Benji
Benji's hands have always been beautiful.
They do not possess the lithe delicacy of a woman's, but they are strong and slender when pressed against Ethan's skin.
The tip of a forefinger taps in idle measure against the groove of the tabletop. For three hours and counting, it doesn't stop to rest.
Above their tin roof passes the distant buzz of helicopter blades, muffled and dampened by the clouds.
A sigh of frustration is stifled through Benji's nose. His finger continues its rhythm in tempo rubato.
From his corner nest, Ethan swipes a rag down his pristine Glock for the umpteenth time.
His watch strikes midnight; Benji's laptop speaker chirps with the smallest of bells. The tapping ceases in momentum, then halts altogether.
Ethan watches as Benji's fingers fly over the keyboard like a conductor's over an ensemble. Those hands have directed his path to safety more times than he could keep track of. He sits and watches them pause their work to press points into weary temples.
It has been a long day.
Concurrent rest is seldom permitted on missions such as this, but when the third hour of dawn approaches, Ethan invites Benji into his threadbare cocoon anyway.
His hands are like ice from having been spread over the freezing keyboard throughout most of the night. Ethan holds them between his own and blows warm breath over each curling finger.
"S'alright," Benji protests when his hands are dragged under Ethan's shirt. Ethan ignores him and holds them flush against the source of his body heat. "You'll be cold."
"But you won't be," Ethan says back. He doesn't relinquish his hold on Benji's hands for a long time. Only when he feels the last of their chill melt away upon his chest does he let them be pulled away.
He recalls the way these hands have patted his shoulder for the first time. Tended to his wounds for the first time, stitched his thumb back together. The way they held his face and pulled him close for the first time.
Ethan thinks of how he lies here and still draws breath to this day.
"Thank you for keeping me alive," he whispers.
One pale fingertip flutters in Benji's sleep.
~0~
Benji
It is more out of habit than anything else, but Benji and Ethan sleep in rotating shifts even on their days off.
During the day, they rarely find themselves in the same room at any given time. If Ethan is not busy with conference calls and mission reports, he is digging through textbooks to keep his languages fresh. Other times, he will be exercising with the few machines they've managed to assemble in their bedroom.
It is rare for Benji to catch Ethan in bed by the time he returns home from his regular evening jogs. There are used towels drying on the chair by the tiny corner desk. Ethan doesn't flinch when Benji perches atop the corner of the bed, nor when the hallway light spills across the darkened room and over his brow.
Ethan's hands are tan, roughened, and bestrewn with scars of all shapes and sizes. One pinky finger is off kilter from the rest, having been poorly set and mended at a crooked angle. There are old blisters that have hardened into permanent calluses in the skin. Pale remnants of bad stitchwork down the length of a thumb. Faded outlines of cigarette burns across his palm.
Years upon years of hardship and no reprieve in sight. Ethan has saved more lives than he can ever hope to count, including Benji's own.
Benji thinks of Ethan taking refuge in darkened safe houses, cold and lonely. He thinks of Ethan cradling his broken and bleeding hand as he rummages for antiseptic wipes, while vermin scuttle in the corners of the room.
It is too much.
A drop of wetness falls directly over one of the many discolorations marring Ethan's hands. He locks eyes with Ethan, who had awoken at some point and is now watching solemnly from his pillow. Benji blinks, surprised.
"Don't be sad," Ethan murmurs, but the sentiment is reflected in his shadowed face, his downturned mouth.
"I'm sorry."
For all the hurts you have endured. For every scar I could not prevent. For every moment I spent hiding behind a monitor, and failing to protect you when I could.
Ethan's hands have always been beautiful.
Benji lets him dry the tears with the thumb that carries the ridges left behind by nine, shaky sutures.
I've challenged myself to only 1 hour per chapter, including editing. So that gives me thirty minutes per PoV, so they're not as extensively detailed as I would like them to be. This time limit was an attempt to stop my tendency to ramble... let's see if it helps.
