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Benji suspected Ethan was hurting well before Ethan said anything.
He was quiet, but Ethan tended to be like that after missions and such, so after…everything, it wasn’t a surprise. Still, working together for so long, being in close proximity, you noticed things.
Ethan was holding his right side stiffly, like it hurt. He masked it when standing or walking, or when he knew someone (namely Benji) would see, but sitting in the car he would curl around it. That was another thing: Ethan hated not being the one driving. At first, Benji assumed he was simply tolerating the situation, seeing as they weren’t getting into any car chases, but that alone didn’t sit right. It accounted for him being okay with it for a few hours, not a few days.
It wasn’t like Ethan was trying to hide or ignore injuries—adrenaline and whatnot contributed a whole bunch. Not to mention how often their circumstances were just awful for treatment, which wasn’t his fault. But this was also the same man whose go-to method for dealing with the flu was to hole up in a bedroom and attempt to sleep it off, only emerging to use the loo and consume more water and NyQuil. So Benji had reasonable doubts about Ethan’s ability to handle his own ailments.
Benji glances as surreptitiously as possible over at his friend in the passenger seat. Ethan has his hand placed oddly. It takes a second peek to realize he’s holding the seatbelt away from his hip. Worrying.
Ethan clearly notices the look. “What?” It’s arguably the most he’d spoken without serious purpose since the train.
“You should eat something,” Benji says, trying to change course.
“I’m fine.”
Not hungry, more like. That’s the other issue.
“You haven’t had anything all day. I’ve got a granola bar in my bag if that’s more palatable than an MRE.”
Sparing Benji a look, Ethan pulls out the aforementioned granola bar and eats it, slowly.
While he’s occasionally neglected to eat due to stress or simply forgetting, no one’s ever had to cajole Ethan so much. Not for the first time, Benji really wishes Luther was with them—he’s a bit better at this, or at least not seeming like such a worrywart for it.
Not even an hour later, and Ethan looks properly ill. As in ‘going-to-be-violently-sick’ ill. So it doesn’t come as a surprise when Ethan mumbles “Pull over,” and shoves a hand over his mouth.
Before Benji can even put the car in park, Ethan’s out of the vehicle and a few paces away. Benji winces at the sound of retching and gives the man some privacy while he turns off the car. When it seems like Ethan’s through, Benji hesitantly walks over, offering some tissues and a bottle of water. Ethan takes both, rinsing his mouth before taking a careful sip.
“I think,” he says, quietly, “I need to go to a hospital.”
That…wasn’t what Benji was expecting him to say. Which meant that Ethan was feeling far worse than he’d been letting on.
“I know, it’s a bad idea—“
“No! I mean, I think we should go, I just…let’s go back to the car, and figure out a good place to stop, then.”
Less than two hours later, they’re sitting in an exam room in a tiny hospital, waiting to be seen by someone. Ethan sits on the edge of the table, fingers tapping rapidly. The nurse that sees them is to the point, taking in Ethan’s description of his injuries (with heavily edited explanations) and asking if she can touch him to take a look.
Benji can’t hide a wince at the bruising on Ethan’s abdomen. True, it isn’t as bad as it could have been, but it’s still ugly and swollen, with purple and green marks. Ethan watches, jaw tight, as the nurse carefully palpitates his middle, asking where it hurts more. Then—
“Have you ever had your appendix out?”
“No?”
“Then I think it’s a possibility. I do not believe internal bleeding would cause this much swelling. Have you had any nausea?”
“Yes, he has,” Benji confirms from his spot in the corner, earning a look from Ethan.
“How’s your appetite been?”
“Pretty much nonexistent. I…I’ve had internal bleeding before, and it did make me feel sick—“ Ethan says.
“We can do an ultrasound to determine which one, or if it’s both.”
God, Benji hopes it’s not both.
