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"Dude. Let's, like, make a stretcher."
Ben's about to object when he realizes that he's already nodded and headed into the scrub beyond the stream banks to search for carrying poles, straight and strong and a few feet longer than Desmond's inert body. And so easily, he thinks, one becomes a subordinate. A willing lieutenant, not that Hugo will ever call him that. Deputy Dude. He smiles.
They haven't got a hatchet to cut the few saplings that have struggled into life among the ancient trees, as old as this place that he never knew existed, that probably doesn't exist in any real sense. He does have a knife to cut vines; they can make a sling. But he's had an unreasonable amount of experience with unconscious people in his time, and he can tell Desmond won't be out long, nor is he badly enough injured he won't be able to walk if they take it slow. Ben's experience is what Hugo values (surely there could be no other reason for his offer), so he should go back, advise against unnecessary effort. Instead, he keeps searching. It should feel like the difficult path, an uphill climb against instinct. For so long it's been his nature to insinuate his way into command, and given a little time and the desire to push the right buttons, he could probably talk Hugo into filling up that bottle again and turning over his newly-acquired burden of leadership. He could do it; but not only is it not a temptation, the very thought makes his stomach clench.
Advice and argument are a slippery slope, however; he'll wait for orders.
It's such a relief.
"Dude," comes the voice a moment later, and then, "Ben. Never mind. He's waking up."
He's back at the stream in seconds, on his knees beside Desmond, bathing a cut on his head with water, saying something inane. Apparently he's a fair nurse given the chance: a day for discoveries, he thinks, trying not to remember most of them, or to recall all those times Alex scraped her knee or was bruised or bitten, and he made it better, until he couldn't any longer. But the past bleeds and stings less than it did, nor does the weight of the future ache; he feels oddly anchored in the present.
"I think we should get out of here," Hugo says, and Ben lets himself nod in encouragement, and gives Desmond a hand up, getting a Thanks, brother in return. None of them mentions Jack.
*
Desmond is stumping gamely along ahead of them through the jungle when Hugo, smelling of sweat and fear, touches Ben's shoulder. "Did you mean it? What you told him?" Ben just glances over blankly. "That everything'll be all right?"
He's getting ready to say How the hell would I know, Hugo? when they hear the shocking, incongruous, long-awaited whine of engines, and all stand still for a minute, looking up like a dazed flock of cranes, until the plane passes over.
"He did it," murmurs Hugo. Ben would have expected him to whoop and wave his arms, but it's more of a quiet, church-like moment, a sacred moment, and he thinks of Doubting Thomas again, and zealous converts, and sacrifice.
"They did it," he corrects, hoping that Claire is on the plane, knowing somehow that James and Kate are, and Desmond comes out of his stupor and says, "Now that is a good omen," and Hugo adds, "You said it, dude," and then, "This isn't the path to the beach."
"I didn't know we were going to the beach," Desmond says. "I was just going."
*
Rose and Bernard are sitting on a rock near the water, close to the spot where they emerge, as if waiting for them. This isn't possible, but in fact neither seems surprised to see them. Ben is now used to the way gazes slide off him, either to avoid eye contact or to search behind for someone who isn't there. Who matters more. It's the way his father used to look at him, and once it infuriated him, but now he almost wishes there were more people left on the island to tell him that he's no Jack. He is so pleased to not be Jack that he wants to shout the glad tidings all day long, but no one would listen to him.
They do ask, of course, and Hugo makes a sad face but doesn't say anything, and Desmond doesn't actually know what happened, so it's up to him to explain, as best he can, where and in what state of being everyone is. He tries not to make his tones defensive. Rose and Bernard steal glances at Hugo now and then, to be sure he isn't lying.
It occurs to him partway through the explanation that Richard must have flown away with the rest of them. It's a strange thought: not that Richard hasn't been off the island before, many times, but this is a permanent relocation, and he can't help imagining a Lost Horizon sort of blitzkrieg aging, a face disappearing into wrinkles until it collapses as bones and dust. But Hugo wouldn't let that happen. Richard will land in Los Angeles, and acquire another set of fake IDs, and get a job modeling clothes or repairing submarines, and live until he dies. No one is immortal any longer, or at least Ben doubts that Hugo has inherited Jacob's longevity (or whatever it was: purgatory, possibly), which means that someday he'll need to be replaced. And not by Ben, in part because he'll be dead by then. Inhabiting the grave he dug for himself, the proper span of years later; it's an unexpectedly lovely idea.
