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There’s someone else at Benji’s place when Ethan lets himself in; he can hear muted voices in the kitchen. Benji texted him at half past six: come by when yr awake, which meant a work thing, not quite urgent, and nothing Benji would discuss over the phone.
Ethan moves cautiously down the hallway. Ilsa’s sitting on the counter in Benji’s kitchen when he gets there, holding a bowl of cereal in one hand and a gun pointed at him in the other, a spoon dangling out of her mouth.
“Just me,” he says.
“Just Ethan,” Benji says, not even turning around from the stove, where he’s scrambling eggs.
Ilsa shrugs and puts the gun down, takes another bite of cereal. She’s wearing a pair of sloppily cut off sweatpants and a faded t-shirt with the pink panther on it.
“When did you get in?” Ethan says.
“Last night,” Ilsa says. Her cheekbone is bruised, and her left forearm is neatly bandaged—Benji’s work, the way he always criss-crosses the gauze and double-tapes.
“You could have called me,” Ethan says.
“You have a place now?” she says.
“No, just the hotel, but I could have— ”
“Well I always stay at Benji’s,” Ilsa says, shrugging, like everyone knows that. Ethan didn’t.
“Eggs?” Benji says. He hands Ilsa the plate before she says, “Yes, please,” and Ethan takes the plate Benji gives him, stupidly realizing that Benji is sleeping with Ilsa.
*
He doesn’t let himself think about it, not right away. There’s business first; Ilsa has a lead on an Apostle splinter group, Benji makes her tea without even asking, adding a practiced dollop of milk and a scant spoonful of sugar, Ilsa’s hair is a frizzy, uneven mess, like she’s been rolling around in bed with Benji for hours, his hands all over her, anyhow, the Apostles.
*
Safely back at his place—the hotel, it’s fine, there’s a pool—Ethan glares at himself in the mirror, thinking, what did you think, she’d just wait around for you to stop being fucked up? He’s happy for them.
*
“So how long has Ilsa been staying with you?” Ethan says cautiously. Benji’s packing equipment into a case, folding cables carefully. They’re on loan to MI-6 or maybe Ilsa’s on loan to them; find the group and neutralize them, bring back any useful intel, the usual.
“Just sometimes, since Kashmir,” Benji says, fitting a series of plugs and adaptors into a tray.
That’s almost two years, so—it’s serious, then. Neither of them had ever talked much about what happened with Lane in Kashmir. Ethan hadn’t wanted to pry, but he knows how it is, going through an intense experience together, how it can feel like a shared wound.
He’d tried to check on Benji after Kashmir, but Benji had always shrugged it off, asking Ethan how PT was going for the knee (the ribs, the hand). It hadn’t been going well, actually, and he knew from the pinched look of concern on Benji’s face that it was obvious, that he was recovering too slowly. Benji always changed the subject, and Ethan let him. Now he knows Benji had Ilsa.
“You’re not upset,” Benji asks uneasily. “Look, it’s just because you don’t have—a place, or I’m sure she would have stayed with you.”
“I’m not upset,” Ethan says, and Benji nods, clearly relieved. “It’s good, it’s a good thing.”
Benji smiles. “Yeah,” he says.
*
Now that he knows, it’s obvious and he’s an idiot. Some secret agent. Ilsa shoving in next to Benji in the back of the car, passing out tucked in against his shoulder halfway to Constantinople. Benji doing up the fiddly buttons at the top of her evening gown while she holds her hair up, both of them ignoring each other and muttering back 10-digit keypad codes. Ilsa leaning over the back of the couch while Benji types, jabbing her finger at the screen while he says, “I know, I know—” Ilsa spinning idly in a desk chair, one leg tucked underneath her, watching Benji on the monitor setting bugs in a hotel room, then straightening, alert, when the door opens on screen.
“Thought you said security wasn’t scheduled for another twenty minutes,” she says.
“It wasn’t,” Ethan says, leaning in.
“He’ll be fine,” she says. Ethan nods. Her face is calm, expressionless, until the guy yanks Benji up by the throat and starts choking him, tie drawing close under his chin. Ilsa’s expression flickers, grows tense.
“Just one of them,” Ethan says, more to himself than to Ilsa. On the screen, Benji throws himself backwards and slams the guy’s head into an upper cabinet, punches a ballpoint pen down into his thigh.
“When did he learn how to do that?” Ethan says. Ilsa smirks, settling back into her chair.
Later, Ethan sees them in the hallway, Ilsa leaning in, a questioning hand hovering near Benji’s throat. “I’m okay, I’m fine,” Benji murmurs, shaking his head. It’s private, so Ethan makes himself stop being nosy and goes into the kitchen to make coffee.
*
It’s got to be hard on them, the long distance part.
That was part of why Ethan never—how was it going to work, Ilsa in London and him in DC, both of them on assignment, but it hadn’t gotten in the way of Benji going for it. Or they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other. That’s hard to imagine, Ilsa sliding her hands up Benji’s chest under his t-shirt, Benji thumbing open the buttons on her pants, kissing her stomach. Or not, Ethan thinks glumly, thinking about Ilsa deciding to jump out of a car and then just—doing it, no hesitation.
Ilsa’s outside on the little balcony when he gets back from recon, drinking a beer in a peculiar long-necked bottle, one ankle slung up on the low railing.
“Benji?” he says.
“Asleep,” she says. She gestures to the bottle. “You want one of these?”
“Is it good?”
“No,” she says, so gravely that Ethan laughs and goes and gets himself one.
“Musty,” he says, sitting down in the other creaky chair, and she nods in agreement. They sit in the late afternoon sun, listening to the distant sounds of traffic. There are freckles on her face, fine warm lines at the edges of her eyes.
“Peaceful here,” she says.
“Oh sure,” Ethan says. “How many people tried to kill you today?”
“You get used to it,” Ilsa says. “And I like—it’s nice, you know, trying to fix things.”
“Yeah,” Ethan.
“For a long time,” Ilsa says. “I, um—seemed like mostly what I was good at was just. Wrecking things. Lying. I’m glad to finally be here.” She tilts her head back and smiles luminously at him. “You know, with—”
“With Benji,” Ethan says. Her eyes crinkle in some kind of rueful mirth.
“Yeah, with um—with Benji,” she agrees, looking out again over the balcony. Ethan takes a sip of the beer. It’s terrible.
*
He’s always walking on them, or in the middle of them, it feels like. Ilsa cleaning a set of knives on the coffee table while Benji squints at blueprints on the floor next to her. Ilsa rinsing dye out of Benji’s hair with the sink sprayer, scrubbing the hair behind his ears, the nape of his neck, water splattering the counters. The two of them talking over each other as Ethan sketches,
“His nose was longer, right—”
“A bump here, broken nose—”
“Eyes are too far apart—”
Ilsa grabbing a pack of cigarettes from Benji and throwing it out a window (“Littering,” Benji yelps,) and saying, “You said not to let you start again,” Benji mumbling, “fine, okay.”
Ilsa leaning on her elbows on the breakfast table with her shirt folded up, Benji behind her, his hands—
“Whoa, sorry,” Ethan says, stepping back hastily.