It feels weird knowing he’s looking at his friend’s internal organs in real time, so Benji averts his eyes even though he’s not sure what he’s looking at. Instead, he looks at the technician’s focused poker face and Ethan, who’s watching the wand so intently you’d think it was a knife.
The tech says that he couldn’t find any internal bleeding (thank God), but Ethan’s appendix looks inflamed. They’ll do a CT to be sure. Even so, it’s pretty likely that he’ll be in surgery within the next 24 hours.
It must’ve been a slow afternoon, because it’s not that much of a wait before Ethan is taken back for the scan. Benji is helping Ethan change into a gown (because he’s in pain and is struggling to lift his arms over his head at the moment) when the conversation he kind of anticipated happens.
“Benji.” Ethan’s sitting kind of slumped, holding his sweater to his chest, probably because it’s cold but possibly also for the comfort.
“Yeah?” Benji responds, a bit off hand as he figures out the fasteners across the shoulders. The ones with the ties in the back are unfortunate but so much easier…
“If anyone figures out we’re here—“
“What, you think I’d leave you behind?”
“I’m—I can’t do much of anything like this. If it comes down to it—“
“If it comes down to it, I’m still taking you with me, and you won’t be able to do anything about it,” Benji admonishes. “And nothing’s going to happen. If I’m wrong, you can tell me ‘I told you so.’” He’s anxious himself, but he’s learned from his team that acting confident helps tremendously. It must work, because Ethan smiles slightly.
“Good. Now that we’ve got that worked out, let’s get this on. It’ll be alright,” Benji says.
It’s appendicitis.
Ethan is…upset wouldn’t be quite the right word for it.
“Are you allergic to any medications?” Another medical person asks.
“Sulfonamide. Penicillin is okay,” he says, staring down at his socks as he sits on the bed. He’s been way quieter, which worries Benji far more than the infection.
Eventually they’re left alone in a room to wait for the inevitable procedure. Benji’s sitting in one of the more comfortable chairs he’s experienced in the past few hours (and there’s been several). Ethan is sitting in the bed, picking at the hem of the blanket in his lap. Sitting, not laying down like what would probably be more comfortable. He’s got an IV in his hand now giving him something for the pain, but Ethan lowered it to almost nil as soon as the last nurse left. Benji doesn’t feel up to debating it with him, so he leaves it alone.
He does end up convincing Ethan to at least engage in a modicum of rest by laying back a bit. Small victories. Benji turns back to his music.
He’s been hesitant around computers since Abu Dhabi, but this is an exception. Dissatisfied with most options for playing a music collection, Benji had stripped an older smartphone of its original software, making it exclusively for storing music files. While an iPod or MP3 or something might’ve been simpler, it wouldn’t have been as durable and probably wouldn’t have held about 30 operas and more than 100 symphonies. It couldn’t connect to wi-fi anymore, which was safer for clandestine work (not to mention vital in their current situation).
The problem was finding something…appropriate? Reassuring? Benji isn’t sure how to define what he’s looking for. All he knows is that Song of the Earth was too full, the Haydn String Quartet too light, Rachmaninoff 2 was too intense, and Beethoven 3 too… something. Optimistic? A weird connotation for Beethoven, but it’s the closest term for how he’s feeling about it right now.
He scrolls through the varied selections, trying to figure out what will help him not think for a while. Few hours would be ideal, but Benji’ll take the roughly 30 minute runtime of a Mozart symphony if he thought it’d work. He’s kind of regretting loading the phone up with so many dramatic, intense pieces. It too closely resembles the troubled ache in his chest.
He looks over towards Ethan, who seems to have finally succumbed to exhaustion, judging by his slow breathing and relaxed form. He’s facing away from Benji, so he can’t read his expression. He hopes it’s a restful sleep. God knows he deserves it.