He finishes with their rescue and revival of Desmond, and Rose studies him for a moment in silence, and then says, addressing him directly, "Well, you'd probably like something to eat."
"Thank you," Ben says, realizing just how hungry he is, "we would." She gives him a beatific smile and starts walking in the direction of their camp.
It's more like a homestead, actually, both practical and beautiful, and they've had time to perfect the art of living off the land. Homesteading in paradise. The conversation as they walk there focuses so entirely on the Nadler household's daily tasks that it's clear none of them wants to talk about what's just happened; when Bernard slips up and mentions having to return supplies to their shelves after the earthquakes, Rose gives him a stop-right-there look that shuts him up for several minutes. Time shifts are old news and not out of bounds; Ben realizes suddenly during Rose's description of that experience (which, he almost blurts out, was his fault) that their home and most of their worldly goods had traveled with them over that last thirty-year hop. Which means, he hopes, that the island is continuing to be kind to Rose, in a way it never was to him.
Before they quite reach the little settlement, the dog comes running up to greet them. Bernard reaches out to pet it, and then withdraws his hand in shock. "Blood," he says, and he's down on the sand. "Vincent, are you hurt?" But after a quick examination, he looks up and adds, "Not his. He must have found something--"
"Jack," says Hugo, with the certainty of a punch to the gut, and then, "Vincent. Show me," and the dog goes running off, and Hugo and Bernard and Desmond trot after.
Ben and Rose watch them go, and after a moment Rose says, "You any good at funeral suppers?" and Ben nods. "Bernard just took a nice fish out of the trap," she adds. "How about you clean it for me and I'll get the fire fed."
*
Bernard comes back about a quarter of an hour later with a grim expression, collects a tarp and a blanket, and goes off into the jungle again. Once they finish the preparatory tasks there's nothing more to do for supper until the undertakers return, so they sit in the chairs Bernard has made out of driftwood and vines, silent at first, listening to the waves and the shrill of insects, and then Ben, unable to stop his mouth any longer, says, "You should hate me."
"Why is that?" says Rose.
"It would be a reasonable reaction, considering that I ordered your husband's execution." Among other things.
"Mm. Maybe I'm just unreasonable then, but I discovered a good while ago that hate's not worth the effort."
"All right. I'm sorry, though," he says, pauses, and adds, "And that's a genuine apology, not a strategic one," and he didn't even have to murder anyone before issuing it.
"What an odd life you must have led, Benjamin."
"Oh, believe me, it was," and it's the past tense. He feels a surge of gratitude, toward Rose and toward Hugo and toward the island, absolute thankfulness that's foreign and disquieting and yet recognizable, like eating grasshoppers at a wedding banquet. And then, as if to remind him that's it's not that easy, the pallbearers tromp back into the compound, carrying Jack's body.
"Help me make sure we eat first," Rose murmurs to him. "Grave-digging is hard work."
As hard as hate, he thinks, and nods.
*
They don't use his grave, though he feels obliged to mention it. Hugo declares that Jack will be buried with the people he led, at their head, in fact: perpendicularly. Ben takes his share of the digging; it's an honor, really.
When they've lowered the body into the hole, Rose looks at the others and then clears her throat, as if she knows no one else will take the lead on eulogies. "Jack was a good man," she says. "He felt responsible, and he tried his best. He was a doctor through and through; he relieved suffering, and offered comfort when he was able to. On our very first day here, he tried to comfort me for a loss I hadn't suffered. He wasn't what you'd call an optimist, or a believer, but he had to be brave to go on as he did without that help. I hope in the end he found some faith, in himself, or in something. I have faith that the Lord will grant him peace. Amen."
They all mutter in automatic response, with varying degrees of agreement. Neither Bernard nor Desmond seems inclined to say anything; Desmond looks like he's about to fall down with exhaustion. They should leave it at this and throw the dirt in and get on with sleeping, but Rose gives Ben a nudge, and all their eyes turn to him, and with considerable reluctance he steps forward. He remembers taunting and threatening Juliet over Goodwin's body, and the fatiguing honesty of his little speech about John Locke. But maybe he's getting better at words for the dead.
