benjy fenwick and mary macdonald.
what made the passing of young lives weigh so much heavier than those older than them? because, really, edgar and hana weren’t so old themselves. early thirties, with years ahead of them – but once one has children, isn’t that what they’re always defined by? the little ones bearing their last name, their features? benjy never had a father, not one that mattered, so maybe that weight just didn’t register the same with him. but they were gone, the entire family, and it’s a unique sort of loss. sometime in the midst of the meeting benjy finds himself passing a hip flask beneath the table with one of the prewett twins, taking swigs when eyes aren’t on him ( or even when they are. he begins to lose track ). during the meeting, the tick tick tick of a clock rings like a reminder of time passing on. even if it feels like all had stopped in the tide of the news.
the evening was long, but eventually he finds himself one of the last few remaining at headquarters. but he was so aware of mary. when she rises, his eyes follow – always following, a hand twitching as if with the desire to touch her himself, chest opening as if her proximity calms him – as she drops into the seat at his side and swipes the bottle. a wry grin pulls at his lips, and it’s more facade than truth. “impeccable company to have, really.” there returns the unwavering confidence. the exact thing his father ( he ought to have choked on the word in his throat ) told him he had no business having. benjy pauses. takes a swig of the whisky no longer burning the back of his throat. wonders if she can see the slight tremor in his hand – and hoping she doesn’t. his thumb brushes over the back of her palm before returning her grip, his fingers lacing through her’s. he should do more, he thinks, but instead he settles for this. whatever this is.
are you – what, mary? okay? it’s all so subjective anyway. he finishes the finger’s worth of a drink in his glass and slides it aimlessly toward the center of the island.
“what do you say we go for a walk?”
And then there was that fucking grin. Mary responded to his cheekiness with a grin of her own, and a cocky, “I know – you’re a lucky fellow.” Her face hid the bitterness that she tasted on her tongue. They were the farthest thing from lucky, even she – not prone to self-pity, having accepted that the world was a cruel place a long time ago – was well aware of that. They were luckier than Edgar and Hana had been, though, she supposed; still breathing, hearts still beating, lives still ahead of them. But if not having been gruesomely murdered was all there was that made them lucky, Mary decided that was a measly victory. She tried to wash away the bitter taste from her mouth with another sip of whiskey, willing it to burn everything away.
At least there were their fingers laced together. Mary tried not to think about what it might mean, about why it was Benjy’s touch she craved – because it wasn’t just anyone’s touch she needed, she knew that deep down – and how it seemed to calm her. She focused on just their hands, his eyes, his voice. It was easier to focus on the details, to lose herself in them, the big picture fading. The whiskey certainly helped, too.
She didn’t think about his question long. “Please,” she said, relief spreading through her at the idea of fresh air and a cigarette, of the night sky and them getting out of the headquarters. Grief hung around the room in a suffocating way. She unlaced her fingers from his, only to get up and get her coat, knowing – hoping – that they’d find their way back soon enough. “Let’s get the fuck out of here, yeah?” Shrugging on her coat, she moved to the kitchen door, eyes catching Benjy. No one had ever told her how hard war it made to be honest, not only to others, but oneself, too.
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