Neither of them have slept more than a few hours since they left Venice. More specifically, neither of them have slept much since Ilsa…since Ilsa. God, it’s been days and Benji still feels his eyes water involuntarily. Every time he thinks he’s gotten it all out he’ll think about her and there he goes. He’s pretty sure Ethan cried too, that morning after (he didn’t see it, but Ethan doesn’t like to show that sort of thing. Maybe it’s a leadership thing. Benji’s only seen Ethan tear up involuntarily from pain and once from a sad movie on a long flight.) Benji wishes he could focus on anything but Ilsa’s limp figure on the steps of the bridge when he thinks of her, which will probably haunt him like little else.
He puts on Dvorak 6 and hopes it will do something comforting for him.
Benji is startled out of his doze by the unmistakable sound of bile. It only takes a moment to spot Ethan, hunched over the bed rail. With a rushed swear, he jumps up out of his chair, hand on Ethan’s shoulder.
Immediately he‘s struck by how warm Ethan is. Logically, it tracked, what with how the nurses were continually checking his temperature and asking if he felt achy or too hot or cold. It was another thing to feel an obvious fever with a single touch.
Benji tries his best to reassure his friend, fumbling for the call button the night nurse pointed out earlier while ignoring his own growing panic. Ethan looks up towards him with a glassy, pained gaze.
Half a dozen medical personnel rush Ethan in a terrifying crowd. There’s not much for Benji to do besides tell them that the vomiting hasn’t been going on for long and keep his hand on Ethan’s shoulder.
Benji winces seeing Ethan’s abused middle again, which is somehow worse. If there was any doubt it was appendicitis, it’s gone for sure. This time, Ethan’s eyes immediately flutter closed when his abdomen is pressed. It’s the same reaction as that time he said he was fine getting his dislocated shoulder put back without a local and fainted as soon as it was moved. Which, of course, means it’s bad.
Ethan is very quickly whisked off to surgery. Benji is only able to keep Ethan in his sight until they push the anesthetic and he drifts off in a drugged sleep and Benji is sent off to yet another waiting room.
Now to wait however many hours until he gets out.
Technically, a procedure for an un-burst appendix shouldn’t take long—couple hours, at most—but that’s an eternity when you’re stressed and anxious, and currently Benji is both. He’s never really been a nail biter, but he’s almost tempted to start. He has been picking at a cuticle for the past few days, though, which should suffice. He sits down in a chair (one that gives a good view of the rest of the room and its exits), bouncing his leg.
The look Ethan had right before…it was terrifyingly similar to after the torus, after he’d been—
Benji jabs his nail into the cuticle, wincing lightly at the sting. Nope. Don’t go there. Ethan did not die then, he didn’t die even after Benji told him to jump off the cliff, and he certainly isn’t going to die from an appendix that they’re probably removing as we speak…
He internally flinched at the thought of strangers cutting into Ethan’s body. It’s like there’s no safe train of thought.
Benji once again wishes he wasn’t alone here. It might make it a little easier to bear. A little banter with Luther, losing a round or three of California Jack to Jane and Brandt, something like that. Even Ilsa would have been pleasant company; they’d wiled away several days after Kashmir sharing recovery tips, watching Ethan sleep, and discussing the best places to be stuck due to inclimate weather. He misses her so much—her loss hurts both more than and as much as Benji might’ve expected it too.
This mission has certainly earned its place as most nightmarish for him, beating out: his first, where someone died and they were all disavowed for the duration; the one where he was taken from a public place and decked out in explosives; and the one where he was nearly hanged by the same person who tried to kill him before. All hard to beat, honestly.
In his trying to come to terms with…what had happened, Benji had taken a little comfort in knowing that that would probably be the worst. It makes sense that he would be…well, not okay after nearly dying. It’s to be expected. But he didn’t nearly die this time, and that’s the worst part.
Ethan and Grace nearly died in the train derailment. Ethan’s badly bruised and now sick on top of that. Ilsa…Ilsa is dead. And Benji? Benji’s mostly just stressed.
