Archive of Our Own ^beta

Nicholas doesn’t really remember the last time someone called him his name.

When Milligan had first arrived in the house, Nicholas had shamefully, secretly felt—

Well, everything he was supposed to, of course, sadness and sympathy for this gentle stranger’s plight. But also more selfish things.

Relief that he wasn’t the only one. Hope that he wouldn’t be alone. That with connection, with trust, maybe, just maybe, this could be someone who would be part of his life for a long time. A friend—family, even.

Guilt sours the hope—he isn’t trying to replace his brother, he tells himself, but surely he doesn’t have to be alone forever, for one mistake?

(Even if that’s what he asked for, whispers his brain back, sly and cruel, and he ignores it, ignores it.)

He isn’t entirely wrong. But when he invites Milligan into his home, Milligan blinks slowly, and says, are you offering me a job?

And that’s where it starts.

Nicholas does try to tell him he doesn’t need to do anything, that Nicholas will help him however he can, that there’s no price. But—Milligan seems rather attached to the idea, and it seems harmless, at the time.

It’s a fair enough arrangement—Nicholas can provide for him all he wants, a reliable source of income considering his lack of papers and experience, and he gets to be close to the mystery, doing something to fight back against whatever or whoever took everything for him. Milligan wants to be close to the action, and wanting his own finances, some semblance of independence—Nicholas would never deny that. He isn’t trying to be the man’s father, and he doesn’t want to condescend. A job is a perfectly fine way of looking at it.

But a job means it’s—professional. Means Milligan calls him Mr. Benedict, and Nicholas doesn’t correct him about his doctorate, because it’s a bit obnoxious and anyway it’s not as if it’s a useful doctorate, really, as much as he loved it, and anyway, it’d be going in the opposite direction of what he wants because what he wants—what he selfishly, cruelly wants—

Well, it doesn’t matter what he wants.

Nicholas is hardly going to overstep boundaries laid out, hardly going to make Milligan feel like he must offer friendship.

…Still, secretly, he watches out for it.

And sometimes, he thinks he finds it—when Milligan catches him in warm arms, gently tells him he needs rest on nights he stays up far too late, silently brings him snacks and support in the signals room as he tugs at his hair anxiously, staring at the dials trying to make sense of it all.

Other times—other times, he’s damn near a breakdown and on his last string and Milligan politely looks away. Other times Nicholas tentatively tries to reach out in some small way, and is gently but firmly brushed off. Milligan is always, always professional.

Nicholas respects it. Respects him greatly. But the message is clear. They are co-workers. Perhaps they are friends. They will never be anything more than that. And he can live with that.

Still, though, his helpless heart can’t help but feel—Milligan’s warm and gentle and strong, with a dry wit and quick mind, and Nicholas loves his company, feels safe with him in a way he hasn’t with another person in some time. Milligan’s good, good in a way even Nicholas struggles with, and he can’t even see it.

(Admiring someone doesn’t make them family.)

He gets used to it eventually. Even when he doesn’t think Milligan has ever said his name. Just Mr. Benedict. Just sir.

(Milligan does leave, eventually, when he finds his real family, and Nicholas doesn’t blame him one bit, of course, he really fucking doesn’t, how could he ever? But it still stings despite himself, just a little, and he buries the guilty self-resentment the sting gives him deeper than he buries the hurt.)

Number Two, bless her, is just as determined. He thinks it actually comes from misplaced respect, her insistence on calling following Milligan’s lead. Mr. Benedict, and sir.

Sometimes he thinks maybe she, at least, considers him… something. She badgers him into eating and stares at him grumpily when he exhausts himself and it kind of reminds him of—

She reminds him of a sister he’s never had, caring and protective and stubborn, always ready to argue and always ready to protect. She’s clever and fiery and vibrant and he loves her so much, she’s dear to him, so hurt by the world and so unwilling to give up, so resilient and ready to change it.

