mr benedict, perhaps saying #8 or #41? Dealer's choice 👀
THIS IS BECAUSE OF YOUR WONDERFUL SWAP AU AND I AM STILL CLUTCHING MY HEART OVER IT. *VOMITS THIS INTO YOUR LAP*
“No, no! You can't, listen to me, you c–” The man on the ground recoiled, reaching a hand out at the same time, almost fearfully. His movements were jerky and uncertain, and he seemed utterly terrified.
Quickly nudging Kate behind him, Milligan knelt on the pavement. “Stay back, Katie-Cat,” he said softly over his shoulder, then turned his attention to the dirty, disheveled man in front of him. “Are you alright, sir?” He said, hovering a hand in front of the man, almost but not quite touching him.
Blinking confused tears out of his eyes, the man raised his head. "I'm sorry, that was… embarrassing.” He mumbled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his muddy jacket and trying to turn away. “I– I do apologize, I didn't mean to frighten you, or– or your daughter.” He had caught a glimpse of Kate peeking out from behind her father, sending her a small smile. She smiled back, shyly.
“You didn't frighten anyone,” Milligan rumbled, following the obviously homeless man with concern in his eyes, “I just wanted to see if you needed help. You seemed quite frightened, yourself, a moment ago.”
The man started to get a faraway, misty look, and Milligan hurried to place a large hand on his shoulder. He blinked, expression focussing again. Then he ducked his head. “I'm sorry…” He said.
Milligan felt nothing but pure worry over this man he had just met, and did not know, but he still had his daughter to protect.
Kate pulled on his long coat sleeve at that moment. Leaning down to let her whisper in his ear, he heard, “I think he needs help, Daddy. We should help him.”Well, that settled it. Standing, he saw the man shuffling away, arms wrapped around himself, as his meager clothing likely did nothing to keep out the frigid winter air.
Long strides took no time at all to catch up, and Milligan laid a hand on him again. “Why don't you come with us?” He asked, smiling gently. “We can get some food, maybe tea?”
The man's eyes widening with longing, but he quickly shook his head. “No, no. I couldn't possibly impose.”
“It's not an imposition if I invite you.” Milligan smiled, and began carefully steering the absentminded man in the direction of the nearest cafe. And so committed to his platitudes and demure protests was he, that he didn't even notice.
rereading the mysterious benedict society as an adult is very interesting. the book is lowkey a very poignant callout of authoritarian fear mongering.
like what strikes me most is the use of fear as a driver for control, the whisperer assuaging fears in order to get the kids to submit to it and then messages gaining control over the public by creating “the emergency” and then solving it for them.
also the “free market drill” is such an excellent callout of the paradox of late stage capitalism. like:
“The free market must always be completely free. The free market must be controlled in certain cases. The free market must be free enough to control its freedom in certain cases. The free market must have enough control to free itself in certain cases.”
i read that at 11 and was like “silly nonsense word salad” and now at 19 i’m like… fuck.
although considering how neurodivergent that book series is, it doesn’t surprise me that it’s also a tad socialist.
you were so correct about the mysterious benedict society, he nails both those roles so hard and I'm definitely going to go back and rewatch some of his sexier evil moments once I'm done (only halfway through season one, but it's so good I just had to yell about it a bit to someone 🤣)
He really deserved that third Emmy although it's funny he beaten a couple few child actors for it hahaha it was also mix-gendered category.
i watched season 2. Season 1 has more intense eye smoldering. Perhaps they toned it down a bit? Also I think season 2 has less Tony Hale and possibly some of the episodes have gotten shorter.
I wished they didn't end with a cliffhanger but at least the cliffhanger wasn't too cliffhangy, it was meh actually like it's mild like we really dont need to know.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter 3: Talk Over Tea
Milligan is exhausted, and unsettled, and more than a little lost.
Mr. Benedict has tea, and does not have all of the answers.
For Whumptober 2025 Day 16: Repressed Trauma | Permanent Marker | Disorientation | “I’ve had the rug pulled beneath my feet.”
It happened again.
He couldn’t find Kate. She was gone. Taken? He’d searched her room. No signs of a break in. She wasn’t in the attic. She wasn’t in the kitchen. She wasn’t in the sitting room—
“Milligan?” someone called. “Do you need something?”
“Can’t—” he gasped—where was the air?— “Can’t find—”
“You’re looking for something?” said the voice.
“Are you alright there, son?” said someone else.
“Kate—” he forced out around a wordless bout of terror.
“She’s safe. Milligan, she’s safe.” It took a minute for the words to register. When they did, the fog parted a bit, and Miss Perumal was speaking to him slowly, annunciating. “Milligan. They’re outside. All four of them are playing outside. Ms. Plugg is watching them. Would you like to go see for yourself?”
Milligan’s eyes darted around the room, automatically scanning for exits. Both of the Washingtons were looking at him, startled, confused, concerned. He nodded.
Lengthening his stride, he arrived at the window in no time. Ms. Perumal and the Washingtons followed soon after. He curled his fingers around the sill for support and looked, dreading what he might find.