“It’s fine, almost done,” Benji says, not even looking up. The portable imaging mat they use for explosives is unfolded on the table underneath Ilsa; Benji’s in gloves, frowning at the display, and there are a few crumpled alcohol wipes and wrappers on the table next to them.
“Ready,” Ilsa says, wrapping her hands over the edge of the table, and Benji picks up a syringe with a long, large-bore needle and puts it in her back, next to her spine. Ilsa draws her breath in sharply through her nose, knuckles whitening.
“Nearly there,” Benji murmurs, depressing the plunger, and then he’s done, and Ilsa straightens up, her cheeks a little pale.
“Sorry,” Ethan says again.
“Corticosteroids,” Ilsa says briskly. Benji’s tidying up, folding the mat, putting the syringe back in a case, stripping off his gloves. “Benji’ll do your knee, if you ask nicely.”
“Knees are hard,” Benji says. Spines are hard, Ethan wants to say, but it hadn’t looked hard, the way Benji did it.
One mission bleeds into another; another city, another safehouse. Ethan focuses on the details of the mission: the one is getting the thing out of the place without anyone finding out. Simple.
“I can’t do your knee, though,” Benji tells him, at some point, sitting in a car watching traffic patterns. “I really only know how to do it just below the T12—”
“How do you even know how to do that?” Ethan says.
“Paid a guy in medical to teach me,” Benji says. He’s silent, marking down a few license plates, and then says, “I owed her. I owe her.”
“Why?”
“She hurt her back saving me,” Benji says.
“Lane,” Ethan says, not really asking. Benji nods.
“She was seeing a specialist in DC for a while, but—it’s not really better.”
“It’s not your fault,” Ethan says.
“That’s really not relevant, even if it’s true,” Benji says. He looks at Ethan and his eyes are very blue and very kind. “You of all people should know that.”
*
It doesn’t fucking bother him because that would be ridiculous. Jealous. He never felt jealous, really, all those years when other people could have marriages, families, make plans, it was just how it was and he didn’t mind. He even—there was a clarity of purpose that felt good, not getting trapped in petty shit all the time—suburban stuff, lawnmowers, that kind of thing. He wasn’t jealous then and he’s not about to start with Ilsa.
*
“Well what do you need me to do?” Ilsa says, accepting a tablet, three screwdrivers, and the length of cable Benji hands her.
“I don’t know,” Benji says. “I won’t know how they’ve protected the thing until I get a look at it.”
“You say that every time,” Ilsa says.
“Because it’s true every time,” Benji says, but there’s a current of humor in his voice.
“So you two have this under control,” Ethan says.
“Yes yes yes, go go,” Benji says, handing Ilsa another tool case, and by the time he meets them at the checkpoint, Ilsa’s balanced on Benji’s shoulders, holding a pair of pliers in her mouth and reaching up into the ceiling. Ethan watches them for a moment, not wanting to interrupt.
“Green wire,” Benji says steadily, “then white.” He’s holding a tablet in one hand and gripping Ilsa just below the knee with in the other, his arm wrapped around her shin and her other foot hooked under his armpit. She takes the pliers out of her mouth and reaches back up, her shirt edging up over her stomach.
They must have really hot sex, Ethan thinks wistfully.
Benji maybe picks her up and she wraps her legs around him and he gives it to her, just this side of too rough, maybe on the little table in his front hall because they can’t even wait to get into the bedroom, starved for each other, neighbors pounding the wall to complain about the noise, or maybe she pushes him down on the bed and climbs in on top of him, and Benji kisses her, serious and sweet and then—not, when she pulls his hair, and—
“Ethan?” Benji says.
“Yep,” Ethan says guiltily.
*
Thing is they’re almost exactly the same height and Ilsa—. Maybe Ilsa pushes Benji into the wall, her mouth on the back of his neck, Benji shivering when she sets her teeth against his nape, her steady hands wrapped around him, sliding down his chest, shoving up his rumpled t-shirt, Benji tipping his forehead against the wall, saying god please can you, Ilsa working open the button on his pants to jerk him off—if they’re into that, maybe.
*
But he honestly doesn’t think about it very often, now that he’s used to the idea. They make sense together, he tells Luther.
“Hm,” Luther says. There’s a long silence on the phone line. “Well, if you say so.”
“If you saw them,” Ethan says.
“What about you, then,” Luther says.
“What—um, about me?” Ethan says.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Luther says patiently, even though they never talk about this stuff, just work stuff, whatever job Luther has lined up that he says is definitely probably the last, gossip about who’s hanging it up or looking for work or—
“No,” Ethan says, after a moment.
“Ethan, come on,” Luther says, after a short, disappointed pause. “We talked about this.”
“We didn’t,” Ethan lies. Luther spent a few long afternoons with him in the hospital tent, Ethan counting off until the next round of meds, making himself ignore the rolling, nauseating ache in his chest, Luther pretending for him, talking about nothing much. Ethan had said it was nice to see Julia so happy, said, you know, maybe, maybe he’d—. That’d be real nice, Luther had said.
“Look, don’t, don’t say anything to Benji, okay?” Ethan says. “I think I’m not supposed—they don’t want anyone to know. It’s private, I guess.”
“Surprised he hasn’t hired a skywriter,” Luther says.
*
“Does it bother you?” Ethan says, watching Ilsa smile and lean in so the target gets an eyeful of her cleavage. Benji squints at the monitor, following his gaze, and Ethan watches his forehead crinkle.
“Uh, should it?”
“I guess not,” Ethan says.
“Mostly you have to feel sorry for the guy,” Benji says. “Thinking it’s the best night of his life, but actually about to have his teeth relocated to the base of his spine.”
“He did kill refugees after using them to smuggle arms,” Ethan says.
“Yeah, on second thought, he can get fucked,” Benji says cheerfully, and then thumbs his earpiece and says “Ilsa, you think you can get in his lap or something, we need a closer scan of his face.”
Ilsa shakes her hair back over her shoulders and does it. Benji doesn’t even flinch. Ilsa wraps it up pretty quickly after that, offers to go somewhere more private with the guy. Ethan watches; the camera is disguised as a beauty mark on her collarbone, so the angle is interesting, the way the guy just crumples up and drops out of view. Benji finishes encoding the voice print, runs a few tests, backs everything up to a thumb drive and then asks,
“Does it bother you?”
“What?” Ethan says. He’s watching Ilsa’s camera, but it’s just a view of a subway platform with a sign that says, “Next train delayed 15 minutes.”
Benji shrugs. “Ilsa. the guy.”
“No,” Ethan says. “Why would it?”
“I’m not sure,” Benji says gently.
“It’s fine,” Ethan says.
“I’ve been meaning to mention,” Benji says. “I archived a lot of your old mission footage. Well. kinda, memory-holed it.”
He holds Ethan’s gaze just long enough that Ethan realizes what he means—shirtless on the yacht off the Riviera, high out of his mind, there to steal—god knows what, at this point; in Brazil, in a hotel room, halfway to fucking a Russian operative; probably a half dozen other operations when he was young and dumb and grieving. Nothing he ever wants to think about again.
“Tampering with mission records,” Ethan starts; that’s how you end up in federal prison.
“All okayed by the Senior Technical Liaison,” Benji says airily. “Perhaps you read the memo regarding consolidation of archival records older than 20 years.”
“I didn’t, no,” Ethan says.
