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Benji Dunn knew he’d never faced a more dangerous situation, yet the night could not have been more serene. No one gripped him by the arm and forced him onward. There was no gun pressed to his back. Ilsa walked by his side, and her face betrayed nothing. To anyone who saw them, they might've just been one of many couples enjoying a nighttime stroll through London. Of course, this couldn't have been further from the truth; Benji's coat- which didn’t look at all out of place in the chill, autumn air- was lined with Semtex. They were prisoners, not bound by shackles or iron bars, but by the Syndicate agents following a safe distance behind, and by a single contact lens broadcasting his every move. The moment he put a toe out of line, Lane would remotely trigger the explosives, killing the pair of them, along with at least a dozen others. They had no choice but to follow the instructions fed to their earpieces.
They were led to a small, outdoor café crawling with innocent bystanders. Benji made instant eye contact with a man he couldn't name, but whom he recognized from Ethan's list of the presumed-dead. The man nodded once, stood from his seat, and retreated into the crowd.
"Take a seat, please,” said Lane. Benji did as instructed. He noticed, as he sat down, the flat device already occupying his designated chair. He didn't need the voice in his ear to know what it was: "Sensitive pressure trigger. I wouldn’t fidget, if I were you."
Benji heard the timer on his chest beep. Whether activated by Lane or by his proximity to the trigger, he didn't know. He sat perfectly still, face forward, not daring to turn his head. He barely had time to guess at the nature of Lane's plan for them, when the earpiece crackled to life once more.
"Ethan will be bringing the unlocked disk. Mr. Dunn, you will repeat everything I say to him, exactly as I say it. Tell me you understand, please."
"I understand," he murmured. So far it seemed his hunch had been correct: bring the disk, or Benji and Ilsa die. Of course capturing the Prime Minister to open the red box was a risk Lane never would have taken himself. He’d already proven how easily he could make the three of them his puppets by having them steal the disk, so there was no reason to think the same tactic couldn't work again. Benji didn't have to wonder whether Ethan was crazy enough to attempt it; of course he was. The only real question was whether he'd succeed and return in time to save the pair of them from an instant, fiery death.
Or so Benji thought. However, Lane's next instructions changed everything. "Ms. Faust, this is your last chance. When you have the disk in your possession, you will kill them both. Fail, and everyone dies."
Only seconds ago, his insides felt like they'd curled themselves into knots. Now they seemed to disappear, leaving him strangely hollow. This was it then, wasn't it? Whether by bullet or bomb, he was a dead man. He wondered idly which it would be, and realized he didn't actually care. How could he have misjudged the situation so severely? He'd thought they were being held for ransom, but of course the truth was less obvious and far more sinister. Ilsa was here to test her loyalty. As for himself...well, he was just the bait. His hands had balled themselves into fists, and his heart beat violently. And yet the panic rising in his chest wasn’t out of fear for himself- though of course he had a healthy dose of that, too. No, what made his breathing uneven and his eyes wet despite himself was knowing that, if Ethan succeeded in bringing the disk tonight, he would die along with them.
Benji had realized his error at the tube station the moment he felt the needle puncture the back of his neck, the drug rendering him weak and helpless enough to be dragged into a van. His lack of focus had allowed Lane to act first and gain the upper hand yet again. At the time, he’d fully expected the mistake to cost him his life, which would've been bad enough. The reality was so much worse. If Lane had his way, Benji would look Ethan in the eye, one dead man to another, and know his own failure had cost the life of someone he loved.
No, his mind rebelled at once. Don't just sit here: do something! His first instinct was to stand and trigger the explosion; at least he'd die knowing Ethan would live to fight another day. But reason caught up with his panic. He remembered where he was, remembered that setting off the bomb would mean the death of more innocents. Glancing around the crowded café, he saw the very people all IMF agents had sworn to protect. If he seriously considered trading their lives for Ethan's, he'd be treating them as a means to an end. And wouldn't that make him just as bad as Lane?
He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply. Helplessness washed over him. There was nothing left to be done; Lane had set his trap too carefully, which meant the rest was in Ethan's hands. How much time did they have left? An hour? Forty minutes? He resisted the temptation to check his timer; it would only take one person spotting it to start a panic. God, he hated just sitting here, left to stew in his own mortality. If the bomb went off, he guessed it would be over too quickly to feel any pain. Still, he couldn't stop himself imagining the explosion tearing through him, his entire body reduced to charred scraps in the blink of an eye. He suppressed a shudder with difficulty.
