Archive of Our Own ^beta

“So fucking touchy,” Benji grumbles, craning his neck in an attempt to see the problem better. “These things were made to go out in the field, you’d think they’d be a little hardier, but no – gives up the ghost at a gentle brush of wind, and then I have to fix it.”

With one hand jammed into the guts of the broken mask machine in front of him and his eyes trained on the source of the fritz, Benji reaches out and gropes around on the table to his side, attempting to feel his way to–

“Here.”

Benji jumps when his fingertips meet warm flesh instead of the cool wood of the tabletop, and he jerks up to see Will standing beside him, offering him a green-handled screwdriver – exactly the one Benji had been searching for.

Brows furrowed, Benji reaches out and takes the tool, his fingers brushing across Will’s as he wraps them around the handle. “Thanks,” he says after a moment. “How’d you know this is the one I needed?”

Will shrugs. “I’ve watched you fix that thing enough times that I have a pretty good idea of what you’re going to grab next.”

“Ah,” Benji says, because he isn’t sure what else to say. He turns and shoves his hands back into the machine, gripping the screwdriver tightly enough that it almost erases the lingering feeling of Will’s skin against his own. Finally, he manages a flippant, “Spend a lot of time watching me, do you?”

“Well, I’m the helper, aren’t I?” Will asks, and when Benji, against his better judgment, glances up, there’s the edge of a smirk on Will’s face. “How am I supposed to help if I don’t pay attention?”

Benji snorts, looking back to the machine. “I think we can admit you’re a little more than just the helper, at this point.”

“Maybe,” Will says. “But I don’t mind it, depending on who’s asking.”

Concentration now thoroughly shot, Benji looks back up. The amusement has gone from Will’s face, leaving behind something a little apprehensive. Something nearly expectant. Just what’s being expected of him, though – Benji wonders if he dares hope they’re on the same page.

He supposes the only way to find out is to ask.

“Grab that flashlight for me?” he asks after a moment, nodding towards the table.

Without hesitation, Will does so.

“Come over here, and– yes, yeah, that’s– that’s great.” Benji stumbles through an attempt at a coherent sentence as Will sidles up behind him and shines the flashlight on the innards of the machine with barely any prompting. “Actually, no, just– a little lower, right where my hands are. Little further down.”

As if he’s the one who needs to see better, Will leans in closer, body curved to match Benji’s posture, placing his free hand on his shoulder as he reangles the light, just where Benji needs it.

“Good?” Will asks softly.

Benji can feel the warmth of him at his back, the stir of his breath brushing his ear as he waits for Benji’s judgment. It’s unexpectedly intimate, and so distracting that Benji thinks it might just be muscle memory keeping his hands steady at this point.

“Yeah,” Benji breathes after a moment. “Perfect.”