“Course not. Boring stuff, really,” Benji says, wrinkling his nose scornfully.
Ilsa’s waiting at the subway still, the delay having gone from 15 to 25 minutes. Benji’s the Senior Technical Liaison; he has a staff (“bunch of kids named Jaiden who cracked Pentagon security for their primary school science fair and make me look like Fred fucking Flintstone,” he says, with barely concealed pride), meetings, memos, semi-yearly intensive training camps. They gave Ethan a promotion too, an office, but he just has to write training scenarios, stay in shape, sometimes get on the phone and troubleshoot.
“Thank you,” he says. Benji makes a dismissive sound, turns back to his keyboard.
“Quite liked the nipple ring, though,” he says, and Ethan laughs.
The train goes out of service eventually, so they have to make a detour to pick up Ilsa from the station; Ethan’s overtired, restless from being stuck in the van for hours. He scrubs at his face in the sink, does three dozen pushups, meditates for twenty-five minutes, and finally flops backwards on the bed, defeated, and slides his hand in his pants.
Julia used to—climb in his lap and jerk him off and kiss him, fingers rolling his nipple, still sensitive years after he’d taken it out. She used to slide down on him, slide in against him, the way her breasts felt against his chest, soft, her tightened nipples, makes the back of his neck feel hot, even after all this time.
He breathes out and grips his cock and thinks about thighs parting around his waist, holding him tight, Ilsa’s mouth on his throat—no. Julia’s. Julia’s legs, Julia’s mouth, Julia.
He’s hard, really hard, slides his hand down then up, feels dizzy with it, it’s Benji’s hands on him, fingers brushing down curiously over his chest, pinching him a little more roughly than Julia ever had, moving capably down to fist his cock—Ethan takes his hand off himself calmly and goes into the bathroom to take a cold shower.
*
“And you and Ilsa can go in as a couple,” Ethan finishes.
Ilsa’s eyebrows rise, but then she shrugs. “All right.”
“What, her and me?” Benji says dubiously. “Why not you two?”
“I’ll be at the bank,” Ethan explains. It all makes sense. “You can row past and pick up the signal from the transmitter as long as you’re within 25 meters.”
“Row?”
“I booked you a boat for the whole afternoon,” Ethan says, handing Benji the brochure.
“Comes with a picnic basket,” he hears Benji saying to Ilsa, later, sounding bemused. They have a beautiful day for it, warm and sunny with high, soft clouds, Ilsa in a cherry-blossom pink shirt-dress, lounging in the back of the boat while Benji rows.
It ends with Benji leaning over him, soaking wet shirt clinging to his shoulders, running his hands carefully along Ethan’s skull.
“Stop it, I’m fine,” Ethan says thickly. “Where’s Ilsa?”
“Getting the car,” Benji says. “Can you walk?”
“Yes,” Ethan says, and he mostly can, but Benji drags his arm across his shoulders anyway, makes Ethan lean against him, and his body is warm and hard against Ethan’s side.
“Jesus Christ,” Ilsa says, in the car, her eyes flashing up to the rear view mirror, dark with concern. “Is he all right?”
“I’m fine,” Ethan bites out, at the same time that Benji says, “Concussed.”
“I’m—”
“Just rest,” Benji says, and reaches across Ethan and buckles his seatbelt.
“Hold on,” Ilsa says, and yanks the parking brake, throwing the car into a controlled spin. She’s a wonderful driver, but Ethan can’t appreciate it because it makes him violently queasy.
In the safe house they hover, Benji frowning, Ilsa’s arms crossed.
“We got the file,” Ethan says.
“Yes,” Benji says tersely. His t-shirt is torn open at the collar, sagging down his chest, and there’s a bloody cut across the bridge of his nose. “Let us see your pupils.”
“Fine,” Ethan says. Ilsa leans in with a penlight. She's soaked to the skin, her hair dripping in muddy rivulets down her face, her dress smeared with rusty stains, raggedly torn to mid-thigh. She’s so pretty. Benji’s so lucky. His head can’t be that bad because he manages not to say it out loud.
“You can sleep,” Ilsa says, finally, after she and Benji consult over it, make him drink a huge glass of water and eat half a pack of saltines.
“Don’t have too much fun without me,” Ethan says.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Benji says, but Ethan hears the shower go on thirty seconds later and knows: Benji’s leaning her up against the sink and kissing her slow, thumbing open the buttons on her dress, brushing her hair back off her shoulders to kiss her throat, the dip of her collarbone, slipping her bra straps off, tracing his fingers against her breasts, Ilsa rising in against him to tug his shirt off over his head, her hands on his chest, running through his hair, sliding down his back when she pulls him in, the sink creaking under their weight—and then, in the shower, Benji’s arm locked across her waist to hold her up, his mouth soft on her shoulder, the nape of her neck, his fingers between her legs, Ilsa’s mouth open, knees weak for him.
Ethan pulls the pillow over his head, which throbs, and makes himself go to sleep.
*
There’s a five month lull, after that. Ilsa’s on assignment somewhere; Benji doesn’t say. They run a few ops together, local stuff, Chicago, Phoenix.
“A little weird without Ilsa,” Ethan ventures once. In case Benji wants to talk about it.
“Yeah,” Benji says.
“You miss her?”
“She’s easy to be around,” Benji says. He hesitates, and then says, “I think, um—maybe she’d think about moving here, if the right offer came along.”
“Oh,” Ethan says. “I mean. That’s great.”
“Something to think about,” Benji says cheerfully. It’s nice to see him so happy, Ethan thinks. It really is.
“You could get a grill,” he says. Maybe they won’t move to the suburbs or anything, but a townhouse with a little postage-stamp back yard or a roof deck, Benji with tongs, Ilsa making—she doesn’t cook, but stabbing mushrooms on skewers, maybe, or dropping a kiss on the back of Benji’s neck as she passes by.
“I guess,” Benji says, without any conviction, so maybe he hasn’t thought that far ahead yet, is working up his nerve to ask her. She’ll say yes, Ethan wants to tell him. Anyone would.
*
“And then,” Ethan finishes, “there’s putting the thing back without anyone knowing it was missing.”
“And that’s the fourth type,” Benji says, lifting his phone and putting it back down. They’re waiting in the van, tucked into the alleyway behind the embassy.
“It’s all about the big picture,” Ethan says.
“Yeah, it would pretty much have to be,” Benji says, the corner of his mouth lifting, “with that level of detail.”
“The details just get in the way after a while,” Ethan says. He pulls the custodian ID off the laminator and smooths the edges with his thumbnail.
“Too bad you can’t wear a hat,” Benji says. He checks his phone, leans in to fix his bowtie in the mirror.
Ethan shrugs. It’s not uniform code for the embassy. “I’ll blend.”
“Where on earth is Ilsa?” Benji says, glancing at his phone and then purposefully putting it back in his pocket. “Cutting it a little fine, don’t you think?”
“I know it would have been nice to meet up a little earlier,” Ethan says. If he’d known, how Benji was missing her, he’d have figured it out. He should have known.
“Masks always take longer than you’d think,” Benji says. Ilsa’s going in as an art dealer on the Interpol watch list, which should keep security busy long enough for Benji and Ethan to take care of their end of it. “You think she knows to build in the extra—”
“She knows,” Ethan says. “We’ll be on the train out of here in forty-five minutes and you can ask her yourself.” They have a sleeping berth booked, which should be fine if Ethan can find an excuse to go to the dining car, give them at least a little time alone.