Constance grumping in the corner. The boys half-heartedly kicking a deflated ball around. Kate practicing tricks with her beloved falcon. Ms. Plugg watching them, clapping at appropriate moments, eyes diligently darting away to scan the bushes every few seconds.
“Oh,” said Milligan faintly. “Okay. Thank you. I’m going to sit down now.”
And he did, right there on the rug.
---
“I think I’m sick,” Milligan announced.
Mr. Benedict looked up from his desk and smiled at him. “Tea?”
“Not that kind of sick.”
“I know,” Mr. Benedict said gently. “Tea anyway?”
He accepted. Mr. Benedict had a hot kettle ready, as if he’d been expecting Milligan. Clutching his steaming cup, seated on the couch next to Mr. Benedict, he felt rather small. But not in a diminished way. It was a relief, as if he no longer had to be the biggest person in the room.
“I’ve just begun a most courageous undertaking,” Mr. Benedict announced. “Organizing my desk. I know, I know. It has served its purpose over the years. Whenever I receive a document or a piece of correspondence I don’t want to look at, I put it on my desk, and inevitably it vanishes. A most auspicious miracle! It’s proven nearly 100% effective.”
Milligan took another sip. “Then why change it?”
Mr. Benedict smiled ruefully and ran a hand through his rumpled hair. “My own disorganization has betrayed me, I’m afraid. Recently my desk vanished a lovely drawing Constance made for me, and, well, we can’t have that, can we?”
“We cannot. I’m sure it’s buried in there somewhere,” said Milligan. The meandering subject would have been strange, but he knew Mr. Benedict well enough to understand. Mr. Benedict was letting him choose how much he wanted to discuss and when. If he just needed a soft place to land, then Mr. Benedict would provide that. Perhaps some light chit chat would have been easier. His hands were still shaking, after all. But the mug was warming them, and he wanted this out in the open.
“I thought I was having a heart attack,” he said, broaching the subject bluntly. “I’m still not convinced I’m not, actually.”
“A few minutes ago?” Mr. Benedict asked. Someone must have snuck downstairs to tell him what had just transpired at the window.
“It’s happened before,” Milligan confessed.
Mr. Benedict tilted his head as though this were not news to him, but he wanted Milligan to tell him the full story anyways.
And so he did. He told Mr. Benedict about the elevator, about the way the air had vanished, the ache that had seized his chest. He could not give a full account, given that there were moments when he’d been unaware of his surroundings, but he told Mr. Benedict about those missing moments too.
“I wondered if I was afraid of McCracken,” Milligan said. “That would make sense, right? That would be simple to understand. And being trapped with him was certainly unsettling, but I know that’s not the reason. I just can’t explain why it’s not the reason.” He cut off with a frustrated grimace.
Mr. Benedict waved his turmoil away. “Let’s take your gut feeling as true, at least for now. As I’m sure Constance could tell you, there are many times we know something but can’t pinpoint how we know it.”
Milligan nodded his thanks. “Then I thought maybe it was the sensation of being trapped. I definitely wasn’t thrilled about it, but I’ve been trapped in various dilemmas before, and never had lost my head like that.”
Mr. Benedict pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I do wonder if the combination of unsettling factors, all stacked on top of each other—”
“I thought that too,” Milligan said, not worrying even in the slightest Mr. Benedict would be offended by his interruption. “But then it happened at home, here.”
“Were you trapped?”
“Trapped where? Like in the laundry chute or something?” Milligan half-laughed. “No. I was perfectly safe. I was sitting at the table with Moocho, eating muffins and drinking juice. The most dangerous thing in the room was a candle.”
At the mention of the juice, Mr. Benedict’s brow furrowed. But it was so instantaneous that Milligan wondered if he’d imagined it.
“Can you … please just tell me what you think?” he asked, suddenly exhausted. “Please don’t bother with the clever questions to try to draw out what I think. Let’s just skip that part. Normally I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but not now.”
“It seems my usual strategy is not as subtle as I like to imagine,” Mr. Benedict chuckled. He took a long sip of tea and leaned back in on the couch. “Ahhh, what do I think? I think, dear boy, that despite what my brother thinks, the workings of the human brain are rarely straightforward or orderly, rarely fully harnessed and understood. Beyond that, I have only theories and queries and more questions.”
“Can I hear them?” Milligan asked, who sensed that Mr. Benedict’s theories were likely far more developed than he gave himself credit for.
“Certainly. What do you know of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?”
More than the average person. He knew it was very real, and devastating. But as it applied to him, he knew nothing. The thought had not even entered his nighttime wonderings. He’d always thought of it as something that affected other people. Not that he was invincible or untouchable … but he’d always been hard to rattle, always rolling with the punches. That was just who he was. He’d been through a lot, sure, but didn’t he have more than enough joy in his life now to make up for it?
“I don’t know about the ‘post’ part of it,” was all he said aloud.
Thankfully, Mr. Benedict let him off the hook. “Active-Traumatic Stress Disorder? Current-Traumatic Stress Disorder? Ongoing-Traumatic Stress Disorder?”
“More like Can’t-Catch-a-Break Traumatic Stress Disorder.”
