#ilsa x ethan x benji

[the-woman-upstairs]

Mentally, I’m still here:

[julesnichols]

Hi hello I wrote a Ilsa/Ethan/Benji fic

[agentfaust]

my fellow ilsa/ethan/benji shippers, your attention please

i need prompts for the three of them, i desperately wanna write something but i have NO ideas whatsoever

thank you :)

[raethereptile]

"Ilsa? Our Ilsa?"

Not "Ilsa? Ilsa Faust?"

Not "Ilsa? Your Ilsa?"

Our Ilsa

And honestly Benji I'm being so not normal about that you wouldn't believe

[fire-of-the-sun]

Ilsa and Ethan: There's Still Hope

Spoiler Warning for M:I7!

I'm sure a ton has already been said about Ilsa in the new movie, whether it be lamenting her loss or developing theories as to her potential return in the next film, but here are some contributions I've been mulling over. This isn't going to be an exhaustive list of reasons why she's still alive, but I will try to address some and add my own thoughts into the mix.

I agree with the discussion that one of the best clues of this all being a fake out lies in Ethan and Ilsa's reunion near the beginning of the film. Ilsa plays dead during the fight and Ethan momentarily believes it before she attacks him and reveals herself to be alive. As it stands, this looks like a foreshadowing to her eventual, real death, however, I think it instead acts as setup to her still being alive. I think it's clear that her death fakeout exists to give us clues to her eventual return as well as deflect audiences from even considering it as we're trained to accept that foreshadowed events that transpire in most stories would simply be the end of it, but this isn't a typical story, this is Mission: Impossible, and nothing is as it seems and this film establishes that that's more true now than ever.

And if you're really going to kill Ilsa off, why do a fake-out at all? Why not just have her die later without warning and really shock the audience? Why already have the fans ruminating on the possibility early on and telegraph it long before it actually happens? Consider Julia's "death" in M:I3. The film starts in media res and there's a strong sense of tension throughout the whole film knowing that that's going to happen. Julia is going to get kidnapped and possibly die no matter what, but it's okay to spoil this scene in advance because she doesn't die. Because why would you tell the audience that's going to happen right away unless there's going to be some kind of twist where she lives? What's the point in watching the movie if you know that Ethan is ultimately going to fail and it's going to have a tragic, unsatisfying ending? Julia's death fakeout is a tactic meant to trick him and the audience and make him feel like he's lost only for the twist to be that he ultimately wins and Julia remains alive. I believe a similar tactic is being used with Ilsa which has the potential to be a very well-executed plot twist rather than a disappointing one if done correctly and not completely abandoned in the next film. I actually think that without the fakeout and just a sudden and completely unexpected death I'd feel more worried but, as it stands, I think the choice (among many others) actually serves to legitimize this all being fake.

After all, the best twists are ones that you can see coming if you're really looking for it and that's okay. It's okay that we've figured it out - that means the director ultimately did their job right. Some viewers, especially more casual fans, are taking what they were shown at face value and not considering there's any more to it. They're falling for the trick and that's fine too, because a good twist is one that is set up in a way that leaves clues but also remains largely hidden especially as the audience isn't looking for it. A magic trick that deflects us from seeing what the magician is actually doing. When Ilsa shows up in the next film, some people will feel rewarded for their observations and others will finally see all the pieces click into place that they disregarded before and both be satisfied, but I digress...

Another huge scene to look to for clues lies in the team discussing the severity of the threat and really cementing just how difficult it's going to be to trick the Entity before the party. I think it's very possible that there are missing conversations here that we will not be privy to until the next film as Ethan would never let his friends be in such danger without having a real plan on how to protect them and the audience always knows what the plan is so when things go awry we're aware the complications were unprecedented. In this case, we really have no idea what they're walking into, nor do we see them effectively prep for it. Unless I'm forgetting something, why did Ilsa need to be at the party at all? Why would Ethan put Ilsa in danger like that for no real reason especially after already enduring those brief, agonizing moments earlier when he truly believed she was dead and had to consider a world without her in it and knowing that Gabriel has taken someone from him in the past? Ilsa is her own woman and can do what she wants, but we don't see him even trying to protest her inclusion and voicing fear for her safety for her to even refute.

The scene where Ilsa meets Ethan on the balcony afterward is incredibly short and could feel tacked on given that there's no real lead up to it, but it could very well be the aftermath of a heavy conversation where - feeling burdened by the weight of what must be done - Ethan leaves the room to think and Ilsa follows. She looks particularly chipper here despite the seriousness of what's going on and I believe her benign comments about Venice are purposefully meant to distract Ethan in an attempt to cheer him up. Notice how he shakes his head a little after he answers, like he knows what she's trying to do before giving into her and hugging back. She's calm because she has faith in the plan while he's nervous about it. As a side note, I think it was a touching detail to have Ethan return to this same balcony to grieve (publicly).

We also see Ethan and Ilsa looking at each on the boat before he takes her hand on their way to the party. This, of course, acts as yet another sweet gesture to showcase how strong their relationship is at this point but, again, Ethan doesn't seem that happy. This isn't a relaxing date (which they deserve), he looks tense as he takes her hand. Notice how he's fidgeting as he strokes her fingers and rubs his own fingers together in his free hand. It's like he's trying to hold onto her as much as he can knowing what's going to transpire and, once again, Ilsa looks like she's trying to comfort him by stroking his hand back, never taking her eyes off him. It's a nice continuation of the dynamic of their previous moment together.