It’s more like two hours; it takes Benji longer than he expects to crack the security door; it takes Ethan longer in the ducts than the simulation said. Ilsa steals a vase and free jumps onto a van from a second story window to cover them, and the resulting security response shuts down the train station and snarls traffic.
“They’re setting up checkpoints,” Benji says, over the comm link. “Ilsa has another way out, coordinates coming through now.”
They meet at the docks; Benji leaning in the shadow of the shipping container when Ethan gets there, Ilsa twenty minutes later, flushed and out of breath.
“Quickly,” she says, and leads them down past the freight yards to the end of the dock, where a fishing boat is tied. Ilsa goes up the ladder on the hull, and after a few minutes leans over the side and beckons them up.
“This is Tommy,” she says.
“Not my real name,” Tommy says. He’s a big guy in weatherbeaten pants and a rain slicker.
“We’ll need to be a just a little discreet,” Ilsa says. There are choppers in the distance, sirens.
“I’m carrying 2500 kilograms of melons,” Tommy says, shoving a few crates out of the way and pulling up a trapdoor. “Won’t be a soul that knows you’re there.”
Ilsa goes first, clattering down a narrow metal ladder; Benji and Ethan follow. Tommy closes the door after them, and there’s a faint sound of crates being slid and stacked before Ethan drops off the bottom rung into a small apartment with nowhere for him to politely excuse himself. There’s a kitchenette at one end, couch and old boxy television, one bedroom, one bed. There are narrow windows along the entire wall, thrown open, the warm ocean air rolling in, soft.
Benji looks, says, “Couch looks good. Ethan and I can share the bed,” and then, catching sight of Ethan’s face, says, “What?”
“Nothing,” Ethan says. Benji looks at Ilsa, who shrugs, kicks off her shoes, and disappears into the bathroom.
“Did you and, um, Ilsa want to share?” Benji says quietly.
“No, come on,” Ethan says.
“All right,” Benji says. He pulls off his jacket and tie, unbuttons his top two buttons. Ilsa comes back out of the bathroom with a med kit.
“You should—” she says, looking at a raw, open patch on the back of Benji’s hand, an electrical burn from the security system.
“Yeah, thanks,” he says, leaning in and rummaging through it for a bandaid and a tube of ointment. “Pretty comprehensive,” he says, one eyebrow lifting. From the couch, Ethan can see forceps, a suture kit, row after row of sterile gauze packets.
“Yes,” Ilsa says, but doesn’t elaborate.
Benji drinks a glass of water, leaning over the sink. Ethan sits down on the edge of the couch, watches them edge closer to each other, then turns away and starts trying to figure out the ancient remote, clicking buttons that do nothing so he’s not staring.
“You know there’s mask adhesive all over your back, right?” Benji says.
“You try it in a backless dress,” Ilsa says, swiping a hand across one shoulder and then the other. “I was sure it was going to peel away at the worst possible time, so I kind of—did I get it?”
“No,” Benji says, sounding fond. “Here,” he says. Ethan risks a look. Benji’s hands are lifting her hair, brushing against her bent neck, tender.
“Look if you want to—” Ethan blurts out, “if you wanted to be alone.”
“What?” Ilsa says, still scrubbing at the back of her neck.
“You probably had, um, plans for after, right?” Ethan says. “And this isn’t really—anyway, I don’t mind, I can,” There isn’t really anywhere to go, but he wouldn’t care about being on the couch, if—
“Plans like—” Benji grins, confused, and asks Ilsa, “Do we have plans?”
Ilsa’s pulled back, leaning against the kitchen counter. She shakes her head, staring blankly at Ethan, and Ethan is abruptly exhausted, tired of pretending.
“Plans,” he says flatly. “You know, to reconnect.”
“No, I don’t know,” Benji says.
“If you wanted privacy,” Ethan says.
“What for?” Ilsa says.
Ethan looks away.
“Oh,” Ilsa says. “Privacy.”
“I don’t really follow,” Benji says.
“Privacy,” Ilsa repeats, urgently, to Benji. Their eyes meet, a long moment of silent communication, and then Benji rounds on Ethan.
“What like—me and Ilsa?” he says incredulously.
“I wish I knew what I did to make you think you have to lie to me about it,” Ethan says, trying to keep the hurt from his voice and failing. “I would never use it against you or—tell—”
“We’re not keeping anything from you,” Ilsa says.
“Right,” Ethan says. “Well, I understand.”
“Ethan,” Ilsa says.
“I won’t bring it up again,” Ethan says stiffly. “I’m sorry for intruding.”
“Ethan, wait,” Benji says, his hand out, conciliatory. “I don’t understand. Ilsa and I are—are—”
“f—” Ilsa says,
“seeing each other,” Benji says firmly, talking over her. “How did you, um—figure that out?”
Benji’s voice is quiet, calm, and Ethan feels himself getting annoyed. “You saved each other in Kashmir,” he says shortly. He points at Ilsa, “You stayed at his place, I guess because you were seeing that specialist?” Ilsa nods warily. “You got closer. You know things about each other, little things—don’t you?” They look sideways at each other, and quickly away: an admission. “You trust each other,” Ethan says, “watch over each other. You—like each other. That’s hard to come by in our line of work.”
“That’s true,” Ilsa says slowly. There’s a long, uncomfortable silence, Ilsa staring at Benji, Benji staring at the floor.
“But, look—” Benji says, and Ilsa leans in and catches Benji’s open mouth in a soft kiss. Benji pulls back, startled, his hands flying up in consternation, but he doesn’t go far, tucked into the corner of the kitchen, and he doesn’t look away from Ilsa’s face.
“Huh,” Benji says. Ilsa gives him a strange, wavering smile. “Huh,” he says again.
Ethan, vindicated, turns away and sits down on the couch, turns on the television, starts flipping blindly through channels.
“I didn’t know,” Benji says slowly, and then there’s a long silence. Ethan manages to find a staticky soccer game: Serbia vs. Finland, and turns the volume up until all he can hear is the roar of the crowd, the staccato voice of the announcer in a language he doesn’t speak. He can see them in the reflection of the television, Benji’s hand on Ilsa’s cheek, their foreheads tipped together, so he slides down until he can’t. The ball moves up the field and back down; Ethan watches, intent. They’ll be in the bedroom soon enough, necking on the bed, Ilsa’s dress up around her thighs. Ethan clicks the volume up higher and Benji crashes down on the couch next to him with Ilsa in his lap, his hand cupping the back of her head while she kisses him, her face serious, rapt. The couch creaks, loudly. Ethan starts to stand and Benji’s hand comes out, blind but quick, grips his wrist.
“Wait,” Benji says, a little breathlessly. “Ethan, this isn’t, I don’t feel right about—”
“It’s fine,” Ethan says. “I can go in—in the bedroom if you want to be out here, or—”
He tugs gently but Benji doesn’t let go.
“No,” Ilsa says, first to Benji.
“No,” Benji says, agreeing.