As the minutes passed, he found himself hoping, almost praying, that Ethan wouldn't show. Let him fail, he thought. Knowing he was hoping for the deaths of more civilians, if only by extension, made guilt grip his heart like a vice. He tried to dismiss it, deciding he could allow himself one last, small luxury. Please. Just this once, let him be too late.
It was then that Ilsa reached forward and brushed a stray tear from his cheek. "Are you afraid?" she asked, her tone sympathetic.
"You’d make fun of a dead man?" he said with a brave attempt at levity.
She ignored this. "Not for yourself,” she said, studying him carefully. "For Ethan?" He clenched his teeth, but didn't answer. She seemed to take it as a confirmation. "You could save him, you know."
"He wouldn't want that."
"No," she agreed, almost to herself. "I'm sure you're right."
"How much time?" he asked. His throat felt like sandpaper.
"Fifteen minutes. If Ethan's coming, he's cutting it very fine."
"If he does make it, do me a favor, will you?" He looked her in the eye for the first time since he'd been taken. "Shoot me first. It’s my fault he’s doing this and I just...I can’t..." He stopped when he couldn’t control his wavering voice. He saw at once the comprehension and sadness flit across Ilsa’s face. He looked away, fighting for control over his trembling chin and watering eyes.
"Okay," she agreed. He nodded once in gratitude. How pitiful must he look at this moment? The lovesick computer geek who thought he could be a field agent like the great Ethan Hunt. Sure, he'd held his own until now, but only thanks to the superior skill of his friends. Isolated, he was nothing. Had any dream ever been so short-lived?
More minutes slipped by in agonized silence. Benji spent them people-watching and wishing he were anywhere else. He'd have given a great deal to be like them: going about everyday life in blissful ignorance of the Syndicate. Why hadn't he just listened to Ethan and gone home after Vienna? Instead he sat here, acutely aware of every breath and every heartbeat, knowing he only had so many left. Among the figures in the crowd, he glimpsed Lane's men, standing still as statues, watching them from just outside the blast radius.
With just eight minutes left, he'd almost started to believe Ethan truly wasn't coming, when Lane's voice returned to deliver the worst news thus far: "He's on his way. Play your parts, please. Or everyone will pay the price."
Benji held his breath to suppress a groan of despair. Did Ethan know he was walking into a trap? Probably. And, knowing Ethan, it was also likely he had a plan. Even so, Lane had been ahead of them all right from the start, and Benji found it difficult to believe they'd fare any better tonight.
Less than five minutes later, Ilsa whispered, "It's him." He didn't dare turn until he felt the familiar presence by his side. Slowly, carefully, he looked up to see Ethan gazing down at him, eyes ablaze with that look of determination Benji loved so much. Then he received his first dictation.
"This is the end, Mr. Hunt," he said in a voice not his own. He watched Ethan find the earpiece, the contact lens, and finally the bomb. At last, Ilsa informed him that his arrival had been a death sentence.
"No time to think, Ethan," Benji said, repeating after Lane. "Have a seat, please." His voice was steady this time, but his eyes still brimmed with traitorous tears. He tried to make his apology show on his face: I'm so sorry. I know I failed you. Ethan's expression was calm, even tender, as he reached over and gave Benji's shoulder a familiar squeeze. Be strong, it said. And through the dread of what was to come, Benji felt the tiniest spark of warmth ignite in his chest. Maybe they were doomed, maybe not. But Ethan's calm reassurance was, at least, enough to hold him together through Lane's triumphant little speech.
"Human nature," he began. "My weapon of choice." While he spoke the words Lane dictated to him, he scrutinized Ethan's face, looking for a sideways glance or the ghost of a smile: any hint at all that he had a final trick up his sleeve. So far there was none to be found.
“You were certain we’d end up where we are, right now,” said Ethan. His voice, posture, and expression were heavy with defeat, and in that moment, it seemed all was lost. "But then again," he continued, and his eyes were once again bright with purpose, "so was I."
To Benji's astonishment, Ethan revealed a plan that was both better and worse than he could have anticipated. Better, because for the first time, Ethan was ahead. Benji saw the brilliance of it at once: having memorized the contents of the disk (or, perhaps, by simply pretending he'd done so), he was using what Lane wanted against him. But it was worse, far worse, because Ethan was proposing trading his own life for Benji's. That was a possibility he hadn't considered.