He remembers that that was the worst thing about London; for all the drugging and shoving him into a bomb vest, Lane hadn’t touched him. Vinter had been rough and grinned wolfishly like he really wanted to torture him, but he didn’t. In all honesty, the anticipation of it all was far worse than anything the Bone Doctor could cook up, and Lane evidently knew that. So Benji’s kind of aware that this is not an unusual way to be feeling, all things considered.
It doesn’t make things any better. Or easier.
He glances down at his analog watch to check how long he’s been ruminating Ethan’s been in surgery and sees his fingers are covered in blood. Damnit.
Benji darts into the nearby restroom before anyone can notice.
He’d gotten better about things like this; practically gotten over it completely. It had been a vague thing that lingered in the back of his head, one that hadn’t really manifested until a few years ago, after…well, after he’d nearly died. Not that there were never risks before, it’s just…different when a terrorist is wrapping a rope around your neck.
One bad mission, and he’s back to cleaning up blood in a bathroom. At least it’s only a cuticle.
(It still feels like a failure, though.)
Pressing a damp paper towel to his face, Benji makes an effort to get a hold of himself. He sighs shakily, looking up at himself in the mirror. He looks ghoulish, pale with shadows under his eyes. It’s remarkably similar to Ethan in the height of his fever, except Benji isn’t sick. Just haunted. God, he’s so tired. He wishes that it didn’t have to be them, that this could all be over. But it won’t be, not for some time.
A long time ago, Benji had heard the advice that when things are bad, it helps to focus on what isn’t. What isn’t awful right now?
Good things…they found a suitable hospital on short notice. Ethan is getting necessary medical care. The hospital staff has been kind and most speak languages he and Ethan speak (Italian and German and English). They are kind of in a planning limbo and don’t have any immediate demands, so they can rest a bit. They have the key—the completed key—so now they’re mostly set for phase two. They have food and clothes and each other. They can make it.
They have to.
It’s a huge relief when Ethan wakes, vaguely lucid and without tears. It usually happens due to anesthesia and probably just being overwhelmed. Honestly, if he had cried, Benji would have probably cried too. It’s been an awful few days.
But he’s not crying, so Benji just watches as Ethan blinks, shifting slightly on the bed as the lights in his head start to turn on.
When his friend looks like he might actually be aware, he moves so Ethan can see him.
“Hey, buddy.”
Ethan hums, gaze slowly focusing.
“How’re you feeling?”
It takes him long enough to answer that Benji nearly asks again when Ethan finally seems to figure out how to reply.
“Here,” he says.
“Yeah, mate,” Benji says, feeling a smile grow on his face. “One organ less and all that. It’s almost 5 in the morning now; you went in for surgery a little before midnight. They were able to do it without opening you up completely, so fewer incisions, shorter recovery time. You’ll be back to jumping off cliffs soon enough.”
Ethan huffs a laugh, carefully.
“When…” he starts to ask.
“We’re staying put, til they’re sure the surgery went fine and you finish with the round of antibiotics you’re on.”
Ethan nods drowsily. Benji gives his IV-less hand a pat and returns to his seat.
Eventually, a nurse comes to remove Ethan’s nasal cannula and checks his incisions. Benji’s not really an expert, but they look alright (and neater than any stitches he’s ever done himself). The nurse says that Ethan’s fever has mostly gone down, so the antibiotics are doing their job. That’s good—and hey, they might be able to leave soon, he knows Ethan doesn’t like hanging around hospitals when he’s awake enough to care. Before that, though, they’ll need a destination in mind.
Benji flips through a map of the area, trying to visualize routes but more listening to Ethan fidget slightly. He’ll need to tell him off for it if he messes with any of the cannulas…
“Talk to me, Benji.”
Benji looks over at Ethan. He’s gazing at the ceiling, but his expression—jaw tight, lips pressed together—is a familiar one.
“About?”
“Anything.”
“Okay. Um.” Benji flounders for a good topic to ramble about. “Have you ever heard of Paul Hindemith?”
