This is part of the 'Benji needs more love' collection that I feel the need to add to. Each chapter is a different POV, except for the last one so that it comes full circle.

Reviews are welcomed and encouraged.

Enjoy.

He hoped it wasn't that obvious.

There was no direct cover to shield him from the gazes of the others, just packs of people that passed infrequently due to the late hour on a Monday night. All the people departing were situated at the other end of the airport, just to screw him over.

Perhaps they hadn't noticed yet, he really hoped they hadn't. Just another moment without the attention on him was appreciated, his subconscious tallying the blissful seconds.

On some level, he knew that one of them (more like all) would notice the dark circles or the way he consumed coffee in amounts that rivaled the others caffeine rates combined. He was tired, they were highly trained agents; something had to give. They had been staring enough during the last few days for him to come to a conclusion that was probably the right theory.

Perhaps no vocal concern had been voiced for the simple, but enormous reason that was their second mission as a team. First officially, because they now had the analyst back in the field instead of glued to his desk, but really no one had expected to get to number two. Rarely did a mission happen of world destruction proportions and a team escaped unscathed.

Yet somehow they had, at least for the most part anyway.

A yawn escaped, causing rippled in his carefully placed illusion. Despite the fact that it was weaning as the weariness came back, the adrenaline abating from the mission, he struggled to keep it up. Just a few more moments, then he would be able to collapse into his seat on the plane.

He was alone at the moment, thankfully; the others talking to the desk manager about something that he couldn't hear because it was out of earshot, but frankly he didn't care. Despite the fact that their attention (Jane and Brandt that was, since Ethan had told them good job before having to go meet with the new Secretary) was focused somewhere other than on him, he still had to stay on his feet.

All the seats were taken, because while people weren't walking past him in a timely fashion to cover him, there were still families and businessmen putting their asses and belongings in the seats. He was almost tempted to move the bags and just plop down without asking. That probably wasn't the best idea though, because even though Brandt would come to his rescue and Jane would probably stab someone with her heels, starting possible fights in an airport was never a good plan.

Sure, he had proper ID on him, fake but legitimate (though it was an oxymoron), having scrutiny placed upon him would delay his travel home to his bed. Which meant a delay of sleep. No fights. Nope, not happening.

It would draw attention to him, something to avoid at all costs.

So he stood. This was difficult since his feet were starting to ache, as well as the bruises just starting to make themselves known. He had been trained to not let them show, but only to an extent; he had to focus. Any wavering on his part would draw their attention.

Ignorance was not bliss, despite the commonly known phrase, but it had been working for the past week; facing the fact that he was quickly becoming an insomniac, although it was possible he was already classified in that category, was not a bridge he ever wanted to cross. So he was becoming scared of the dark, that didn't mean he had to face the shadows.

He knew he would have to. Soon, just not now.

The nightmares were not going away, no they were getting worse. While he knew that they had won, that the world was not a cesspool of radiation and explosions, that it was all over; it didn't stop his mind from exploiting the possibilities. The what ifs, the futures that seemed to split in a thousand directions when he remembered memories of the mission of impossible proportions.

Sleep, which was essential to survival and completion of missions, was evil. This conclusion had come to him and established itself as truth right after the first night. It knew all his weaknesses, his fears, and it was all used against him. When his eyelids closed, even for a moment, like now when they teetered on the edge, everything went wrong.

Jane falls through the square of air, a long horizontal hallway of industrial glass following her to her death. His belly against the expensive black tile, air rushing past his ears as he reached out. Skin against skin, the darker shade slipping right past. Dark eyes on him, wide with fear, as the smooth vocals whispered his name. Moreau laughed as he screamed.

The bullet hits the wrong target, the limp body being that of an analyst. No matter that his hands had been steady as ever, no matter that the two men looked nothing alike, making it easy to see the difference between target and ally. The remaining man ignores the blood pooling, stepping into it before tracking red footprints to where he guards the oh so crucial lever.

His mind wanders to long on leaving Jane with her own time clock ticking, never mind the world's, which distracts him from his newest mission. Compassion was a double edged blade; without it you were soulless and doomed to fail, but with too much you were not able to do specific tasks that were necessary, in that case you were doomed to fail as well. The latter is his downfall, his thoughts causing his feet against the carpet to drag a second more than necessary; Wistrom cracks bone before he can take the shot. The neck of Brandt broken, the gun clatters silently as his mind goes blank with only one word left. No. Wistrom grins before coming for his own life.