And, if this is truly Ilsa's last outing? Why hold back on basically every aspect of it? If it's truly Ilsa's last fight, why not make it her biggest, baddest fight yet that showcases all of her skill but also begins to feel truly unwinnable? We've seen her face intimidating foes before, so if she's truly going to meet her match, you really need to sell to the audience that all her usual tricks aren't working and let us see on her face that she knows she's losing this fight, which would also help build a sense of dread. I've only seen the film once at this time, but I don't recall her looking too worried at any point at the party or during her fight with Gabriel. She's a brave and skilled woman of course, but she seemed incredibly unfazed by it all, almost like she knew how it was going to go. I want to add that there's no way of knowing for sure when entering into any fight that you're guaranteed to survive. Gabriel could have stabbed her anywhere and there'd be no way to anticipate that beforehand but, as I've seen pointed out, her hand is also on the knife when it plunges into her chest. The only way to know for sure where the blade would go to look deadly but still survive it would be to guide it there herself and that seems like something the skilled Ilsa would be able to pull off.

And if it's truly Ilsa's end, why not go out of your way to make it as sad as possible? What if Gabriel leaves her just alive enough for Ethan to find her and they have a heartbreaking final moment together where they perhaps exchange a line or two before he watches her die? Of course, to add insult to injury, the grieving process is pitifully brief, focusing more on Grace's reaction than Ilsa's own friends. Why not have a stronger reaction from Ethan, Benji and Luther that absolutely breaks the audience's heart? Just compare Ethan's reaction to Ilsa's death to the assumed death of Julia in MI3, the other love of his life. Yes, technically, that was a very different situation and Julia was his wife after all and Ilsa isn't, but they don't even compare. Heck, we even get to see Ethan mourn Lindsey, a friend, in M:I3 longer than Ilsa. I understand that the movie can't languish in sorrow for too long and Ethan is used to compartmentalizing to get the job done, but this is also one of the biggest losses he's suffered and right on the heels of proclaiming to his friends how he'd never let anything happen to them. This is also the longest movie in the series so far and it has no excuse for skimping on the aftermath of the death of one of its biggest and most beloved characters. Ilsa's death is sad but leaves you feeling more empty and disappointed than utterly devastated - at least for me.

We've also seen Ethan act before, as is a necessary skill for a spy, and I think the fairly subdued reaction to her death speaks to his ability to act realistically sad (he's had practice for this exact situation too as he's probably channeling all the awful things he felt when he believed her to be dead at the beginning of the movie) but also speaks to the fact that it's not actually real because if it was I think it'd be a far stronger reaction. Yes, Ethan could just be becoming desensitized to losing people after enduring it so many times but I don't think he'd hold back for Ilsa. His partner. His equal. Someone he loves deeply and offers his only chance at a life beyond this. That chance, that love, that happiness, are now gone forever and that's not something you just take in your stride.

And yes, maybe Rebecca needed or wanted out of this franchise to film other projects but that's only more reason to give her the best sendoff you possibly can and I don't think anyone, not even the director himself would be able to admit that this was worthy enough of her character and respectful to Rebecca. If even her final fight was, for whatever reason, purposefully undercut, then what else did the director choose to take away despite having so little to begin with and why? If, historically, it's not in his nature to pull something like this based on his previous work in the series and his own passionate comments regarding the character, why would he now? It's the overall lack of care in regard to her character all of a sudden that makes it all feel fishy.

And if this is it for Ethan and Ilsa, why not push the romance? Instead of just a hug on the balcony, why not feature their first kiss or, at least, a much longer conversation that cements where they really are before it all gets taken away? If the director attempted to include a kiss in the past but scrapped it because it wasn't the right time, he probably intended it to happen eventually. Why not sneak it in right before she dies if these are their last scenes together anyway? Maybe a kiss would only serve to telegraph her demise further by making the audience more nervous about her fate, but it also would have made it even sadder knowing they had finally reached that point right before she died. If the intention of all of this is truly just to make Ethan and the audience sad and it's going to hurt one way or another, you might as well push it as hard as you can to achieve the desired effect. Regardless, I believe that when she comes back in Part 2, they'll finally get that well-earned kiss and that's what the director is waiting for.

But why have Ethan lose another woman he loves at all? Why watch him go through an entire series where all he does is lose lovers only to have him ultimately end up alone especially after developing the perfect romantic partner with him and getting audiences on board with it over the course of multiple films? It all just feels unnecessarily cruel and, as it's nothing new for him, what is it really adding to the story or his character? Losing another lover is predictable at this point but bringing one back and actually letting him be happy? Now that would be a twist! What a triumphant moment it would be for Gabriel to see Ilsa return in the next movie (and perhaps have a rematch) and realize that he's the one who'd been duped? That the Entity is not infallible? That Ethan has been one step ahead of him this whole time?

I don't think I'm alone when I say that the best possible ending for the series and Ethan's story is to get to live his life with Ilsa given he wasn't able to with Julia, trusting the IMF in the hands of new operatives like Grace to carry on in their stead (notice how they focused on that other new recruit during Ethan's introduction as well like they're preparing him to pass the torch). He finally gets to go with Ilsa like she asked him in Rogue Nation and in Fallout and they both finally get out of the game and live happily in the peace that they helped ensure and so deeply deserve. Ethan has sacrificed his own happiness to save the world so many times, why can't he and Ilsa finally get to find some happiness with each other? This series has had it's bittersweet moments but it's never been a tragedy. The conflict is meant to feel insurmountable (it is called Mission: Impossible after all) but the heroes still win and get to be happy and I expect that to continue to be the case in the very end.

Now, I understand and agree with confronting real consequences as we face our final antagonist of the series, but I would honestly predict an actual death from Luther or Benji in the final film - staples of the series and longtime friends of Ethan - that would hurt the audience too but not steal a future from him and perhaps Ilsa's "death" is also meant to deflect from the real death that's coming which would still, naturally, makes things very bittersweet. That being said, if this series wanted to continue to lean into happy outcomes over sad ones, then simply having Ethan get to live peacefully in the knowledge that he was able to keep all of his friends safe would be enough for him and for me.