"So I think I'm supposed to talk about forgiving one's enemies," he says. "Because there really isn't anything else for me to say; because for most of the time I knew him, Jack was my enemy. Circumstances made us the leaders of opposing factions, and then it became personal, and we took every opportunity we had to hurt each other. I threatened to kill him, he threatened to kill me; he saved my life in the most vindictive manner he could. But he did save it, and I have to be grateful to him for that, and for understanding that he needed to come back here and do what had to be done." He pauses. "'What had to be done' was pretty much the definition of Jack Shephard. His destiny, if you believe in that. I wish it hadn't had to be. He didn't make a very good enemy. The rest of you know what sort of friend he was. All I have left," and he can feel his voice beginning to falter, and he isn't going to let it, "is the specter of forgiveness." A sort of ghostly outline, like all the other damn ghosts on this island, but he wonders if Rose doesn't think he means the Holy Spirit. Not that he'd recognize it if he saw it. "I think Hugo should say something," he finishes.
Hugo's about to cry, but he pulls his courage together and steps to the edge of the grave. "He saved the island," he says. "He saved us all. I'm going to miss him so much." He can't manage more, but it's enough, and he bends down and grabs a handful of sandy soil and scatters it across Jack's shrouded body, and then they pick up the shovels.
*
They set up camp on the beach, finding or borrowing the bare minimum for shelter. "One night," Rose says, "and then we'll have to ask you to move on," and they all nod. There's still blood clinging to Ben, and electromagnetism to Desmond, and Hugo radiates sorrow and uncertainty; they all disturb the peace.
Ben tries to sleep, but there's a barrage of thoughts besieging his brain, none of them clear or logical, so he gets up and chooses a spot on the sand, still warm from the vanished sun, far enough away that he feels alone but not so far that he'll seem to have abandoned the others. He's always had the temperament of a loner, and he's always been part of a group. It's not too late to become a hermit, he thinks, but it is. He's promised.
Not that he intends to share a house with Hugo. But having the boss over for dinner once a week, that's not out of the question. He can teach him to cook. To eat more healthfully. There's plenty of food on the island without all the junk Hugo likes; in fact the Dharma drops are going to be a bit much for three of them. Two when they manage to send Desmond home. Unless…
He hears the footsteps, turns, and having guessed right, opens the unavoidable conversation with, "Are you still eating Dharma food from the air drops?"
Bernard lets out a startled laugh. "Is that what you're mulling over? You looked more contemplative and philosophical than that." Ben shrugs, waits for an answer. "Occasionally," Bernard says. "I have a deeply un-dentist-like fondness for their version of Fruit Loops. And Rose likes canned sweet potatoes on Thanksgiving. Which we celebrate once a month."
"I'm not sure I can do anything about the cereal," Ben says, "but could you grow your own sweet potatoes if I get you… whatever it is you start with? Not much of a gardener," he apologizes.
"Neither was I," says Bernard. "Or a fisherman either." He slumps down in the sand next to Ben. So much for solitude. "The air drops aren't… manna from heaven. We can do without. And a lot of it's going to go to waste, if we're all that's left. Now, how you'll manage to stop them when we're stuck on this island--"
"I'll find a way. Not so easy as it used to be, but possible."
"If that's the case, you can get yourself off the island too."
He won't turn to look; he can read the voice. "Is that what you want?"
Bernard hesitates. "I'd be happy if it was just me and Rose here for the rest of our lives. And I'll stick it out alone if she goes first. Though I bet it'll be me."
"Blame the Fruit Loops," Ben says morosely. The island loves both of them; they'll be long-lived. They look like creatures who've grown here naturally: no longer the people they once were. "I don't think the island will let Hugo leave. And I've told him I'll stay. We can relocate to another part of the shore, though."
"I… wouldn't mind if you stayed within an hour's walk or so. And I might be able to talk Rose into that."
I could give you some tips on persuasion, Ben doesn't say. "Why?" he asks.
Bernard shrugs. "I've missed… what's the term? A collegial relationship. I love my wife, and she's smarter than me, but sometimes two is the wrong number, and floating other ideas can be beneficial. Hurley has insights. Good intuition. A sense of fun. And you're… pragmatic."
"That's a diplomatic choice of word."
A laugh. "I'm a dentist, not a diplomat, Ben!" Bernard growls, then his face goes serious and he adds, "And a fisherman, and a carpenter. And a deadly shot, in case you didn't know. I killed some of your people. Only a few, but it's not as though I'm less morally responsible for my acts."