Still, though. The mission. It is clear that the mission comes first—as it must, you selfish bastard, he thinks to himself, as it should—and that in the end he is…

She thinks he’s brilliant, and that feels nice, to be recognized, but she thinks he’s brilliant the way you think a general is brilliant, or really more the way a mathematician is brilliant, a mathematician you may meet by mistake on a train and badger into talking in your car, a mathematician you poke at for opinions on formulas and theories and physics really outside his purview just to see what he says, a mathematician who you admire the work of and enjoy a conversation with and make a story of and then never see again, when you’re done, save perhaps a few work-related emails if you’re in the same field, a mathematician who you deftly save from a horrible poisoning only to perhaps fail to save from a kidnapping later.

You know. That way.

The point being, she thinks he is brilliant, and she will proudly tell people about his work, and she wants to work with him, wants to solve this impossible problem they’ve found, wants to help people… but in the end, he is a colleague. Even a boss. He is Mr. Benedict.

And really, is that so bad? He feels more like a professor than a boss most days. They don’t mind defying him, at least, which is good. He needs to be defied sometimes. He doesn’t want control.

Still, part of him wishes—

He thinks they’re friends, of a sort. Strange friends in strange times. It’s not as if she only tolerates him, no matter how much she mutters and grumbles at his bad habits. He would never, ever imply she didn’t care. That any of them didn’t care.

But primarily—primarily, he must remember, they are coworkers. Employees, really. He must remember that.

(And when the Emergency is over and his world is coming down around his ears, has collapsed at his feet and lays there smoking with his brother missing from the wreckage and the revelation of a nephew he’s never met on the horizon and a new daughter who doesn’t want to be his daughter… she leaves. And he doesn’t blame her one bit, of course he doesn’t, she deserves a fucking break, but—it stings, slightly, that she needs a break from work, because he has to keep reminding himself that’s him.)

By the time Rhonda joins their little group, Mr. Benedict doesn’t really hope anymore. He likes her—grows to love her a great deal as he does all the others—and of course she is brilliant. But she plays her cards close to her chest, and he has no wish to overstep, so he doesn’t pry.

His door is open, of course, but he doesn’t ask, and neither does she.

She’s a wonderful employee—highly competent, but he never expected less—and she calls him Mr. Benedict, of course. Or just Benedict, sometimes, which is actually kind of better, somehow.

She’s shrewd, and blunt, occasionally, and always hilarious. He knows her looser attitude annoys Number Two sometimes—he can’t help but think they act like sisters—but it’s a good counterbalance, he finds, for the team.

(And when Number Two leaves, she leaves with her, arm in arm, and they proclaim they are like sisters, and Mr. Benedict tries so incredibly hard not to let it sting. He is not part of it, and he doesn’t need to be.)

He adores Constance. He adores her, and he wants to protect her. Because no matter how vicious and sharp-tongued and biting she can be, she is a child, and she needs it. Deserves it. Not because she can’t protect herself but because she should never have had to, and he hates he had a part in making her do so at all.

He also just plainly enjoys her company—playing chess with her, hearing her poetry, occasionally being able to coax smiles from her (whether teeth-baring grins of projected faux-malice or genuine, quickly-hidden little smiles that he treasured) and having spirited debates about books and philosophy (of which he was sworn to secrecy about, lest it be known to the other children she read books on occasion).

Mr. Benedict knows her, which is why he knows not to be offended when she refuses the adoption papers. It stings, but he covers it masterfully—in his head and on his face, mind you, for one did not prepare to adopt a child with psychic powers without doing some amount of preparation, although he doubted she had mastered true mind-reading just yet—and simply goes on as if nothing had happened.

She is his family, even if he isn’t hers. He’s okay with that. Used to it at this point. He will care for her anyway, as if she is his own, even if she never, ever calls him “dad”, or anything but “Mr. Benedict” and an assortment of hilarious, lacking-in-malice insulting nicknames that often rhyme.

Nathaniel is his family. But he is not the one who rejects Nicholas.

Nicholas left him first, and he still can’t be sure if he regrets it.

An ironic reversal—maybe the root of it all. Maybe all the people who leave Nicholas… maybe it’s part of some ironic, cosmic punishment. He had wanted to be alone. Now he would be.

He was simply getting exactly what he’d asked for.

Nathaniel is the only one who’s called him Nicholas in a very long time.