As of now, I'm actually feeling hopeful about the potential for Ilsa to return. I think there are currently more viable reasons for why she could still be alive than dead and I think it would vastly improve the story they're telling rather than take away from it or feel forced because, as it stands, the execution of her death does feel less than the caliber of what this series is capable of and a surprise return would certainly remedy that. It wouldn't feel like a gimmick given the nature of the series, nor do I think it would undermine the death scene we got since it didn't have any impact on the plot and barely any on the characters anyway. Ilsa returning would improve things, not take away and if this all works to bring her back, it will take what was a lackluster plot point and unceremonious exit of a major character to a brilliant showcase of subterfuge both for the characters and the audience and the latter sounds more like the Mission: Impossible I know.

The first time Ethan faked the death of a woman he loved to protect her; he lost her. Now he's had to do it again and this time, he'll get her back. There's still hope.

[writings-of-a-demigod]

The team was waiting for you to arrive before taking off. Ethan chooses the team for this mission Luther, Ilsa, Benji and you.

“They should’ve been here by now.” Benji commented.

“Have some patient Benji they’re gonna be here.” Ethan told him.

They heard the motorbike before they saw you, making your way to the private jet.

“Luther tell the pilot to get ready for takeoff.” Ethan smiled when he saw the sign of you.

You stopped the bike and took of the hamlet and showed a big smile. Hopping off the bike Ethan was smiling at you and spread his arms for a hug.

“It’s about time.” Benji said.

You jumped into Ethan’s arms “Oh shut it Dunn.” You hugged him so tight “How I missed you.” You whispered into the hug.

Ethan chuckled “I missed you too bug.”

“You know you could hug on the plane, right?” Benji told you two.

Parting away from Ethan’s hug you glared at Benji “What got your panties in a twist dude?” making your way to the stairs to get into the plane.

“Ha ha ha don’t call me dude.” He pointed at you.

Luther saw you enter the plane and stood up from his chair “Well if it wasn’t my favorite person.”

“Luther my baby” You opened your arms to hug him “How are you?”

“I’m doing great now that you’re here.” He hugged you and kissed your head.

 You saw Ilsa smiling at the both of you “And there she is the love of my life, my wife.” You said to her before hugging her and taking your seat next to Luther.

“How come I didn’t get a hug?” You heard Benji

You raised your eyebrow at him “Well you were being an ass so no hugs for you.”

“No, I wasn’t” he argued.

“Yes, you were.” You argued back.

“No, I wasn’t.”

And you two just kept going back and forth with this.

“It’s gonna be a long mission with these two.” Luther told Ilsa and Ethan and they just laughed.

a/n: This is for @tomcruiseishot I'm still working on the Jack Reacher so I will post it when I'm done.

*gif not mine*

[natchastxin]

trip to venice.

Summary: Ilsa brings you to Venice despite your refusal and you confess to her the feelings of hurt you’ve had since she left you in Amsterdam three months ago which leads you to join Ethan’s team. You find her in the aftermaths of the fight on the bridge.

Pairings: Ilsa Faust x f!reader

Warnings: blood, slight smut

A/N: I just finished watching Mission Impossible: Dead Reckoning Part 1 so I’m writing this to make myself feel less sad. And obviously there are spoilers for MI Dead Reckoning so don’t read if you don’t want to.

You loved her, you really loved her and you thought she felt the same way too. She told you so herself just that night she spent in your room in Paris after a stressful mission. So why did you find your bed empty and apartment bare as if she was never there? Had you dreamed the whole night?

The only evidence that proved that the night had transpired was the singular note she left on your nightstand, propped up against a glass of water. On it, etched on the delicate white paper was a single letter: I. The letter was accompanied with a heart that was drawn in the same swoopy style as the letter.

You picked it up and quickly turned it over in your hands to see if she had written anything else. Much to your disappointment, that was it. You laid back in your bed with the note clutched over your heart and closed your eyes as the scenes of last night flashed behind your eyelids.

—

A frenzied knocking woke you from where you had fallen asleep on your couch while watching your movie. Worried sick about Ilsa, you thought it best to distract your mind with something else. She came to your apartment before she left for Kashmir, letting you know how the mission was going to go down as you braided her hair.

You met her while in the MI6. She was the agent and you were... well, you were also an agent but you were better known for your bomb-diffusing skills, how well you handled a knife, and your medical skills. Funny thing, that was actually how you met her, in a knife combat. You were tasked to bring her in because she had information on a known terrorist and caught her off guard. The fight ended with both of your legs wrapped around one another's necks until you called truce.

You fell for her quickly, quicker than anyone you had ever fell for before. It hit you that you were falling for her the way waves break against a barrier of rocks. You came to the realization one late night that two of you had gone to a bar for drinks.

You sat across from her in the headquarters in London, staring at her in your own subtle way— in a way that you thought she didn't notice— but she soon caught on whenever she looked up and you would quickly look back down at your paperwork. For her, she fell for you more gradually. It was a gentle love for her that she received from you, it was like the cool afternoon breeze that rustled through the trees of the forest; it enveloped you and left you wanting more when it left. This pining between the two of you lasted for years, through her disavowal which was shortly followed by your resignation from the MI6 to do privately contracted work all the way to the day she confessed to you that she loved you when she showed up at your apartment front door.

You opened the door and she was greeted by your very disheveled appearance. "Hey," she croaked out and your eyes immediately brightened, any trace of fatigue disappearing from your eyes.

"Ilsa."

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," she said, smirking.

"You're one to talk," you said, pretending to be cross and resting your hands on your hips. But you can barely keep your facade up long. Your real emotions of fear quickly break through your expression. Your lip trembles and you pull her towards you. She drops her duffle bag onto the ground and lets you melt into her embrace. "You were supposed to call," you tell her, you voice muffled by her shoulder. She laces her fingers through your hair to hold you close.

"I'm sorry, darling," she tells you and hugs you tightly, "I'm here now, I'm okay. We got to the bomb in time."

"The bomb?" You said, wiping your nose on your sleeve while pulling away, "Why didn't you call me? I could've helped."