"It was self-defense. Against a threat of mass slaughter."
"Well, if you put it that way," Bernard says dryly. "Do you intend to slaughter me and Rose?"
"I've never wanted to kill anybody." It's not true, but this isn't the confessional. He's still capable of lying, of saying what's needed and expected. Pragmatic. "And no, of course not. You're part of the island now."
"And you're protecting the island. Not that I'm sure it needs it any longer, now that thing in Locke's body is dead."
"There will be other threats. And Hugo's the protector. I'm… advising."
Bernard shakes his head. "Is that really going to work?"
"It had better work," Ben says with grim determination, and then adds, "You could help make sure it does. That I'm not… overstepping."
"Well, there are fewer of us around for you to step on now." The candor stings, like a good slap, a punch in the face: familiar, almost reassuring. "And yes. I'll do that," Bernard says. Then he gets to his feet. "You should probably get some sleep. Big day tomorrow. I'm going back to Rose now."
"Good night," Ben says, and listens to the footsteps fade until they're swallowed by the noise of the ocean. The roaring, rhythmic sound has been a constant, at varying levels of volume, for much of his life, and he missed it while he was away. In the Dharma village he still can't help but think of as home, it was a whisper in the background; here it's dominant, forceful, a reminder of a power even greater than the island's. Waves have been breaking on this shore far longer than humans have been here to hear them, and will go on doing so long after he's dead. It's humbling. Probably it always has been, subconsciously; maybe that accounts for both his battle against insignificance and his ability to look death in the face. Or maybe he's being foolish on too little sleep and the aftereffects of walking an emotional tightrope.
Well, not aftereffects exactly. He's pretty sure he's still balancing. Though at least the earthquakes have stopped.
Thank you, Jack.
Lulled into meditation by the thundering cadence, he almost misses the next set of footsteps, but he's somehow not surprised to see Desmond approaching. The moonlight sets off anything pale, glimmering and glowing on the crests of the waves, on shells, on the shirt Desmond wears, blue and white and Bernard's. As much as anything belongs to anyone here. He'd turned down loans himself; he's still in bloodstains and mud and the pretense of civilian autonomy. He put this shirt on in another world, it seems.
"So," says Desmond, folding himself downwards, not far from Ben but not within easy reach.
That seems to be all he has to say for the moment; Ben waits. "When I close my eyes," Desmond goes on finally, "I'm in a car. An American car. Driving into a harbor. And then into John Locke, in a wheelchair. And then you're there, trying to stop me from driving, and I'm punching you in the face, and then it all gets mixed up with the marina, and you and the gun and Penny."
"It's heartening to know," Ben comments, "that even in your dreams you feel a need to hit me."
"Probably you deserved it? But it's not a dream."
"What then? A vision?"
"I suppose so. You don't sound very surprised." Ben shrugs; Desmond has, almost literally, had his brain fried, and stranger things have happened as a result. "In the vision I also hug Charles Widmore."
"Isn't that rather incestuous?"
"Not that sort of hug. But I have visions about Penny, too," Desmond adds brightly.
"I'm thrilled for you," Ben says, thin, on the wind.
"Kissing her. Both of us… remembering." He waves a hand. "Then I see the island. And everything that happened before, and after. I see our Charlie, a grown man. And Penny, old, still beautiful. So I guess you get me back to them."
How clever of me, Ben wants to say, but he's no longer in the mood to be facetious. "He did love her," he says instead. "Charles. But it still wouldn't have worked, killing her. Revenge… just doesn't. I'm sorry I hadn't found that out yet."
"Live and learn, brother," Desmond says, and Ben bites his lip against a welling of regret, and then Desmond adds, "I hope it bloody well hurt, when I punched you, though," and it's laughter that spills over instead. It's like the waves, unstoppable. He wants to do it forever: the father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs.
"Oh, it did," he manages to answer. "Very painful. Perfectly so. Let's skip it next time."
"I can agree on that," Desmond says, and it's such an odd revelation of the new reality, that if Ben's careful, and good, no one will ever hit him again. He doesn't quite know what to do with it. It shouldn't matter, not like life and death matter. In the last day or so he could have been shot, knifed, clubbed, drowned, thrown to the sky by the smoke monster, killed by falling stones or trees, or tossed down a well or off a cliff; he's survived it all, and no pain anyone can inflict on him will compare with knowing that he'll keep living while Alex remains dead. And that he didn't really see her, under the temple walls. But no longer being anyone's punching bag of choice takes away a little of the sting.