Even if he couldn’t catch a break, he was able to catch Mr. Benedict’s teacup as he slumped backwards.
He wasn’t out for long. “Ah, it’s good to laugh,” he sighed. But this reminded Milligan that there had not been much to laugh about as of late, and slowly he grew quiet again.
“It really felt like a heart attack,” he sighed.
“If it was a panic attack, which I believe it may have been, then yes,” Mr. Benedict said sadly. “Many people think that they’ve been poisoned, or become convinced they’re dying.”
“I thought both of those things,” Milligan recalled. “What about hallucinations?” Mr. Benedict was an expert in hallucinations, he remembered now, mentally smacking himself. Why hadn’t he asked earlier?
This seemed to surprise Mr. Benedict slightly. “Do you think you saw something that wasn’t really there?”
“No, my vision went dark. But I felt as though I couldn’t move my limbs, as though they were restrained, even though I was just sitting at the table with Moocho. And I thought I had a headache, because I felt as though there was a band around my forehead. But now I wonder …” he trailed off, unsure of what exactly he was wondering. “And I heard someone laughing. I remember that very clearly, even though Moocho said no one was.”
“I wonder,” Mr. Benedict said very slowly. “If it was not a hallucination, but a memory.”
“One of mine?”
“Yes. A flashback.”
Milligan frowned. “But I was safe. I was eating my muffin. What could have brought that on?”
“Maybe nothing at all,” Mr. Benedict sighed. “Maybe some loose connection you might never put your finger on. Maybe something sensory.”
At once, Milligan remembered Mr. Benedict’s brow furrowing for the briefest instant when he’d relayed his story. “You think it was the juice?”
“These things are rarely simple, rarely so easily pinpointed, Milligan. The human brain is not a riddle, whose answer becomes clear if we only puzzle it out—”
“You do! You think it was the juice!” He pressed on, excited now. “Why do you think it was the juice?”
Mr. Benedict sighed again, sensing there was no dissuading him. “I … with the details you’ve mentioned, Milligan, I do wonder if you were having a flashback to the moment your memories were stolen. The arm and leg restraints, the band across your forehead possibly from the Whisperer helmet, the sound of someone laughing—”
“My fingertips were stinging,” he said wonderingly. “Just like they were when I woke up in the Whisperer. I remember that now. I thought it was from the cold. Moocho gave me a pack of frozen vegetables. But what does this have to do with the juice?”
Mr. Benedict grimaced, as if to paint such a direct link went against his every instinct. “Reynie has recounted many details of my brother’s personality and daily routines to me, or at least what he remembers from his time at the Institute. He told me that my brother found the Whisperer incredibly mentally taxing and exhausting to operate, and indeed, it is true. I deal with this by resting. My brother, it seems, refused to rest, and so he sustained himself by frequently drinking juice.”
“And so you think I smelled it, or tasted it, and that brought the memory on somehow?” Milligan wondered. “But I’ve had plenty of juice since that memory.”
“Who is to say?” Mr. Benedict said, throwing up his hands as if to demonstrate the futility of seeking a determinate answer. “Perhaps it was the same brand of juice my brother drinks. Perhaps you were having a bad day, and something that may not have affected you on a good day did on that day. Perhaps it was not the juice at all and we are blundering blindly in the wrong direction. It is easy to speculate, as there are thousands of possible answers, and no certain way of finding a correct one. I imagine that could be frustrating to hear,” he said with a sad smile, seeming to put aside his insistence on proper scientific inquiry to focus on Milligan’s emotions.
Milligan’s emotions were currently a bit all over the place. “Do you really think it wasn’t a heart attack?” he asked one last time.
“Truly? I don’t know. I could be completely and utterly wrong in even bringing up PTSD. I think it would be wise to check with a doctor,” Mr. Benedict said. “Are you on a first-name basis with everyone at the hospital yet?”
Milligan groaned. He was. And Dr. Steven from cardiology was going to yell at him the second he showed up back at their doorstep.
He felt himself becoming more grounded in his body, in Mr. Benedict’s study, with the raw conversation drawing to a close. Half a mug of tea was still cooling in his hands, and he sipped it. “I have a lot to think about,” he said quietly.
“I imagine you might,” Mr. Benedict said. “And putting all of my theories aside for a moment, as someone who cares about you and someone lucky enough to be your dear friend … I am sorry, Milligan. That sounded scary.”
They seemed like juvenile words coming from such an eloquent man, but truly there were no other words. “It was scary. It is scary.”
His tea was very good, even lukewarm. Mr. Benedict’s couch was soft. “Can I stay here a while? Can I watch you organize your desk?”
“I suppose you know me well enough to not be astonished when I inevitably dig up an unpaid utility bill twenty years out of date,” Mr. Benedict said with a mock put-upon expression.
He would do his thinking later. For now, Milligan laid back on the couch, comfortable and cozy, chest feeling strangely carved out but warm. “I think that counts as archeology. You’re an archeologist now, Mr. Benedict. What can’t you do?”
“Find a piece of paper, apparently,” sighed Mr. Benedict.