"We didn't have time," she sighed out, "I got here as fast as I could."

"Come on," you said pulling her in, "I'll make you a drink."

—

The night progresses rapidly and both you and Ilsa down multiple drinks as she tells you how the mission unfolded.

"I have something to tell you," Ilsa said.

"Hmm?"

She pressed the lip of her beer against her chin and leaned towards you. "I love you," she said. Your heart beats rapidly against your rib cage and you breathe in that intoxicating perfume scent of hers. Her grip on the slippery glass tightened for a few seconds while silence filled the air as you came to terms with what the woman before you confessed. "I love you too," you whispered out. She takes your beer out of your hand and places it on the coffee table along with hers. She kissed you then, threading her fingers through your thick hair, trying to bring your lips closer to hers.

"I've loved you all these years," she tells you.

"Let's not waste any more apart," you said, "Do you want this?" You bring your hand to the first button of her shirt to indicate what you meant.

"I have longed for this day since the day I met you," she tells you, "I want this— I want you."

She straddles your waist and your arms encircle around her, bringing her impossibly close to your body.

You bring her to your bed and you make sweet love to her that night, you're gentle as she is with you. She lets you worry over her injuries and press kisses to the bruises on her neck. She cums on your fingers then your tongue multiple times and you bury your head into her heat for as long as she lets you, she then returns the favor until you're shaking from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Mustering the remaining strength you had in your legs, you straddled her and brought both of your cores to each other, rubbing until she sobbed as she came and your thighs burned with exhaustion. You collapse next to her and bring her close to your chest. You kiss the top of her head and brush her hair with your fingers.

"Stay," you tell her, whispering it into the dark corners of the room, "I know you have to leave soon, but stay for the next two days— for me."

She closed her eyes tightly and let out a hesitant breath, "Only for you."

She kisses your chest, then your neck— sucking on your pulse point to mark you as hers. To be fair, you had done your fair share of marking up her body so now it was time she took her revenge. She kissed you long and slow, nibbling on your bottom lip until your lips became red like cherries. She takes your breath away every time she pulls away and you stare into her beautiful iridescent eyes. She slowly falls asleep in your arms and you spend the time counting the freckles on her eyelids before falling asleep as well. You held her close that night, not wanting to let go.

You woke up that morning blissful— if only that lasted for more than a minute. The bed was empty and so was the apartment. She had vacated and left not a single trace of her presence. That broke you. You collapsed to the floor, sobbing and clawing at your chest. Little did you know, this started a cycle for you and Ilsa. A cycle that always led her back into your arms in that tiny apartment in Paris. The next year, she waltzes in and out of your life whenever she pleases. It was as if she had forgotten that first night you had with her entirely. She would fuck you then leave the next morning and you were happy to give that to her if that meant you could have her for that little while.

You used to tell her about the dream you had for the both of you. The one that included laughter, coffee dates, the strolls you would take at the local park, the paintings the two of you would pick out to decorate your apartment, the patter of small feet that would fill the silence of the morning, and the infinite love that the two of you would share. She would lay there with her eyes closed, smiling happy. It was the only way this dream existed for her— in that small bed inside of the small Paris apartment you owned. The only place that dream lived was in yours and Ilsa's minds. You dreamt of a world where no one knew your names, a world where you could live anonymously, stroll down the streets hand-in-hand, free from the fear of someone harming you or Ilsa. She hides her tears when you describe this dream to her each time the two of you lay naked, sprawled together late at night. She let you dream for the two of you because that was the only way she could truly make you happy. You knew that she didn't want the same future you wanted but you endured.

Three months of taking the torture, you had finally confronted her. Not given the response that you deemed to be the truth, you sent her out of your apartment in fury, swearing that you never wanted to see her again.

"I thought what we had was real, Ilsa," you had told her, "You told me you loved me that first night in Paris when you got back from your mission with Ethan."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she mumbled.

The truth was that Ilsa was scared. She was scared what would happen if other people knew just how madly in love with you she was. She saw what happened to Ethan and how it affected him. She didn't want anything bad to happen to you so instead she kept you a secret and kept the relationship to a minimum because she saw it as the only way she could protect you. She would have you in the only way she could but she never knew how much she would hurt you in the process. You finally came to the realization of why she was treating you like such an ass one day the both of you had spent the night in Amsterdam.

"You're not Ethan," you told her in bed one night as you held her close, "And I'm not totally helpless. I know you love me, Ilsa. And I love you, more than you know. Despite everything you've done these past three months, I still love you even though I shouldn't."

"But I can't protect you."

"Baby, I can protect myself. You forget that I was a trained agent too. This is my life, I'm not going to let some future terrorist dictate who I should be able to love."

She left again that morning and that was the last you saw of her for the next three months.

—

Your head throbbed as you sat up. You quickly began taking in your surroundings and noticed that you were in a moving van. You clutched your head in pain.

"Hey, darling," a familiar voice said and your heart dropped to the bottom of your stomach. Familiar hands grabbed yours but you shook them off.

"Where am I? What are you doing here? What happened?"

No one gives you an answer. It seems like the two men at the front are waiting for Ilsa to answer you but she doesn't. All she does is stare.

"Fine, I'm leaving then if you won't give me an answer."

You stand up and you're about to open the door when Ilsa grabs your free arm. That does it for you. You twist in her grasp and eventually pin her down in the van.

"Don't fucking touch me," you spat.

"Hey now, c'mon," Benji in the passenger seat finally said, "Just tell her, Ilsa."

"We knocked you out when you came out of your favorite cafe. Something bad is happening, I— we need you," she said and it comes out barely a whisper. Your expression changes.

You finally let her go and sit up. She sits up and coughs, rubbing her chest.

"Why? Why now?" You asked, looking deliberately at Ilsa, waiting for her to answer.

"We're going up against this new enemy and we could use your help," Benji answered instead, "Ilsa has told us about your skills and, well, we need someone like you."