“Right now you’re thinking it’s a bluff,” Ethan said. “I’d never let my friends die. I couldn’t possibly memorize the entire disk. There’s only one way to be sure. Let Benji go.”
Silence followed from the earpiece, and Benji was sure Lane was going to call Ethan's bluff. The timer's beeping grew louder, more high-pitched as it neared the end of its countdown. His last seconds slipping away, he held his breath and gripped the chair with both hands, knuckles white. They would die together. Right here, right now. Ethan's face would be the last thing he saw...
Then the beeping cut off. The countdown had stopped, and they were still alive. He let out his breath in a choked, half-sob, no longer bothered by the tears that slid down his face. He was hardly aware of Lane speaking this time, but he did notice when the henchmen began creeping towards them.
"They come one step closer," Ethan said to Ilsa, "shoot me." She reacted at once, pressing her gun to his side, declaring her allegiance at last. He heard Lane give the order to stop, and had to suppress the urge to laugh, or maybe cry. This crazy, reckless, brilliant man had actually done it; now Lane was the one taking orders while Ethan called the shots. He'd turned the tables so suddenly, it was almost dizzying. Benji had no idea where they’d go from here, but their situation no longer seemed hopeless. For one thing, he’d already lived a full minute longer than expected, and that was a promising start.
"You remember I told you one day you were gonna take things too far?" he asked, slightly breathless. "This is me speaking, by the way. It’s not him."
Ethan ignored the commentary, all his focus reserved for the target at hand. “The only way this ends,” he said, “is you and me, Lane. Face to face. Only this time I won’t be locked in a glass box. You want your money? The Bone Doctor’s gonna beat it out of me! Now let Benji go!”
Finally, miraculously, Lane gave up the code to unlock the Semtex jacket. Benji slipped it off with care and looked to Ethan for instructions, hoping they would leave together. Instead, Ethan handed over his phone.
"Go."
"Ethan--"
"Brandt and Luther are waiting. Go."
Every part of him wanted to protest, but he saw the resolve in Ethan’s face, and nodded. Not for the first time, I'm trusting you, Ethan Hunt. Let's hope it's not the last.
Hours later, after Lane had been captured and the team debriefed, Benji finally found himself alone with his thoughts. He was standing in the bathroom of the two-bedroom flat he and Ethan were using as a safe house until the IMF could be reinstated. Freshly showered, wearing only pajama pants, he was staring at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. He examined the many scrapes and bruises lining his torso, all the while thinking of those wounds which were invisible, but much slower to heal. Fresh nightmares, at the very least. Possibly worse.
He'd braced himself for much teasing at the way he'd handled his first kidnapping, but there had been no mention of it thus far. Maybe Ethan saw his tears and his panic as signs of an inner weakness too serious to be laughable. Could he use this to bolster his earlier argument that the work was too dangerous? Would he try having Benji removed from the field?
He felt shame burn in the pit of his stomach. Why couldn't he have handled it like Ethan, who could stare death in the face without even blinking? And even if Benji remained a field agent, could he trust himself to deal with similar situations without dissolving into tears? Jaw clenched, furious with himself, he turned and wrenched open the bathroom door…to find Ethan standing on the other side, hand poised in the air as if about to knock.
"Sorry," Ethan said. "You've been in there a while. I was about to check on you." Benji felt his cheeks growing warm. So that's who he was now, was he? Someone who needed looking after?
"I'm fine," he said, heading toward the bedroom, but Ethan flung out an arm and blocked his path. Benji sighed. "Look, it's been a really, really long day. I'm tired and I'd like a rest. So if you don't mind--"
"I know what's bothering you," Ethan said, cutting him short.
"Oh yeah?" Benji couldn’t meet his eye, face hot with humiliation.
"You don't have to be ashamed--" Ethan began, but it was Benji's turn to interrupt.
"Yeah, well that's a lot easier from where you're standing, isn't it? You're not the one who completely lost your head back there."
"You didn't lose your head."
"Bullshit. Just say it already: you were right. I didn't belong in the field in Vienna, and I don't now."
"I don't believe that at all," said Ethan, voice calm. Benji finally met his gaze.
"You don't?" he said, and skepticism was etched into every feature.
