forgive me for how dogshit this is, i haven't written fic since high school. but this addition was just way too inspiring! set immediately after ben says goodbye to jud.
For a long, lingering moment, Benoit sat unmoving in the driver’s seat, his brows furrowed and his lips pursed in a frown. There was an unmistakable itch just beneath his skin—nagging, uncomfortable, disconcerting. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel as he audibly sucked his teeth. Had he forgotten something? His narrowed eyes flickered over to his right. Hat. Jacket. Phone, wired earbuds.
And before Benoit had entirely processed his epiphany, he reached for his phone and swiped to his contact list. A name shone up from the screen, one he had not thought about in months. Marta Cabrera.
Kind-hearted, earnest Marta. He had not seen her, had not spoken to her since Ransom Drysdale’s trial. They had gone out for coffee and donuts and she had insisted that she would be all right and he had bid her farewell. The itch seemed to grow more persistent. How was Marta’s mother doing? Had she managed to obtain a green card? Were the Thrombeys still pecking at Marta’s heels, their beaks stained red but their appetites as insatiable as ever? Was Marta managing to juggle the publishing company and the mansion and the millions willed to her by Harlan?
Did she, despite the clarity and distance of time, blame herself for all that had happened?
Benoit absentmindedly scratched at the back of his hand, staring at his phone without truly seeing. His thumb pressed down, and after just three rings, he heard Marta’s familiar voice. Soft and almost shy, as it had been before.
“Detective Blanc?” she asked, sounding uncertain. “H… Hi. Um, is everything all right?”
Benoit took a breath, his face scrunched in a wince. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should apologize for wasting her time, should say he dialed the wrong number.
But he remembered Father Jud’s ridiculous, dumbfounding hug. So, instead, he said, “Hello, dear girl. I, uh… Well, lately my mind has developed a proclivity for wanderin’ of its own volition, despite my best efforts to keep a hand on the metaphorical leash. I do sincerely apologize for rudely interruptin’ your afternoon without so much as a cursory warnin’ and I hope you’ll forgive this intrusion but…” He bit his lower lip and tried again. “I wanted to know how you’re doing. If you wouldn’t mind indulgin’ me for a moment.”
The line was painfully silent. Lord above, Benoit knew he should not have called. There was a reason he preferred distancing himself from previous cases and this was exactly the—
“I’m doing good,” Marta answered, the words leaving her in a relieved sigh. “Yeah. I’m doing really good.”
Benoit’s shoulders loosened, tension rolling away like rain. It felt like being cleansed. Like being baptized, he could almost hear Jud wryly suggesting. “Your mother?” Benoit asked.
He heard the smile in Marta’s voice. “She’s doing good, yes. We found a good lawyer—someone who knew Harlan. We’re just waiting for her paperwork to go through.”
“Good,” Benoit said. “That’s wonderful, dear girl. Truly wonderful.”
The silence was not uncomfortable this time. It felt less like a pause and more like a breath.
“I’m sorry,” Marta said abruptly. “I hate phone calls. After everything that happened.” Another beat. “Will you be in town soon? We could catch up over lunch, if you want.”
Benoit grinned to himself. The itch had been scratched. In its place was a sense of warmth, of rightness. “Oh, I would be delighted to. Would next weekend be permissible with your schedule?”
Benoit heard a page turn—a calendar, maybe. “I can do Saturday,” she said. “Where and when?”
“Eleven o’clock. At, erm… At that donut shop. On me, of course.”
Marta laughed, and Benoit’s grin widened. “All right. I’ll be there, Detective Blanc.”
“Benoit,” he insisted. “If you’d please.”
“Benoit,” Marta repeated softly. “I’ll see you then.”
Benoit pocketed his phone, exhaled slowly, and loosened his tie. Our Lady of Perpetual Grace sat aglow in the distance, bathed in sunlight with its doors wide open. Something deep in his chest unraveled, giving way to a warmth that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun. No more games. Not until the board is set once again.
He turned his key in the ignition—and home he went.
dailybridgerton
annaxmalina
tangentwithtanner
2087
discoholicmusic
germansingergirl