"Thanks, but I'm not interested. She knows why."

You motion to stand up again and this time Ilsa speaks in a stronger voice.

"Y/N. Please," she pleaded. You look at her, which was the first mistake. You could never deny her anything. You would always say yes to her even if it cost you. Your jaw clenched in frustration.

"Fine. But if I do this, I don't want to talk to you or see you ever again. You got it?"

"I understand," she said even though it felt like her heart was being wrenched from her body.

"You've hurt me enough times," you told her.

The two men at the front of the car exchange looks.

—

You sat in the back of the van when Benji brings Ethan in. You had only met Ethan once before, he was nice. But you didn't tend to base how good a person was from first impressions.

"Y/N," he said when he noticed you.

"Ethan," you replied.

"Nice to see you."

You nodded. He looks back and sees Ilsa's deliberately avoidant gaze, looking anywhere but at you. He lets out a very small sigh and looks at Benji who gives him a grimace, shaking his head. He knew what happened between you and Ilsa, one of three people that knew. He knew how much the two of you loved one another and how stubborn Ilsa could be. You, on the other hand, from his singular encounter with you, he knew that you had a kind soul. Why else would Ilsa love you so? Even if she refused to admit it.

You hold up a paper clip and help free Ethan from his handcuffs. "Are you okay?" He asked.

You nodded your head, busying yourself with unlocking his handcuffs.

"I'm always fine," you told him once you freed him.

"So what's the plan?" You asked.

—

"What would potentially happen if a government got their hands on this AI tech?" You asked while sharpening your knife nervously.

"We don't know," Ethan said, "We need to find the other half of the key to find out."

Luther shows him the surveillance footage from the chase in the airport, "I took out the footage from your glasses and looked through everything. See anything strange?"

He notices a man glitching and replays the footage, "It's like he's a ghost."

"We can't find actual video of him except for right here," Luther stops at a frame of Grace, "He only exists in this reflection."

"The Entity," Ethan says, his voice dropping to a whisper, "It's protecting him."

"You saw him, didn't you?" Luther said.

"I did, but I wasn't sure."

"Well who is he?" Benji asked.

"Someone I thought died a long time ago," Ethan said, "In another life, before the IMF. Before I was offered the choice."

Ethan looks up at Luther, "In a very real sense, he made me into who I am today."

Luther grimaced.

"Does he have a name?" Luther asked.

"He calls himself Gabriel," Ilsa said, turning from the window. You look over at her and she meets your gaze before switching to Ethan's.

"You know him," Ethan said.

"There is no knowing him. He has no recorded past— the Entity made sure of that. He's a dark Messiah. The Entity's chosen messenger and he sees death as a gift he wants to share with the rest of the world."

"How do you know this?"

"I still have a few friends in MI6."

She looks back at you but you look away. "Friends who are afraid," she continued, "Of the British government gaining control of the Entity. Any attempt to try to stop them would be seen as an act of treason."

"And because you're disavowed," you said, "Friends called and asked you for help."

"They knew Gabriel served the Entity," she said, "They knew he was on his way to Istanbul to acquire one half of the key but I beat him to it."

"Do your friends know what this key leads to?"

"They believe it leads to its source code."

"Source code," Luther echoed.

"When were you going to tell me this?" Ethan asked.

"I'm telling you now," she said.

"Hold on, did you talk to them in person?" You asked, "Your friends. Did this happen over a phone call?"

"I'm disavowed so they had no way of contacting me in person."

Her expression changed when she realized what you were implying.

"He wanted you to find the key," you said, your voice coming to a whisper, "He wanted you to bring the key to Ethan. This was a trap."

"No, we can't be sure that was the Entity," she said.

"We can't be sure it wasn't," you replied.

"We can't believe anything outside of this very conversation," Ethan said, "None of you should be here."

—

You sat with Benji in the other room as he revised the firewalls on his laptop. You leaned back in your chair, having switched to a different knife to sharpen.

"Why did you guys choose me? Of all the people you could've called, why me?"

"Ilsa wanted you here. She wanted to see you and make sure you were safe."

"Bullshit. She doesn't care about me," you laughed.

He looks at you and your belief in your words falters.

"Why did she leave me then?"

"It's the only way she could think to protect you. Yes, I know how that contradicts the fact that you're here now but you're the best agent she knows and she thinks that maybe she can better protect you this way."

"That's stupid," you scoffed.

"Not everything is always a clear path in Ilsa's head."

You look away to where Ilsa is standing in the other room. Benji follows your gaze.

"She still loves you, despite everything she's done to make it look otherwise and I'm guessing you still love her too."

You give an imperceptible nod of your head.

"Go tell her before it's too late. With our line of work, we never know how much time we get with one another."

"You're very wise, you know," you said, "When you want to be."

"Thank you," Benji said, his face brightening.

You walk to the room in which Ilsa is standing in. You tilt your head to the door leading to the roof and she nodded. You went first. She follows a few minutes later.

You stood on the rooftop, gripping the railing tightly. You bent down and stretched your shoulders before resting on the railing with your forearms. She walks over and leans with her back against the sunset. She lets out a loud sigh.

"You're mad at me," she noted.

"Great observation," you said sarcastically.

"Y/N..."

"What? What do you want from me, Ilsa? I've given you everything I have. Every time you turned for me I was there and now you pull me into this mission. You couldn't even talk to me first? I would've said yes, you know. All you had to do was ask. I would always be there, despite everything."

She doesn't say anything so you look at her. Hot tears are rolling down her face. Your heart broke again even though you knew that it shouldn't.

"I'm sorry," she said, "Those nights in Paris then in Amsterdam."

Silence fills the air when she pauses. "I had a mission after Amsterdam and faked my death," she said quietly, "I wanted you to come with me but then I remembered everything I did— how I hurt you."

You turn around and lean against the railing, crossing your arms over your chest.

