Chapter Text
The echo of the gunshot is probably the loudest thing Benji’s heard in a while.
It shouldn’t be. It’s not the first, and won’t be the last. There's not much more to say apart from that.
Maybe it could be said that by all means, the mission was supposed to be quick; a quick entrance, a quick extraction, a quick exit. Granted, Benji should know by now that quick almost never means easy. In fact, most times it’s the exact opposite.
The hotel they’re inside screams wealth. The endless blues of the bay are visible from the balcony of the overwhelmingly white room. The curtains are the only pop of colour around the place, and it makes Benji nervous as he clutches his bleeding arm in hopes of stopping the seemingly endless flow of crimson red. How they even got here, he’s not sure anymore.
The part he remembers best is that it all starts with a dash around the streets of Cannes that leads to la Croisette, and sees Ethan barging through the silver revolving doors and into the lobby, almost simple in its prestigious beauty: all marble, gold, and grandiose splendour, even as surprisingly tiny as the hall itself is.
Naturally, Ethan is chasing down a person holding an overnight bag they’d taken from the original mark —a very wealthy corporate man, a CEO to a tech company or other that had no business owning the codes for the French arsenal of nuclear weapons— and within it a very important hard drive the size of an encyclopaedic tome. He is in turn being chased by Benji in hopes neither of them will get themselves killed today.
Jane and Luther stay behind, frantic —and honestly, exasperated— questions of where are you going? rushed through comms in the middle of aiming a sniper at a person looking to shoot at Ethan's back, and messing with security cameras respectively.
At some point during the gruelling chase, Benji's lost Ethan, who's had to distract a few suspicious-looking suits —it's unsurprising that they've taken notice of the three people completely out of place as they sprint through the halls of a too-elegant five-star hotel— and in turn found himself inside an empty junior suite. Graciously, if he does say so himself, he's managed the scuffle until left with an unconscious man beside him, a slashed shoulder, and the bag with the hard drive they need to take with them, all while trying to explain to the rest of the team where they've ended up after the mad race about the city.
He can still hear the sound of Ethan fighting what surely must be two pretty well-trained people in the background as he concentrates on desperately looking around the room for a quick exit that isn't the front door he's just heard banging against, or the balcony facing the French Riviera.
And really, that’s how it happens. There's not much more to it, which somehow just makes it even more troubling to Benji. He wishes he could describe it in detail; maybe it would make it easier to rationalise.
Alas, one second he can hear Ethan in his ear, telling him that he’s inside the Penthouse on the seventh floor, all clear, and the next he’s cut-off mid-sentence by the resounding, if dry banging sound of the gun going off.
It shouldn’t make Benji pause for a second. And yet it does.
After all, this is different. A whole other language. A language where Benji has to re-learn the way in which Ethan's presence beside him fades like smoke in the air in the face of danger. In the face of their daily lives, the echoes of footsteps on the street; the two are intertwined.
There is no place for Ethan and Benji to exist where danger isn't present.
He'd thought he'd made peace with it, but now that he thinks about it, he might have been wrong. He might have been out of his depth.
And so, here he is, rearranging the meaning of sentences written all over the page in a language that gains new words every time he fears Ethan's finally bitten off more than he can chew.
“Ethan?” Benji asks, because it's all he knows how to do. Because he can't think of anything other than the empty space where Ethan’s voice should be, or what to do with it.
He’s not exactly sure why he expects a response. The air inside the room feels stale, cool and artificial —courtesy of the AC running and the closed windows. A second passes, and then two. Three. Ethan’s response never comes.
“Ethan,” Jane’s voice sounds out. No panic is betrayed by her tone, but Benji can practically see her furrowed brow, her eyes moving from side to side as if looking for the signs of life in the silence that answers her. “Can you hear us? Over.”
No sound comes. Benji's heart contracts inside his chest, running a mile a minute. Suddenly, he feels older. More tired than he had felt this morning.
“He's not answering,” he chokes out, though he knows it's barely a whisper. It's all he can manage in the middle of the panic taking over his body, swimming through his bloodstream until he can hear his heart rate rising like a tidal wave.
It's obvious what he has to do— it's not even a question. He's made up his mind before there's a chance at saying it out loud.
But Jane must know him well enough by now, because in a second she's commanding, “No, no— you can't leave the room.”
“No, I have to. I have to check on him.”
“Benji. Listen to me.” She's somehow firm and soft all at once. “This could be exactly what they want. You have the hard drive, and they could be trying to lure you into a trap. You know this.”
The worst part is that he does. Benji can't hold it against her; he knows she's right, and that it pains her to voice what he's choosing to ignore considering the circumstances.
“It's Ethan,” Jane reassures. “He'll make it out.”
But will he? Benji is not so convinced.
He knows perfectly well that Ethan would go straight into the lion's den with no hesitation; he knows he'd do it. For him, and for anyone in their team. For anyone in danger.
That's who Ethan is.
And that's who Benji needs to be, wants to be for Ethan.
Ethan, always running into fire, into floods for the people around him. Always getting up when he knows it'll drag him down further later, because there's no other possibility in his mind. There's no limit he won't push, no path he won't cross.
So, he doesn't second-guess himself either when he asks, “Luther, have you contacted Brandt yet? Told him we have the hard drive?”