“You don’t—owe me anything,” Ethan says. The crowd roars on the television, a goal. Ilsa twists around, picks the remote out of Ethan’s lax hand, and clicks off the tv. “I don’t want to get in the middle of what you have,” Ethan says.
“What we have is five minutes old,” Ilsa says.
“That doesn’t matter,” Ethan says.
“Yes it does,” Benji says. “This could just be, you know, the time things got a little weird in—” he hesitates. “um—”
“Greece,” Ethan says firmly.
“That was Albania,” Ilsa says.
“Oh my god,” Benji says abruptly, “is this why we went to all those open houses?”
“We talked about it,” Ethan says. “You were thinking about settling down—”
“I thought they were for you,” Benji says, dropping his head wearily back against the couch.
“Why would I—”
“Because you live,” Ilsa says, making long-suffering eye contact with Benji, “in a hotel.”
“I just thought—you were finally going to figure it out with Ilsa,” Benji says. “And, honestly, maybe you still should.”
“You don’t mean that,” Ethan says, his voice harsh. “You want to be on the outside of everything while—” He makes himself stop talking.
“Is that how you felt?” Ilsa says, her eyes watchful.
“No,” Ethan says emphatically. “I was happy for you. I am. happy for you. I was just trying to stay out of the way. I don’t want you to have to—do this with me here—”
“Why not?” Ilsa says.
“I, um—what?” Ethan says faintly.
“Does it turn you on?” she says, and does something in Benji’s lap that makes him let out a breathless half-pained groan, eyes closing, hand tightening on her thigh.
“No,” Ethan says. “That’s not—no.” Ilsa looks thoughtful.
“D’you want Benji to kiss you?” she says.
“No,” Ethan says, swallowing.
“It’s really nice,” she adds, encouragingly. Benji barks out a low, tense laugh.
“Ilsa,” Ethan says. “He doesn’t—want—”
“She asked what you wanted,” Benji says quietly. He’s watching Ethan, so intently that Ethan wants to look away.
“That’s not—that doesn’t matter,” he mutters, and Benji’s eyes soften, knowing. He strokes his thumb across Ethan’s palm, Ilsa draws in an audible breath, Benji leans in and kisses Ethan, who knows he should say no, that Benji and Ilsa belong together, that actually he’s not, he doesn’t want, anything except let Benji do it, soft, slow, open his mouth when Benji pulls him in with one warm hand spread open on his shoulder, moving up slowly to cup the back of his neck.
“Nice, yeah?” Ilsa murmurs. She’s in Ethan’s lap now, somehow, holding his hand and kissing his temple, the edge of his jaw.
“Yes,” Ethan says hoarsely. His hands are shaking. Benji smiles at him, but the look he gives Ilsa is electric, elated.
“Wanted to do that for a little while?” she says, her voice amused.
“You’re one to talk,” Benji says, and Ilsa sighs and says,
“Unzip me, will you," and slips sideways, between Benji and Ethan. She kisses Ethan, gently at first, until Ethan can’t help it, pushes in close against her, licks the corner of her mouth, his hands brushing against Benji’s hands, tangling together as Benji slides down the zipper on her dress.
“Now kiss Benji,” Ethan says, lifting his mouth.
“Are you—keeping score?” Ilsa says, her eyes narrowing.
“No,” Ethan says. “No. You don’t have to—” he adds but Ilsa has already turned sideways and grabbed at Benji, yanking him in roughly enough to rip his shirt most of the way open. She kisses him theatrically to begin with, Benji snickering against her mouth as she arches her back, but then he draws her closer, one arm looped around her waist, and they kiss, ardent, earnest, her hands peeling his shirt down his shoulders. He slides down to the floor, pulls away long enough to shove his shirt off his wrists, and kneels up in between her thighs, starts kissing her breasts, mouthing her nipples through the sheer fabric of her bra. Ilsa gasps, digs her fingernails into the couch cushion, mouth opening. Ethan makes a noise, maybe, because Benji looks up, his hands still spread across Ilsa’s waist,
“What?” he says, and then, “Come here,” when Ethan can’t say anything.
Ethan goes.
They kiss—Benji’s mouth warm and hungry on Ethan’s, and then Ethan watching stupidly while Benji slides down and starts kissing the insides of her thighs, then Ethan and Ilsa, his heart thumping in his chest, her hands tangling in his hair,
“Benji,” Ilsa says, a rising half-gasp against Ethan’s mouth, and lifts up, clinging to Ethan’s shoulders, while Benji hooks her underwear down off her hips and pulls it off one ankle and then the other like he’s done it a million times. Ilsa shoves herself up on her elbows, chest heaving,
“Look, would you mind if I—” she jerks her chin sideways at Ethan.
“No,” Benji says, grinning up at her. She hesitates, drawing him in with one knee against his hip, and they kiss easily, a little slow, Ilsa’s dress a creased wreck around her waist, pinkening marks on her throat from Benji’s beard, her fingers gliding curiously over a jagged, long-healed scar on Benji’s ribs, which is why it takes Ethan by surprise when Benji murmurs,
“Go on, now,” and lifts up enough for Ilsa to wriggle out from under him and into Ethan’s lap, nudge him down on his back and open his belt one-handed.
“Do you want—”
“Yes,” Ethan says, and Ilsa pushes the waistband of his underwear out of the way and grips his cock, skids her hand softly over the head where he’s wet for her. Ethan bucks up against her, pulse pounding in his throat.
“Like this?” Ilsa says, slipping forward until she’s bracketing his hips with her knees, rocking against him, base to tip. Benji makes a low sound of agreement, but Ilsa waits.
“Can I?” she says.
“Yes,” Ethan says, and Ilsa smiles and kneels up over him, and Ethan says, “Yes,” and then “No, wait—wait,” with effort. “Shouldn’t we—use a condom?”
“I’ve seen your bloodwork,” Ilsa says dismissively, but she sits back.
“Okay,” Ethan says, “but—”
“I have an IUD,” she says. She’s very flushed, and her bra straps are hanging off her shoulders.
“Oh,” Ethan says. “Right. Still, I think—”
“Look, do you have a condom?” Ilsa says. She’s holding herself up over him, but the head of his cock is slipping in against her, wet, warm, slick,
“No,” Ethan says, “Don’t you?”
“No,” she says.
“Oh, for—there are condoms in the med kit,” Benji says decisively. “I’ll get them and you—” he glances towards the bedroom. Ilsa draws in a rough breath, but nods. She lifts off Ethan and turns towards the bedroom, unhooking her bra from behind her back with one hand.
Ethan makes helpless eye contact with Benji, who’s rifling through the med kit.
“Probably take all that off,” Benji says sympathetically.
“Yeah, of—yeah, of course,” Ethan says. He takes off his pants, hands clumsy, yanks off his shirt, goes after her.
In the bedroom, Ilsa’s working the dress down off her hips, the zipper stuck. Ethan helps her pull it down, and then Ilsa wraps her ankle around his and knocks him back onto the bed, just as Benji comes in the door with a condom. Benji kneels on the bed next to Ilsa, kisses her cheek, and then puts his hand on Ethan’s chest, fingertips resting lightly against Ethan’s collarbone.
“Okay?” he says.
“Yes,” Ethan says. Benji draws his hand down, down, slow, Ethan holding himself still with effort, then giving up, arching up against Benji’s hand. Ilsa watches with interest. It’s just a hand, just his chest, but it lights him up somehow, gets him harder.