"I didn't realize that in my efforts to protect you, just how much I was hurting you in the process. I know that I don't deserve your forgiveness but I want to give this a chance, a real chance this time."

You looked over at her, "I wanted to give this a chance too. I always have. But I don't want to get hurt again. I can't keep doing that to myself."

"I know. But what if I promised you that I would try? I want to be with you, whatever it takes," she said.

You think about it, was it really worth it to give her another chance? She was the love of your life, yes, but she had hurt you so many times, though not intentionally.

"Fine," you said, uncrossing your arms, "I'll give us a try. But I want complete honesty from here on out.

She nods, "I can do that."

So you let her back into your heart because your love for her outweighed the grudge you held against and it was the only thing you ever knew how to do.

She hugs you hesitantly and you move your arms to hold her closer. She smelled the same as the night in Amsterdam. You brushed your fingers through her desert colored highlights. She tucks her head under your chin, revelling in the comfort your embrace brought her.

"I promise that I won't hurt you," she said, "Not intentionally."

You kissed the crown of her hair and she looked up at you before meeting your lips. You let her deepen the kiss as you pull her even closer to you. She found a home in you that day. You held her closely by the waist, not wanting to let her go. A smile tugs at both your lips.

"You know, I've never been to Venice," she said.

"Really?" You said.

"Yeah, it's my first time here."

"Hmm, maybe I'll show you around after this mission's over. What do you think?"

"I think... it sounds like perfection."

She bit her bottom lip adorably before snuggling her head into your chest. You never wanted to let her slip away ever again. She feels your grip on her waist tighten as your mind drifts once more to the plan. She was going to meet Gabriel at the bridge and fake her death. The margin for error was so small, barely imperceptible to the human eye.

"What's wrong?" She asked, brushing her nose against your jaw.

"I don't like this plan," you confessed, "There's too many things that can go wrong. It's not safe."

"Darling, it's the only way we'll be free," she tried her best to make you see the brighter side of the plan.

"You could die, Ilsa. I can't have that happen."

"I'll be careful. He'll hit me here," she said, guiding your hand just clear of her heart, "I'll be sure of it. Besides, if things get out of hand, death will just have to withstand my will to stay alive."

"Ilsa, don't joke," you said, looking away. Your eyes sting with tears threatening to run away.

"I'm not joking- hey, look at me," she cups your jaw with one hand, "I'll come back to you, I promise." She rested her forehead against yours. "I'll be fine," she told you.

She follows you back down where everyone is changing into their attire for the party. Ilsa pulls you into her room and sits you down on a crate. She sits in between your legs. You give her a perplexed look.

"Could you braid my hair?" She asked quietly and your mouth breaks into a smile. "Of course."

You brush her hair gently to one side. She plays with her fingers while you comb through her hair, plaiting it expertly.

"I haven't had my hair braided since you left me," she confessed, "You've always been the person to do it for me."

You smile to yourself at the thought of this simple activity she saved just for you. You finish braiding her hair and place it over her shoulder. You kiss the side of your neck and she turns to capture your lips. She rises onto her knees and laces her fingers through your hair, pulling you to her. Her tongue slides against yours as you deepen the kiss. She moans into your mouth and you grip her waist tightly. You nibble on her bottom lip before she does the same to you.

Ethan walks in and the two of you break apart. A smile creeps onto his face. "Glad the two of you finally came to your senses," he said and a blush rises to both your cheeks, "Could I get a minute with Y/N?"

Ilsa nods and leaves the two of you alone but not before pressing a kiss to the back of your palm.

She walks back into the common area where Luther and Benji are working on their laptops.

"Nice hair," Luther commented.

"Why are your lips red?" Benji asked.

Her fingers rises to her lips instinctively and she blushes.

"Oh my god," Benji said and Luther smirks.

He stands up and points his finger while following her. She ducks and speed walks to the equipment. "You guys are back together aren't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Benji," trying her best to keep a poker face.

Benji smirks and crosses his arms across his chest, "I like seeing you happy. The two of you are good for each other, clearly."

Ilsa blushes again before ducking her head and rummaging through a duffle bag, "Thanks."

—

"I have a task for you," Ethan said, "While we're at the party, I want you to follow us from a distance. We have the advantage of Gabriel not knowing who you are. I need you to follow Ilsa and protect her. I won't be able to do that while I get Gabriel. Can you do that for me?"

"Of course, Ethan," you replied. He nods, "You'll be off comms so that there's no distractions. I just want you to follow Ilsa, don't worry about me. Alright?"

You nod.

"Take the weapons you need. I'll come find you when everything's done," Ethan said. He goes to stand up but you grab his arm, "Stick to the plan. Let her fake her death. I know it's going to seem real but don't worry, we've got this."

He blinks appreciatively at your reassurance. "Good luck," he said.

—

You were following Grace, Ilsa, and Ethan to the party. Watching them from a distance. Ethan had told Ilsa to run so you followed her to make sure that she would be alright. You finally caught up to her in a deserted alleyway. She swings at you with her fist before realizing who was following her. You duck and grab her arm.

"Y/N?" She said, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Ethan sent me, he told me to follow the three of you from a distance. He asked me to protect you." You moved in closer to her and inspected her face and she closed her eyes, taking in your concerned touch. "I'm alright," she told you.

"Good, you had me worried back there," you said. She opens her eyes and sees that you haven't moved from your spot. One of your hands moves from her face to her hip and pull her flush against you.

"I missed this," you whisper to her. She puts a hand against your abdomen. "What are you waiting for then?" She husked out. Her hand scrunches the front of your shirt and pulls you even closer to her body. You meet her lips, they were soft and they enveloped your own.

You pull away and rest your forehead against her. "We should probably go," Ilsa told you and you nodded, agreeing.

"I'll be right behind you," you said, "Do you have a weapon?"