“Can’t—can’t say I have,” Ethan replied, shifting carefully into a more comfortable position.
“Oh! Well, he’s really cool. Wrote music in Germany during the 1920s and 30s. A lot of it’s accessible—you know, easy to understand. I think I have Mathis der Maler on here—the symphony, not the opera.” It’s always easier to show these things rather than explain them, he’s learned. He pulls out his personal music library and hunts through to find Hindemith.
“There’s two?” Ethan asks, sounding more intrigued.
“He wrote the opera first, then the symphony on the themes; kind of a promo,” Benji explains. “The opera’s about the artist of this…relief painting in a church; and the role of an artist during upheaval. Very pertinent.”
“Because it was 1930s Germany.”
“Exactly. Here it is,” he turns up the speakers and hits play, and the room is slowly filled with hopeful woodwinds, rising horns, and warm strings.
They talk and listen to Hindemith and things feel less bleak, for a while.
In the downtime that Benji hadn’t been on the verge of a minor breakdown, he’d been working on finding a safehouse; somewhere close by with no smart technology. Despite the difficulties, he’d figured out a few options. After getting Ethan loaded into the car, they selected one at random.
The drive to the cabin was silent, but at least it was apparent why—what with Ethan having had surgery about 12 hours before and Benji being veritably exhausted.
They make it to their destination without incident, thankfully. They clear the space quickly, Ethan for signs of recent tampering and Benji for any surveillance devices. The most modern pieces of technology are a boxy, geriatric television and a dishwasher likely old enough for a pension, so they’re fine on that front. From there, the next order of business is getting Ethan settled. He’s recovering well, but Benji can tell he’s flagging and wants him laying down as soon as possible.
“Tuck a pillow there so you don’t accidentally lay on your stitches,” he says.
“Yeah.” Ethan settles against said pillows, looking about ready to sleep again. It’s probably going to be tricky, knowing him to be a side sleeper most of the time (hence the pillow), but Ethan has slept in all sorts of situations, including an actual tornado once. He should be fine with three little incisions.
“I’ll be in the next room. You’ll wake me if you need me?” Translation: you will not deal with stuff yourself, let me help you. (They’ve done this whole song-and-dance before, from both sides.)
“Of course.”
Benji shuts the door most of the way shut and goes to flop on the musty sofa.
After the past twenty-four hours, Benji really thought he’d crash immediately. But now that there’s nothing to do, the anxiety is ramping up again. He sighs, staring at the ceiling beams. Normally he’d work off the anxiety, but there’s nothing technical for him to do. He’s not hungry enough to bother cooking or dirty enough to bother showering. The break he’d wanted so badly is here, and he can’t enjoy it. Good grief, Benji’s never wanted another bat-in-the-house situation more. Even though he’d have to move.
He’s debating the merits of getting up and grabbing his bag (maybe Music for Large Ensemble won’t help, but it wouldn’t hurt either) when there’s the sound of the bedroom door opening.
Ethan shuffles slowly out of the bedroom and sits next to Benji on the couch. Either he’d taken a very short nap or he’s having the same problem Benji’s having. He’d make conversation, but he can’t think of anything.
“Hmm.” Ethan was also gazing at the ceiling, hand resting on his side under his shirt.
“You in pain?”
“No, I just…I don’t know. I’m still tired.”
“Ethan—“
“Okay, a little achy. Still a little off from the anesthesia.”
“Okay, then,” “why’re you out here, instead of sleeping it off?”
“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Ethan says, turning to look him in the face. His eyes were clear, and full of concern. Not out of the ordinary for him, but for reasons Benji fully comprehends it makes him want to cry.
It must show on his face, because Ethan shifts carefully to wrap his arm around him. Benji does the same, mindful to place his hand where it won’t press on an incision or tickle.
“I’m okay. We’re okay,” Benji says, and it almost feels true.