"Your son's charming," he tells Desmond, wanting to say like my daughter at that age, but unable to form the words. "More like Penelope than you. Oh, and interesting choice of name." He ordered Charlie Pace's murder; he shot Charles Widmore. Another progression, interrupted. Thank God.
"We thought so," says Desmond blandly. "I'm hoping not to miss too much of his growing up."
"I'll do my best." And then he finds himself asking, "What was it like? In the cave."
"Lovely. And horrible. I never want to have to go back."
"You won't. I suppose it'll be me. If it's ever necessary." He waits a moment before going on; this is not the sort of thing he speaks of, out loud. "Whatever went wrong down there, that Jack had to put right… it makes me think of when I moved the island, and sacrificed my right to be here, and I couldn't even make it stick; instead I sent a lot of people bouncing around in time, and killed some of them. And John had to fix it. So either we're both screw-ups, Desmond, or we're both… inevitable first acts." Not Doubting Thomas but John the Baptist, maybe. Head on a plate: another doom averted. "I suppose it doesn't matter, as long as we do what we're supposed to. No matter how badly I think I'd mess things up, if Hugo tells me to go into the cave, I will."
He almost wants it to be his father's voice, nagging in his head If Hugo told you to jump off a cliff, would you do it? It's Horace's, and he isn't saying it to Ben. Peer pressure was never one of Ben's challenges. "I spent years, decades, doing what Richard told me Jacob wanted. Doing it blindly. And I was ready to go on with more of the same for John Locke, and for the man who looked like him. If you were wielded as a weapon… so was I."
There's a brief glint of Desmond's teeth in the moonlight. "You're an effective one," he says, and all the people Ben Linus talked to death nod in agreement, as surprised by their last breaths as Jacob was when he stuck the knife in.
"I'm not going to do that anymore," Ben says. "I'm not going to be anyone's accessory."
Desmond shakes his head. "Hurley doesn't have much fashion sense," he says. "He's not great with words, either, but somehow you end up understanding. If he ever tells you to do something -- and I don't think he'll do a lot of that, but if he does, you'll know why."
"That's all I want," says Ben, and means it.
"Good. Because I've had it with walking in the dark, too." He gets to his feet. "That said, I'm going to creep back to my tent. You have a good night, then."
"Sleep well." It's the advice of a man who isn't going to take it for himself; no matter how much Ben needs sleep, it's not coming. But there are compensations to wakefulness. When Desmond's gone, he stares at the waves a while longer, then closes his eyes and lets the push and pull of the water tutor his heart and breath, feeling one with the island as he never has before. It's one thing to say you are, quite another to truly be. Why did it ever matter to him so much to claim he was born here? The island doesn't care. It claimed him, long ago. He may leave again: business travel, so to speak. He'll never really go.
He wonders if the plane's landed, wherever Lapidus managed to fly it to. It must have; it's been hours. Their task would be simpler if they could have put Desmond on it, but likely there's some purpose to his remaining here for a time. Perhaps they've just accomplished it (though he thinks he'll talk to Desmond more, in this surreal world in which they can share parenting tips). And perhaps the island nudged that final clifftop confrontation just so it could keep Hugo, knowing that he couldn't manage James and Kate's daring leap. That he was ripe for a different leap of faith. That Ben was too.
The island has nudged and beguiled and hoodwinked for centuries; it's a master manipulator. Takes one to know one, he thinks, though he hadn't recognized the similarity till now: too enamored of his own skills, too wrapped up in himself. It's better at it than him; unlike Ben, the island gets what it wants. Which means it wants him.
Desire is not caring, of course; and a chunk of rock and the life clinging to it, surrounding a core of deadly power, is not a god to worship, but an accident waiting to happen. Or a long series of homicides. He can't know if it ever mattered to the island that he or Jacob or Charles or anyone else decided to… decrease its surplus population. Or if it preferred that outcome, prodded them toward murderous impulses. It may be that his job in the coming years is to be suspicious on Hugo's behalf.
"Watch out; the island's gonna get you," he murmurs to the waves.
"Dude, what?"