She half unsheathes the sword she's holding and you smirk. "That's my girl," you said. You take one of the five knives on your body and tuck it into the back of the waistband of her pants, you hide the weapon with her shirt.

"I added a little something special," you told her.

She smiled and kissed you, "Let's go."

She takes off running and you run behind her. You hear faint sounds of combat and Ilsa comes to a quick stop, causing you to crash into her. She held a finger up to her lips. She motioned for you to stay here but you shook your head. She motioned for you to just wait and you reluctantly agreed.

She walks up to the bridge and you wait tensely behind the corner, glancing over to your girlfriend to make sure she was alright. She starts fighting Gabriel and she gets stabbed in the leg. She lets out a heart wrenching scream and you run over swiftly and quietly. You unsheathe the knife from behind your back and slash his thigh— his femoral artery. He yells in pain and clutches his leg; blood gushed past his fingers.

"Who the hell are you?" He grunted. "No one that you need to know." You flip your knife and help Ilsa stand up. "Go check on Grace. I'll handle him."

She limps over to Grace and checks her pulse. You momentarily let your guard down and Gabriel gets back up. "Y/N, look out!" She screamed. Gabriel punched you in the back of the head and knocked you out.

Ilsa's vision turned red with anger when she saw your body crumple to the ground. She picks up the sword again and advances toward Gabriel. Her swipes are sloppy and Gabriel can see it but nonetheless she gets a few slashes in. He takes advantage of her sloppiness and knocks her sword away easily. He slashes at her abdomen and it barely misses her. He cuts open her stomach and she lets out a gasp and clutched her stomach. He pins her against the side of the bridge. "This is what happens to whoever cares about Ethan Hunt," he hissed in her ear, "When I'm done with you I'll carve up your little partner. She'll look so pretty all slashed up."

"Don't ever fucking touch her," Ilsa gasped out in between breaths. Her hand inches to the knife you had tucked into her waistband.

"I kill you first and she won't have anyone to protect her," he cackled.

"She doesn't need me to protect her."

She pulls out her knife and stabs the side of his body. "If anything, she's been the one to protect me all along." He doubled over in pain.

He grunted angrily and stood back up, stabbing Ilsa in the chest, she moved slightly to the side as he did so. Her eyes opened in shock, letting out a shaky breath. She looks down at the knife then back at Gabriel.

Gabriel stumbles back and lets Ilsa slide to the floor. She closes her eyes to control her breathing. You finally open your eyes, your head is throbbing and you look around. You push yourself up with much difficulty and see Gabriel's retreating figure. "Hey, asshole," you yelled out, "You forgot to kill me."

"Your time will come," Gabriel said.

You stumbled to your feet and pulled a small dagger from your boot. As he turns his back, you throw the dagger at him. It lodged in his back and he fell over before crawling away.

You look around and see Ilsa and your heart drops to your stomach. You run over her and see the knife. Quickly taking her head into your lap, you check her pulse, letting out a temporary sigh of relief. However, that relief didn't stay for long, you had a performance to put on. You hunch over Ilsa's body and cry. Your shoulders shake as you discreetly take out her earpiece and crush it beneath your boot. You lower your lips to her ear.

"You did really good. I'm so proud of you," you whisper into her ear. From a distance, it just looks like your grieving over your lover's dead body.

You brush her hair soothingly, continuing to let the tears flow.

"I love you," you told her. Her eyes twitch so you press a kiss to each of her eyelids, over her freckles. You hold her head close to your body and she stays motionless.

You hear heavy sounds of footsteps from the distance and you know it's Ethan. Grace would be waking up any minute now.

"No!" Ethan yells when he sees Ilsa's limp body in your arms. He places his finger to her pulse and his eyes soften to sadness. "Y/N, I'm so sorry. This wasn't supposed to happen," he said.

You sniffle and brush your tears, "She died protecting others. It's what she would've wanted."

Grace finally comes to and realizes what happened. She's in shock seeing Ilsa's "dead" body. "No, that wasn't supposed to happen. She's not supposed to be dead, she wasn't supposed to sacrifice herself," Grace starts hyperventilating, "Why did she do that? I didn't ask her to do that."

You lovingly brush at Ilsa's chestnut hair. "Ilsa was doing what she loved," you tell her without looking at her. You look at Ethan and place a hand on his knee, "Go talk to her."

You continue talking to her despite the fact that you look mad doing it. "You did good, my love. You did so good. I hope you can finally have some peace." You press a kiss to her warm lips before pressing your forehead against her.

Benji quickly but surely arrives only a couple of seconds later. He takes in Grace's hysterical expression and Ethan comforting her before his gaze landed on you. Your back faced him but he could see the tip of Ilsa's head. He hops out of the boat and rushed over to you.

"No, it can't be true. Ilsa..."

He takes in her pale complexion and the lack of movement from her chest. You look up with your tear-stricken eyes and a string of silent communication travels from your eyes to his. It was done.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry. This wasn't how it was to go down."

You nodded sadly, "I know."

You sniff harshly and brush your tears away roughly. "Please can we just take her home," you clear your throat, "I don't want us to be all exposed here and she deserves a proper burial."

Benji nods, understanding, "Do you need me to help?"

You shake your head and lift her easily into your arms. You take her back onto the boat to the underside, safe from the eyes of the Entity where she finally opens her eyes. You burst into tears then, for real this time. She brushes them away, shushing you.

"I love you too," she whispered to you, "I'm okay. Didn't I tell you everything would be fine?"

You nod, still trying to recover from the events of the bridge.

"If you could give me a hand though," she said pointedly, looking at the knife.

"Oh yes, of course."

"It's a cute knife but it would be better out of my body," she muttered.

You chuckle before indicating to her shirt then your knife, she nods. You slice open her shirt to get better access to the wound. "If you wanted take me to bed you could've just asked," she teased and you rolled your eyes.

You open your duffle bag to take out your medical supplies. You spray antiseptic over her wound and she hisses. "Sorry."