The first terror had been unseen; Ethan being crushed under the ruined magnificence that had been the Kremlin. Grinding of bones, splattering of blood of his leader, just because his younger self had taken the shorter route out of the area; the elder giving him a quick smile before they parted. There had been no guards as he ran, while the older man had been held up instructing the others to close the gates. It had been seconds wasted, just long enough. The falling stone shook around him, mocking him as the static in his ears went silent.

The last was a moment of recognition. It was overpowering, scary, and the most common in the torture; they didn't win. His hands were shaking, the wiring regressing into its tangled state no matter what he did, the flashlight useless in his grasp. It wasn't an option to doubt, yet the truth rang deep, rattling his bones. There was silence, just before the faintest shock wave was felt. Failure howled until the retaliation missile hit.

They all had haunted every shadow, all drops of darkness that associated themselves with sleep.

Nope, he was not going to be closing his eyes anytime soon. It was his third time rereading the flyer on how to register for a credit card that lead to magical free airline miles, just something to keep the hamster on the wheel called his brain running. He would have read the fine print, scrunched at the bottom of the poster, but the strain was too much for his drooping eyelids. His eyes started to water, a yawn appearing on the tip of his tongue.

"Looks interesting" A sign that he was truly bone deep tired was the fact that he did not jump at the sudden appearance of a teammate. His guard was not only down, it did not exist; thankfully the mission was over, so his lack of agent skills not being present was not that big of a deal.

"It's a scam for regular people…" He swallowed a yawn while stretching. The ache in his limbs almost made the movement impossible, but he managed. "…the only people who really benefit are the business travelers, those who fly five or more times a month"

Somehow he had found the energy to do the calculations in his head, the truth being that the cost of the card was really only worth it for a certain type of traveler. That being said, the fact that they marketed it to all customers, most of which may or may not consider it, was a brilliant strategy that he may have employed by this time if he had gone into business like his parents had wanted him to. Technically, he was doing business, depending on how you defined the word.

"You mean like us?" Brandt smiled at his own minor joke; or at least he assumed this, eye contact would increase contact with the signs of exhaustion. He would not afford that right now.

A weary chuckle somehow was produced; he knew that it would be abnormal of his behavior not to laugh at the lame statement. He was supposed to be acting like nothing was wrong, like he wasn't dead on his feet.

He would not be winning an Oscar anytime soon, because apparently his charade was going to shit, this being proven by the fact that Brandt was no longer laughing and that another set of feet had come to stand beside him. And he had been doing so well, almost home free…

Dammit.

"Benji" A hand closed itself around his shoulder; it was delicate yet strong, too familiar to be a threat. That would be Jane; on some level he had known that it would be her to discover it first, she was the mother hen of the team after all. And that had nothing to do with the fact that she was the only female. Actually it was more something along the lines of maternal instincts, cooking abilities for delicious soup (Ethan could burn water, Brandt wasn't that much better, and he didn't even try), and the fact that she was scary enough to keep them in bed while being tender at the same time.

"Hmmm?" Smooth, his subconscious muttered, smooth. Oh yes, that will completely fool them. They will magically leave him alone now.

Shit.

His free shoulder, which did not have manicured nails on them, now had a more calloused hand it; he doesn't even have to look to know that the both of them are looking at him, with concern, and at each other, formulating a plan, at the same time.

At least Ethan wasn't there, because while the two flanking him would sneakily find out the information, their leader would more than likely stonewall him as the first attempt to find out what was going on. It was just the man's style, which he was glad he didn't have to deal with now.

"Are you okay, you look a bit…" The sentence was cut off by the fuzzy and overused speakers announcing that their flight was now boarding.

The thought of used, smelly, leather seats was the only thing that had him moving forward. It was a rush of pure motivation that had him moving, because his physical self was wanting to introduce him to the floor. That's what happened when you went three plus days with little to no sleep, mix in a mission and collapsing in an airport wasn't such a bad thing. Not causing a scene was high on the list, but at the moment he just wanted to sit…

Now if only he could get to the airplane.

Pushing out of the combined clutches of those whose blood he had seen pool below them so many times before, thankfully never in reality, he trudged forward. Probably looking like the love child of a drunk and a zombie, but each step got him closer to home.

The others were staring, again; they could stare all they wanted, he just wanted to rest. But not sleep. Seeing one more person killed might just send him to the grave, over the edge; were you able to dream in the afterlife?

Didn't matter, he just wanted a crappy airplane seat and a beer.

"What's up with him?"

"No idea."

And for his teammates not to be on the same flight.