“You want me to—”
“Yes,” Ethan chokes out and Benji closes his hand over Ethan’s dick, jerking him slowly until Ethan can’t help but push up into his hand, seeking, caught between Benji’s tightening hand and Ilsa’s weight on his thighs, the only sound in the room his panting breaths.
Benji holds up the condom between two fingers, looks sideways at Ilsa.
“Yes, of course, if that’s—” she says.
“Hush,” Benji says. He tears the packet and rolls the condom down carefully, looks back up at Ilsa and says, conspiratorially, “Don’t worry, I’ll bareback you later.”
Ilsa—laughs, a soft little thing, almost, but not quite, a giggle, and then clamps her mouth together, her eyes widening in mirth and horror.
“I heard that,” Ethan says.
“Did you,” she says, and slides herself up over him, trapping his cock against his stomach, sliding luxuriously on top of him, but not letting him inside, and then turning casually to kiss Benji, deep and slow, slipping in tiny jerking movements against the head of his cock, sighing into Benji’s mouth.
“All right, that’s enough,” Benji says, finally.
“He’s fine,” Ilsa says. “Are you fine?” she asks Ethan.
“Yes,” Ethan says fervently, trying to move a little, failing.
“Cruel to make him wait, though,” Benji says.
“He made us wait,” Ilsa says; her tone is light, warm, but there’s a thin undercurrent of hurt beneath it, and Ethan sees Benji’s mouth tighten in response.
“Then fuck him,” he says roughly. “Show him what he was missing,” and Ilsa puts her hands on Ethan’s chest and slides down onto his cock, holds him down and uses him. Moves on him, tight, wet, punctuating each thrust with a throaty sigh, and Ethan holds on, closes his eyes and catches Benji’s arm, draws him close, shivering, wanting, letting himself want.
Ilsa gets quieter, curling down over him, almost roughly, grinding in against him, her fingers tightening against his shoulders while he jerks up helplessly into her, feeling her tighten against him when she comes, riding against him in tight little jerks, her breath hot on on his throat, finally letting him move, and he wraps one arm around her back and comes too fast.
Ilsa pulls off and throws herself down next to him, still breathing hard. Ethan holds the condom carefully and rolls to his knees to tie it off and drop it next to the bed, takes three gasping breaths before reaching for Benji, mouth glancing against his chest, his stomach, hooking down his underwear enough to get his mouth on his dick.
Benji makes an astonished kind of sigh but he doesn’t object, just says, “okay, okay, let me just—” and leans up against the headboard enough to undo the tension in Ethan’s neck.
Benji’s dick is heavy, hard, feels too big in his mouth, too much, and then Benji’s hand is on his shoulder, easing him back, Benji’s thumb is at the corner of his mouth, gentle, and it feels, it comes back to him, how to—. Benji shudders under him when he just mouths at the soft skin on the tip, slips his mouth over the head and sucks, lets Benji’s cock ride against his lower lip, and the next time he pulls off to take a breath, Ilsa is kissing Benji, sprawled lazily against his chest.
Her hand wanders down, in his hair, tugging softly, thumb rubbing blindly against his cheek, and Benji says,
“Ethan, Ilsa, wait, I’m—” and comes in Ethan’s mouth, on his face, on Ilsa’s arm, falling back on the bed gasping, “sorry—”
Ilsa laughs and wipes her hand on Benji’s leg, kisses his shoulder.
“I’m just—” Ethan says, and gets up. He dumps the condom in the bathroom trash and rinses his face, avoids the mirror. He’s never going to be able to sleep. He can hear them murmuring to each other, Benji’s voice, warm and low. When he comes back out, Ilsa’s burrowed under the blankets, tucked in against Benji’s back. Ethan shifts on his feet, uncertain. There’s the couch, he could—
“Get in,” Ilsa says, without opening her eyes. Benji slings an arm over him when he gets under the blankets, and Ethan, to his surprise, yawns, feels himself start to sink into drowsiness. He doesn’t sleep right away, just lies quietly with Benji’s shin resting against his, drifting, the low hum of the motor, the lapping of the water against the boat, a low, dark toll of a bell buoy, distant.
*
Ilsa wakes him up.
“Time to go,” she says, handing him his crumpled pile of clothes. It’s grey half-light outside, chill air seeping in the windows. Ilsa’s in her dress, Benji’s jacket slung over her shoulders. Benji’s slumped on the couch, drinking powdered coffee, eyes heavy, but he straightens when Ethan comes in, smiles.
No one says much of anything—not as the boat glides noiselessly through the fog, not as they slip across the empty dock, not in the transport to the airfield.
“You all right?” Benji asks. Ilsa’s up front with the driver, giving rapid directions in Italian.
“Yeah, fine,” Ethan says. Benji’s mouth flattens, but he doesn’t push it. Ilsa slants a look over the seat. “I’m fine,” Ethan says quietly.
“It would be—understandable, if—” Benji hesitates, gestures towards Ilsa and back at himself.
“It wasn’t my first time,” Ethan says.
“Oh, well, since you know so much about it then,” Benji says, reddening.
Ethan winks at him, just to see what’ll happen; Benji smiles at him: bashful, delighted.
*
“Don’t fuck too much without me,” Ilsa says, when she has to leave. She kisses them both a half a dozen times, refuses a ride to the airport, and Benji stares at him when the door closes, across the empty apartment.
“You’ll stay?” he says, uncertainly.
“Sure,” Ethan says. “How will you get to work otherwise?”
“I have a car,” Benji says. It’s a ten-year-old Honda Accord, though.
They do—they definitely do fuck too much without her. In a hotel room in Iceland, Benji flushed pink, his throat, his chest, the bed shaking beneath them; Benji saying, “look, just—come here,” in Peru, jerking him off slow while Ethan tries to make it last (he doesn’t).
The other stuff too, falling asleep on the couch in Benji’s office, jet-lagged from two days in Laos, listening to Benji typing in rolling, emphatic waves, dreaming of summer rain, finding Benji in the gym, sweat ringing his collar, saying, “wanna head out?”, spending the night, sometimes.
She calls them once, a sat phone call on a secure line in Benji’s office, her voice tinny and frosted over with static, warm and alive and far away.
“She’ll be back soon,” Benji says, when the call drops.
“Yeah,” Ethan says, glumly. “Yeah, I know.” Between missions, when she has enough time for a flight. When their assignments coincide, for a day or two, a week.
Benji stops messing around with the sat phone and looks at Ethan patiently.
“The Senior Technical Liaison,” he says, “has recommended that interagency cooperation continue with joint missions facilitated by a small number of more permanent stateside assignments.”
“There was a memo?” Ethan guesses.
“Yep,” Benji says. “Budget approval inside the month,” but it’s faster than that, Ilsa leaning in their doorway, rumpled from 19 hour flight on a cargo plane, wanting: a shower, fajitas, and
“You know,” she says, winking at Benji.
“to make love,” Ethan says. Benji groans. Ilsa laughs.
“I wasn’t joking,” Ethan says.
“I know,” Ilsa says, kissing the corner of his mouth, one gentle hand on his cheek; Benji leans in and kisses her softly, eyes closed, says, “hm, you taste like airplane.”