Ben twitches in shock and turns fast. Hugo's big, but he's light on his feet: not a sound, yet there he is, strolling in from the opposite direction of the others, and carrying a torch. It's a pleasantly predictable payoff, too: three is a magic number.
"And who are you, the ghost of Christmas yet to come?" he can't help saying. Nontraditional casting, if so.
"Whoa, is it really… I've lost track of the days."
"I don't know," Ben says honestly. "I wouldn't think you'd want recent events in your stocking, though."
"No. Oh, I just almost fell into your grave. We better fill that thing in." Hugo shoves the torch into the sand and thumps down next to Ben. "There's, like, a heck of a lot of dead people on this island. But none of them want to talk to me tonight, I guess."
"Were you expecting them to be chatty?"
"Maybe? But it's Jack's first night, so…"
"They're having a welcome-to-the-neighborhood party?"
Hugo laughs. "No living people invited. Libby's passing round the drinks. Making sure everyone gets the right one."
"Mm." Lethe, water of forgetting. Another wave crashes onto shore, and Ben says, "I'm sorry. About Libby." She wasn't supposed to die, he wants to add, but it's patronizing, arrogant, and possibly untrue. Her death was less his fault than many others, and yet she died entirely because of him, because he was vulnerable and afraid and temporarily valuable. An apology is right, and insufficient, but it'll have to do.
"If she was alive and I couldn't be with her, that would be worse," Hugo says, and then immediately corrects himself. "No. She should have lived. I'd rather she was fine in L.A., and I never got to see her again. That she didn't miss me at all, as long as she was alive and happy."
Ben nods; he doesn't trust his voice. He wonders if Desmond's visions include Libby. Or Alex. "But I know that can't be true," Hugo goes on. "What happened, happened. So I just keep hoping I'll see her ghost, you know?"
"I'm sure you will." And that should be a condescending statement, or a bitter one; it's neither. He believes himself, and he doesn't hate Hugo for it. Maybe it is Christmas after all. "I meant what I said, back at the stream. That what you do best is take care of people. And care about them. Missing Libby -- missing all of them -- is part of that. It hurts to care about people. I'm sorry, Hugo. I'm so--"
Words choke in his throat. He can't speak; it should be a moment of more significance, but the waves go on, in and out, forever the same, and nothing's really changed. "Hey. Ben," Hugo says. "I'm here to take care of you, too. You know that, right?"
Ben glances over at him. It's probably the moonlight, but Hugo seems to have gained gravitas in these last hours, as if he were a new planet drawing in satellites, a king demonstrating his importance by weighing more than his subjects, a minor god. "If you think I'm going to sob on your shoulder," he says, "you'll be relieved to know you're quite wrong. But thank you."
"Just so you know I'm willing, dude," says Hugo, and then he smiles suddenly, a grin of uncalculating charm and innocent wisdom, and gives Ben a gentle buffet on the arm. Then he gets to his feet, picks up his torch, and strides back to the camp, and Ben watches after him, utterly flustered, completely lost. One doesn't turn down a job offer from a minor god, even if one has just recently stabbed an earlier god in the heart and feels vaguely responsible for the death of another. A job is a job, and no one else is likely to hire him.
But what one really doesn't do with gods is start liking them. Looking forward to enjoying a great deal of their company. Measuring them against their former selves and thinking they've come a long way. Admiring them. Becoming friends with them.
He means nothing to me, he tries, and suddenly he's sobbing; his fists are full of sand and his face is salt water, like a wave breaking against a cliff, like an island sinking under the sea and rising again. He rubs his hands on his knees and puts them over his eyes, knowing it'll sting. And then he hears the faint disturbance, senses the tiny earthquake; reaches out, not caring if it's Hugo and total ignominy and dependence… and touches fur.
He falls sideways, eyes closed, and rests his forehead against slightly damp Labrador, and cries for the dead, for Jack, for Alex, for John, for the ghosts of Christmas past, for the waste of talent and the triumph of resentment, for screw-ups and inevitable first acts, for ends and beginnings. For lies and promises and shots echoing in the twilight. For what he's done with his life. For the specter of forgiveness.
Vincent's patient; used to being wept on, perhaps. After a minute he shifts around and puts his muzzle close and licks Ben's face, but he doesn't move away even when Ben sits up, bedraggled and bemused, and swipes a hand over his eyes, finishing what the dog has begun.
The sun'll be up before he knows it. Time to get to work.