is the disc that come to him when he’s doing nothing. Vacation is relaxing but he’s given too much time in his own thoughts. Sifting through data will at least serve as a distraction, as will his video games.
Ethan takes advantage of his newly granted permission to kiss Benji whenever he pleases. Ethan also doesn’t bother sleeping in his own bed, leans against the headboard next to Benji instead and lets him curl up against his side.
“I don’t think you should get back in the field right away,” Ethan says as he tangles his fingers in Benji’s hair.
“Too bad,” Benji says in response.
“I’m serious,” Ethan says. “You’ve been through a lot of trauma. I didn’t want to bring it up earlier because you were actually relaxed, but since we’re going back to D.C., we need to see about getting you treatment.”
“What about you?” Benji asks, shifting so he’s sitting up. Ethan doesn’t let him stay that way for long, though, wrapping his arms around Benji’s chest and pulling him back so he’s lying on Ethan.
“I’ve dealt with this stuff before.”
“So have I.”
“Not to this extent, you haven’t. We’re getting you a therapist. You really need to talk to a professional, Benji. My not having had one isn’t a reason for you to not have one.”
Benji grants Ethan a noncommittal grunt as a reply.
“PTSD is serious, Benji,” Ethan continues, and Benji tenses. He knows what he has and he knows how bad it can get, but he’s been dodging the diagnosis for himself. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it and now Ethan’s saying it out loud and it burns him, cracks the stupid sense of pride he has that tells him he’s not allowed to have mental health issues. Ethan feels him tense up, though, and rubs a thumb over his hand. “It’ll just get worse if you try to ignore it,” he says, voice softer.
“Okay,” Benji concedes after a few minutes of silence. “I’ll suffer through therapy if it’ll make you feel better.”
Ethan presses a kiss to the back of Benji’s neck. Benji feels Ethan’s lips curling into a smile on his skin. “I feel better already. I’ll even go to the first couple of sessions with you.”
Benji leans back into Ethan. Even if Ethan wouldn’t be there, he supposes getting outside help won’t hurt. Besides, not doing anything will hamper his ability to perform in the field. It might endanger his team, might endanger him.
He knows it’ll take a while to heal, but he can get through it.
After all, he’s dealt with worse.