In the end, it’s easy: easy to slice peppers and onions while Benji sits on the counter with Ilsa leaning back between his knees, occasionally turning her head to meet him in a kiss; to lie with his head in Ilsa’s lap while Benji sucks him off, kissing her fingers, the palms of her hands; easy to drop them off and have to loop around the block a few times to find a parking spot and find Ilsa kissing already Benji in the front hallway, one hand down his pants; easy to slip inside Ilsa when Benji’s finished, kiss her flushed red cheeks, brush her hair off her forehead, wait for her to say, “I can probably—yeah, I can go again,” easy to get Benji to fuck him, face down on the bed with his face between Ilsa’s thighs, easy. Too easy, probably.
*
Yeah: too easy.
He’s jerking Benji off, their legs tangled together, rubbing his dick against Benji’s inner thigh, taking turns kissing him with Ilsa, first soft and then more roughly as Benji jerks up into his hand, eyes closed. He rolls onto one elbow to give Ilsa a little more space, and she leans in and cups Benji’s jaw in one hand, tilting him sideways, running her tongue over his upper lip, slipping inside while Benji moans restlessly against her mouth. She leans back and grins up at Ethan, reaches up and runs her hand up over his shoulder, brushes the back of his neck when he bends down to kiss Benji again and Ethan maybe—freaks out a little. Flinches. Accidentally cracks his forehead against Benji’s, hard enough that there are stinging lights in his vision.
“What—” Benji says, blinking. His dick deflates in Ethan’s hand.
“sorry,” Ethan says. “I just—um—” he shakes his head to clear it. “Sorry. Are you all right?”
“Are you?” Ilsa says.
“Yes,” Ethan says. Benji touches his forehead gingerly. Ethan rolls off the bed to get him an ice pack, dragging on the first thing he finds on the floor, a faded orange pair of sweatpants with a rip in the knee, Benji’s. When he turns around from the freezer, Ilsa’s in the doorway, wearing his basketball shorts, pulling the undershirt Benji was wearing when they started fooling around over her head.
“You’re all right?” she says, carefully. Benji comes after her, pulling on a silky emerald green robe that belongs to Ilsa. There’s a red mark on his forehead.
“I’m really—I’m so sorry,” Ethan says, helplessly.
“I’m fine,” Benji says, but loops the sash of the robe around his waist and lets Ethan give him the ice pack, sitting down on the couch.
“I know, but—kind of a mood killer,” Ethan says, sitting on the ottoman and folding his hands over his knees so he won’t touch, watching Benji gingerly put the ice pack on his forehead. Ilsa meets his eyes and looks down quickly, lips pinched together.
“You didn’t do anything,” Ethan says. “It was. It just reminded me of—before. Suddenly.” But that’s not strictly true. It’s been coming up. Or, coming around again, would be more accurate. Phantoms, conjured from a stranger’s suit jacket, draped over his arm, the tic tac of high heels on tile at work, vivid, ephemeral, nothing to fucking worry about.
“Before,” Ilsa says, not quite a question.
“I had another—you know, that didn’t really work out,” Ethan says. They’re both staring at him, and Ilsa looks pale, concerned. “You didn’t do anything,” he says again. “Jim used to—hold my neck sometimes when I was with Claire and it. startled me, is all. Won’t happen again.”
“Hold on, what?” Benji says, lifting the ice pack. “Jim. Phelps?”
“Who?” Ilsa says.
“The time you’d done it before,” Benji says, voice flat with disapproval, “was your boss?”
“He wasn’t my boss,” Ethan says.
“who then framed you,” Benji continues. “For, you know, murder. And international espionage.” And the part he doesn't say: then you killed him; you killed them.
“Oh, that,” Ilsa says.
“Didn’t read about that in the archives, huh,” Ethan says, feeling raw. He’d thought they knew.
“No, I didn’t,” Benji says sharply. “Were you ever going to say?”
“What for?” Ethan says.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” Ilsa says, with a quelling glance at Benji.
“‘Course you don’t,” Benji says, nodding unhappily. He wraps the robe more tightly around his chest; it doesn’t quite close.
“I know what it looks like,” Ethan says into the silence. “But they didn’t. I wanted it.”
Ilsa doesn’t react, her face still and set; Benji looks away, throat jogging rapidly as he swallows.
“It wasn’t—right, what they did,” he says, his voice thick with anger. Ethan feels—nothing. Thinks about going back to the hotel, closing the door and being alone, thinks about how he shouldn’t have said anything at all, rather than disappoint them.
“Look, if, if you just want to call it off, I would understand,” he says, as evenly as he can. Ilsa sighs. Benji closes his eyes, draws in a long careful breath.
“Because why, now?” he says.
“Jesus, because I’m fucked up, Benji,” Ethan says, annoyed. “Who’d even—” want to put up with his same old bullshit; even he’s exhausted by it, twenty-five fucking years later and still sick with guilt over Claire, over Jim, still circling back, knowing there must have been some way he could have made it come out right, if he hadn’t been so blindly desperate for their attention, their approval; wanting—wanting, but too fucking afraid to start something, because look how it had ended up for Nyah, for Julia. Had it really been worth it, for them? Easy enough to know you’re supposed to forgive yourself, but try actually doing it under the suffocating weight of years of screw ups.
“Historically this type of thing hasn’t really gone that well for me,” he says. “It was—safer, I guess, when it was just you two. I really was—”
“Yeah, yeah, happy for us,” Benji says.
“Wasn’t us, though,” Ilsa says. “Not without you.”
*
In the dark, Ethan says,
“Jim used to—” and then can’t go on. Jim used to like to watch them together, him and Claire, and then to fuck him after. He’d carry it around with him the whole next day, an exhilarated glow lodged just under his diaphragm.
Jim said, well, it hadn’t seemed right to say anything while Ethan was still finishing his training, but now—now that they were both field agents. No pressure, of course, completely up to him. Claire had said, there’s no one—no one I can imagine wanting such a thing with but you—
Jim liked his hair short.
Benji loops his fingers loosely in Ethan’s, presses their palms together, waits. Ilsa slides her arm around his waist, holds him tightly from behind. Her mouth opens—a kiss, soft—against his back. It’s nice.
*
“You know,” Benji says, in the morning, shifting his mug of tea between his hands. “You know, you’re not the only one who worries they might not quite—measure up.”
“Benji, you have to know that I—“ Ethan says.
“Not me, obviously,” Benji says, cutting him off. “I’m fine, with me—being me, you know, and you two being—” he gestures vaguely. “But Ilsa, maybe.”
Ilsa makes a dismissive noise. “Would you worry, moving to a different country for a month-old relationship after being dumped more than once for being frigid fucking stuck-up bitch?” she says.
“No,” Benji says.
“And you’ve known each other for ten years and I just got here,” she says.
“Really more like fifteen,” Ethan says.
“Yes, that’s very helpful,” Ilsa murmurs, gulping at her tea.
Their phones ring in unison.
“Hold on—“ Benji says, reaching across the counter to pick up his phone. Ilsa’s is already in her hand. Ethan lifts his and reads:
Target has acquired a
“Type—” “Type—”
“Two,” Ilsa shouts triumphantly, pointing at Benji.