That's where his priorities should lie. But he cannot be dishonest with himself, no matter how easily he could deceive the outside world trying to look in. He's always known where his body will take him, mindlessly. He's always known who he'll follow after.
It's a short moment that feels like eternity before Luther answers a resolute, “Done,” ever so reliable.
“ETA is around seven minutes. You should be ready to get out of there as soon as possible. There'll be a van waiting by the entrance.”
“Good.” Benji answers, as he secures the bag over his shoulder. “That's good.”
“Be careful.” Jane says in his ear, but Benji knows it's more of a request than an order. Her voice is steady. He's thankful for her sharpness, and the care hidden in plain sight within it.
He takes off, skips the elevator in favour of the stairs knowing it'll get him where he needs to be much quicker, gun ready in his good hand.
He's winded by the time he's gotten into the Penthouse, the door right open for anyone to walk in.
It's gorgeous, with the french doors facing the terrace thrown open, and the curtains dancing along the quiet sunset breeze. He wishes he could appreciate it better, but he's walking in gun-first, trying to be as fast as possible while clearing every inch of the place.
There's fragments of broken glass everywhere, scattered around the floor like fresh snow —he's careful not to step on it— and blood all over the posh cream-coloured carpet, staining it a grim shade of pink. He can see two unconscious bodies, one by the coffee table, and the other leading into the hallway across the living room, but he doesn't let himself get too distracted as he seeks out Ethan's frame along the lines and edges of the apartment.
Everything suddenly melts away when he makes out the third body, dressed all in black, and laid out in the middle of the sundeck. To say he runs towards him is an understatement.
“Ethan,” Benji gasps as his knees meet the ground. He looks at Ethan's closed eyes, and though his breathing is faint, it still makes his chest rise and fall. It sends a shock of short-lived comfort directly into Benji's veins.
It comes naturally, the squeeze he gives to Ethan's wrist. The strangest mix between instinct and intention he's ever experienced.
Part of him doesn't know what to do, for a second. He's too overcome with love, and sorrow, and borderline hysterical worry. And then, it quiets down.
The medical training takes over as his fingers move on auto-pilot. He's checking Ethan's pulse —steady, if a little weak— and locating the gunshot wound. He can't tell where it is exactly, there's too much blood to be certain; on Benji's hands, on Ethan's shirt, pooling between the two of them.
Suddenly, he can see it —the area bleeding continuously, nestled in his chest, blown clean through; an exit wound.
“Ethan,” Benji pleads again, steadier than before. More clinical, no matter how badly he wishes he could break down, grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Bury his face against his neck, and breathe in for a second. All because Ethan's well-being is his current priority.
All because Ethan isn't responding, and Benji hates to admit that he needs him enough to find himself unmoored now; forced to watch him barely-there and drifting.
Ethan's skin is paler than it should be, a sharp contrast that turns his skin cold, and in turn sneaks into Benji's next hiss of his name; a lot more desperate. Trying to reach Ethan in a violent place where he knows he can't follow.
He applies as much pressure as he can to his chest, one hand atop the other. They're shaking, slick with blood, and Benji tries to ignore the tingling beginning at the tips of his fingers, and skating along his knuckles. He can feel his shoulder starting to burn.
In response, Ethan lets out a soft exhale. It's almost like it's slipped past him, and Benji can see his eyes moving behind his lids, frantic.
The relief he feels is as acute as a pinch, and as strong as a right hook; it's immediate, and leaves sparks jumping against every nerve inside his body, every muscle.
Big, cloudy green meets him when Ethan blinks himself awake, avoiding the harsh sunlight, and stares at Benji for a moment.
Ethan's eyes do a funny thing; the recognition in his gaze is visible. Benji can pinpoint the exact moment in which Ethan can embrace doubtlessly that he's here. For him.
If he didn't know better, he'd deeply believe them to be vacant. But something deeper shines within. A focused sort-of honesty; like there was something, and then it simply wasn't. Like the refocus trailed ahead of a new discovery, settling into place like a puzzle piece; a recovered certainty traced into reality.
Ethan blinks, and closes his eyes. Benji can't look away; just like that, his window is seamlessly closed. The curtains are drawn.
“Hey, hey— hey. Open your eyes, don't fade out on me,” he gently coaxes. The corners of his mouth lift on their own accord, though he'd be lying if he said the panic's let up its grip on the back of his neck.
He just doesn't have the heart to exhaust Ethan further with his worry. He needs to show him that he's safe; that they'll be alright.
Ethan's out of breath, half-awake. Benji's hands putting pressure on the wound on his chest don’t seem to faze him much, though there is something more alert to him now that he's aware of Benji's presence beside him.
“Talk to me, Benji,” He murmurs low, low, low; shaped like a smile. Broken, whole, and half-conscious. Anew. Brilliant.
It stirs something deep within Benji's soul. It touches him, and grips him by the shoulders, warms him down to the bone. Moves him, though he's still in place, seemingly unchanged.
He doesn't feel unchanged.
“I'm here. I'm here. Help is on the way,” is all he can think to say, amidst his sudden, debilitating breathlessness. He's still starstruck, and much too nervous to let the quiet settle just yet. “We have the drive. We're done.”
It's okay, he thinks. He's always been good at talking enough for the both of them, anyway.
“I'll get you out of here.” Benji promises.