"I don't," Ethan repeated. "You showed courage and initiative beyond what could've been expected of you, as always."
"But you didn't break down like--"
“First of all, it's not fair or useful to compare yourself to an agent with more field experience. That wasn’t my first hostage situation, and I’d be lying if I said I’ve handled them all as well as you did tonight. Second, out of the two of us, I was the only one there by choice, and I knew the plan, which makes a world of difference. Third, Lane was no ordinary target. But if I had to face him again, there's no one else I'd rather have by my side. I mean it."
Benji felt slightly dazed. Gazing at Ethan, it suddenly registered how very close they were standing.
"You're...an incredible man, Ethan. And I'm nothing. I'm just--"
"Courageous, brilliant, and a highly-skilled field agent," Ethan finished for him. He hesitated, then asked, "Did you know I have nightmares, too?"
Stunned into silence by the unexpected praise, Benji could only shake his head.
"This job will get to you, Benji, and that's okay. It's not weakness; it's what separates us from monsters like Lane. We accept the hardship because we have to. Because what we do matters."
Benji nodded, mortified to discover he was near tears again. He was so overwhelmed by love for this insane and completely amazing man, he was sure it must show on his face. He had to get out of there, fast, or risk ruining everything. But before he could move, Ethan reached over and gripped his arm. He looked to be struggling with some emotion himself.
"Maybe I didn't show it tonight," he said, and it was a rarity to hear him speak without his usual confidence, "but I was a mess. I thought I was gonna lose you."
Benji gave a weak, breathy laugh, and the things he’d never planned to say came pouring out of him. "Yeah, and I thought I was gonna get you killed! It was all my fault: I didn't even see the Syndicate agents until they took me. And then at the cafe I asked Ilsa to shoot me first, because I knew I couldn't...couldn’t handle watching you die because of me. Because I fucked up."
He knew he was rambling, but it didn't matter. Something inside him had broken, and he was too physically and emotionally exhausted to stop the tears that ran, hot and wet, down his face once more. He bowed his head and tried to trap the sob clawing its way through his chest. But then Ethan wrapped strong arms around him and drew him close. Before he knew it, they were embracing, and he was crying with his face buried in the crook of Ethan's neck. Ethan swayed him gently back and forth, running soothing fingers through his hair, whispering in his ear, over and over again: “It wasn’t your fault. It’s okay. I’m here. It wasn’t your fault...” And Benji didn't, couldn't try to process what was happening between them. Instead, he threw caution to the wind and held on for dear life. In this moment, while the pair of them clung to each other in the semi-darkness, all he knew was they were alive against all odds- he could feel Ethan’s heart beating against his chest to prove it- and that he had never needed another person in his life so desperately.
When his breathing began to slow, he felt Ethan start to push him away. At once, he resigned himself to turning his back and insisting he needed sleep so they could silently agree to never, ever speak of this again. The impression was fleeting, because a second later there was a finger under his chin, lifting his face. Benji's heart pounded as he looked into Ethan’s eyes, and he saw a bit of his own uncertainty reflected there. Tentatively, Ethan raised both hands and brushed the tears from the Benji's face with his thumbs. Benji's eyes fell closed of their own accord, and he hummed softly in approval.
Then he felt the soft press of lips against his, and suddenly, impossibly, he was kissing Ethan Hunt. It was slow and tender and healing, but most importantly, it was so damned natural. Ethan cupped his face in both hands while Benji felt for the hem of the other’s shirt, slipped beneath it, and dragged his palms against the warm, broad expanse of Ethan’s back. Muscle and scar tissue rippled beneath his fingertips. From Ethan’s lips there escaped a small, desperate noise that Benji had never heard before. Touches that began as soft and sweet morphed into something much more urgent. Soon, Benji's back was against the wall, fingers tangled in Ethan's dark hair. Chest to chest, they pressed themselves together as though neither could ever get close enough to be satisfied.
"I believe," murmured Ethan, bending lower to press his lips to Benji's neck, "you said you were ready for bed?" Benji let out a choked moan as sharp teeth sank into the sensitive skin just below his ear.
"Something like that, yeah..."
The next time Brandt saw the pair of them (Benji sporting fresh bruises on his neck and a self-satisfied smirk, Ethan with a new gleam in his eye) he made a mental note that Luther owed him twenty bucks.