“—two, oh goddamnit, not fair,” Benji says.
“What—are you doing?” Ethan says.
“Type two: someone who shouldn’t have the thing has the thing, right?” Ilsa says.
“Yes,” Ethan says. “But—”
“One guess what we talked about,” Benji says wryly, “All those times you were so sure we were ripping each others’ clothes off.”
*
Benji’s hands are quick, sure, checking the buckles on the Ilsa’s tac harness. They’re behind the safety barrier on a bridge a few hundred feet above a secure facility built into a cliff wall.
“You’ll have 12 seconds for the drop,” Benji says. “One at a time, as the lighthouse beacon swings away.”
He tightens one last strap on Ilsa’s shoulder and then gives her a quick nod and turns to Ethan, working carefully, tightening each buckle as he goes.
“You’re good,” he says, finally. Ethan clips in. Ilsa checks the rigging. The line snaps in the wind. The beacon swings towards them, blinding, away.
“Ready?” Benji says.
“Yes,” Ethan says, and then, “Wait.” They look at him, expectant. “If I made it sound like—I wanted to stop. I don’t.”
“Good,” Benji says.
“In case you thought I did,” Ethan says. “I don’t know how it’s going to end up, but—
“Have to wait until the last possible second to find out,” Ilsa says. “That’s how you usually do things, right?”
“Yes,” Ethan admits. Ilsa smiles, and grips the webbing of his harness, walking him back until he’s on the edge, in the space she cut out of the guardrail while Benji was timing the light. Benji looks at his watch, puts one hand over hers.
“On my mark,” he says. The light sweeps across them; Benji smiles at him.
“Ready?” Ilsa says.
“R—“
Their eyes meet. They shove him off the bridge.
Ethan falls, falls—lets himself fall.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
Nah, not an epilogue, what about a post-credits scene:
Ethan gets a work call in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. Benji and Ilsa, used to it by now, keep reading, tucked into their respective ends of the couch.
Ethan does next to nothing at work for weeks at a time: reads the free newspapers in the canteen and drinks the same cup of lukewarm coffee for an hour and a half, runs loop after loop on the half mile dirt track outside headquarters, brings Ilsa sandwiches from the cafeteria when she’s in an all day debrief, teaches a BASE jumping clinic that appears on none of the training calendars, lies on the couch in Benji’s office and stares at motorcycles for sale on craigslist—and then gets a troubleshooting call and disappears for an hour, or a day, saying into the phone,
“No, that’s fine, where? Good—keep to the east side of the street for three more blocks, you’ll want the news stand next to the barber shop, ask for Ayaan, tall guy, frog tattoo on his wrist—” his voice calm and quiet, always.
“Wait, what?” Ethan says, his face darkening. His hand tightens on the phone. “How long? No, it’s no trouble, I can be there in 45 minutes. No, it’s good you called. I know. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Everything okay?” Benji says, when Ethan puts the phone down.
“Yeah, fine,” Ethan says standing. “I have to, um—” he hesitates, and then says, “You want to go to the hotel with me?”
In the field, Ethan is decisive; relentless. At home he offers—a trip to the beach, an afternoon matinee, a photograph of himself, nine years old, beaky, clutching the rope of the steer he raised for 4H—always carefully noncommittal, as though he hasn’t learned yet that they want all of him, every part.
They take the Accord because Ethan’s car is a two seater; Ethan drives. Benji assumes they’re headed downtown through one of Ethan’s weird shortcuts, then remembers it’s just as likely to be someplace a little smaller, historic, refined. Ilsa still doesn’t know enough about where anything is to make sense how they’re getting there, but she waits for the lux high-rises to appear, manicured parks, glassed-in doorman buildings.
Ethan takes a left off the freeway, drives past a series of warehouses, landscaping supply lots, gently decaying suburban houses, a used car dealership, and parallel parks next to a squat, poorly maintained building wedged between a high-rise and an abandoned lot, overgrown with weeds. Ethan’s minutely adjusting the distance from the curb when a tall woman wearing a skimpy, sparkling mini-dress leans in languidly against the car and says,
“hi honey,” in a warm, slow voice, and then straightens and “oh, hey Ethan,” clipped and friendly, a half an octave higher.
“Hey Candice,” Ethan says. He gets out and Benji and Ilsa follow.
“New wheels?” Candice says, flicking a few strands of dark, shiny hair back over her shoulder.
“I can assure you this is not my car,” Ethan says firmly. Candice laughs.
“Okay,” she says.
“This is Benji and Ilsa,” Ethan says. “My, um, friends.”
“So nice to meet you,” Candice says, in a politely distant way that makes it clear she’s minding her own business. Ethan doesn’t seem to notice, and instead ushers them through a gate in the peeling wrought iron fence that runs the length of the property. The hotel itself is faded brick, with a second story balcony that looks out over an oval pool surrounded by a ragged chain link safety fence.
Ethan opens the door of the front office and leans in, knocks on the doorframe, calls quietly, "Angel," and a tall skinny kid comes out of the back and around the counter, shoulders hunched apologetically.
“Thanks for coming,” he says. “I’m sorry for bothering you, I know you were probably working and—I just—Pop Pop was so set on going up and I—”
“You did the right thing,” Ethan says, with such soft intensity that Angel visibly relaxes.
“I know,” he says, ducking his head.
“It’s really no trouble,” Ethan says.
“I’ll just get you everything,” Angel says, and goes back in the office.
“What, um—what does he think you do for work?” Ilsa asks, when he’s safely out of earshot.
“some kind of organized crime,” Ethan says absently. “Maybe a drug dealer.” He shrugs off his sweatshirt and cuffs his pants above his ankles, reties his shoes with double knots. Angel comes back and gives him a plastic case and a pair of pliers and he puts them in the backpack, zipping closed all the pockets.
“This shouldn’t take too long,” he says, to Ilsa and Benji. “Are you thirsty or—” He pulls out his wallet and extracts a few crumpled ones. “There’s a vending machine next to the front office. It’s towards the end of the month so there’s probably just purple Fanta and maybe a Diet Slice, but—” he puts the money in Benji’s hand.
“Thanks,” Benji says, automatically. They both watch as Ethan climbs the stairs to the second floor balcony, steps up onto the railing, and pulls himself up on the tin awning roof. Ilsa takes a few steps back, watching him, and then pulls up one of the plastic pool chairs and sits down.
“Can I, um, just—” Benji says to Angel. “Sorry, what’s happening?”
“Oh, the cable feed goes out,” Angel says. “Bad wiring. You used to be able to get onto the roof from the building next door, but then they demolished it, so—”
“I see,” Benji says. “And Pop Pop—”
“Ethan saw him using the extension ladder from the fire escape, and so—you know,” Angel says, pointing vaguely at Ethan, now slowly climbing the sheer twenty foot stretch of brick wall towards the roof.
“Yeah, I know,” Benji says. He drags a chair over and sits down next to Ilsa.
“Well,” he says. “It’s not quite how I pictured the hotel.”
“Mm,” Ilsa says, shading her eyes. “Are you sure?”
The setting sun limns the edge of the building in glowing orange, paints the sky in delicate pinks. Above them, Ethan’s hanging from the top edge of the building by one hand.
“Yeah, okay,” Benji admits. “Want me to get you a Fanta?”