She shook her head, "It's fine. Do whatever you need to."

You get a firm grip on the knife and give it a big tug. It comes out quickly and leaves Ilsa groaning in pain. You toss the knife across the boat and rip open a packet of gauze and cover her wound. "Here, apply pressure. I'll stitch you up."

You take out your suturing kit and help her lay down in the cramped cabin of the boat.

"I only have numbing spray," you tell her and she nods, "Okay, it might sting a little."

She nods again. You remove the gauze and throw 3 tight but delicate sutures on her shoulder before wrapping her chest with bandages.

"Now let's look at that stomach of yours," you said before moving to her abdomen. It had a wider slash but the cut wasn't as deep as the one of her chest. You stitch it up nonetheless then wrap it. You move to her leg and she very gracefully takes off her pants to reveal the wound. It was a small slice, 2 inches wide. You stitch her up and bandage her.

Benji stomps on the floor of the boat to indicate your arrival. You look back at Ilsa. "Ready to hide again?" You asked and she nods. You drape a sheet over her body before lifting her into your arms and carrying her to the safe house. Luther gives your arm a squeeze when he sees you and you blink appreciatively before going to the room you had claimed and laying her on the bed. You remove the sheet and she looks back at you.

"Get some rest," you told her.

—

She was still bleeding heavily despite the stitches you gave her but you were on your own. The rest of the team had left to deal with the mission while you stayed behind and cared for Ilsa. You cleaned her bandages each night and replenished her with nutrients. You bought medical supplies and stole some from a local hospital and brought them back to her. She gets a fever on the second day and falls unconscious, shuddering ever so slightly in her sleep.

You took in her pale appearance in the bed. She sunk into the bed and her freckles looked dull. They never looked like that. You prayed for her to wake up so that the color would return to them. She looked so weak, her skin as pale as moonlight. She looked too frail. Too unlike the Ilsa you knew. You knew she had to get better soon, she had too. You wrung put a wet cloth and wiped her burning forehead. She starting to show early signs of infection so you fed her antibiotics and stayed by her side every night, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest.

Her fever finally broke on the fourth day. She wakes up and say your hunched over position by the side of her bed. She smiled gratefully at her guardian angel and combed through your hair. You sat up quickly at the feeling.

"You're alive," she croaked, her throat raspy from disuse.

"You're awake. God, I thought we would never make it out of that," you tell her.

"Oh baby," she said, a hand coming up to your face, brushing your cheek, "I'm okay. I'm alive. See?"

She brings your fingers to her wrist and you felt her soothing heart beat. You laid your head against her wrist. "Come, lay with me."

She slowly scoots over and you slide onto the bed with her and take her into your arms. "Don't move too much," you told her, "You'll tear your stitches."

"Thank you for being here," she said.

"I wouldn't be anywhere else. Just get some sleep, darling. I'll be here when you wake up," you told her, smoothing her hair. "Thank you for coming back to me," you whispered into her hairline and she closed her eyes with a smile on her face. You kiss her freckles repeatedly until she falls asleep.

—

When she finally heals, that's when the two of you say your goodbyes. Ethan, Benji, and Luther were the only ones there.

"But if you need me, I'll only be a call away," she told him and slipped a flip phone into his front pocket, "Only use it for emergencies. As far as the world knows, I'm dead." She gives him a tight hug. "And what about you?" Ethan asked, "What happens in your story?"

You shrug, "The love of my life dies and I decide to move to the quiet countryside of France and teach English." Ethan smiles, nodding his head, "That suits you." He gives you a hug as well.

"Treat her well," he told you and you nodded.

"If you're ever in France and need somewhere to stay..." you trailed off.

"I look forward to taking you up on your offer," he said.

"You ready?" You asked Ilsa and she nodded. She picked up her duffle bag and gave her last farewells to Luther and Benji.

"Come visit, okay?" She tells the both of them and they nod.

"Take care, Ilsa," Benji said while hugging her.

You approach Ethan one more time and take your favorite knife out from behind your back. It had an ivory white handle, a Persian tip, and a beautifully intricate wave pattern over the blade.

"This is for Grace. Tell her it's my gift to her for joining the IMF and taking Ilsa's place. We finally gets our happy ending now and it's all thanks to her."

Ethan nods, "I will."

"If any of you ever need us, I'll be there. You're Ilsa's family— mine by extension, we will show up, no matter what."

Ilsa laces her fingers with yours and nods. She gives you a kiss.

"Bye," you said. You and Ilsa exit to the boat that Ethan bought and placed under his name. The plan was to sail to France. It was a short ride and Ethan had packed everything you could possibly need into the boat.

"Go hide," you tell Ilsa and she nodded, "I'll let you know when we reach open waters."

—

You and Ilsa move into a chateau in the countryside, 30 minutes away from the beach. A place where the two of you could start fresh and build your family. There was a quiet town about a 10 minute bike ride, no surveillance cameras, just the eyes of locals who admired the love you and Ilsa had for each other. You and Ilsa went there on the weekends for grocery shopping before wandering around, trying the new patisserie shop around the corner, letting Ilsa feed you bits of croissant. The town made you and Ilsa feel young again, you would go out dancing like you were in your 20s, giggle in the back corners of the bookstore as you kissed one another and picked books for each other, let each other try their ice cream before agreeing which one was better. This quiet life, the one you and Ilsa always dreamed of was finally happening.

The two of you lounged on the couch together, reading. It was raining outside and the fire was crackling. She laid against your chest and you had an arm flung over her shoulder. She looks at your hand, the ring she gave you and smiles contentedly. She fiddles with the ring on your ring finger before smiling back up at you.

"Hey," you said, noticing her staring.

She moved your glasses from your face to the top of your head before cupping your face to kiss you.

"I'm happy we did this," she tells you.

"Me too."

She plays with your fingers while waiting, hesitantly, for the right moment to ask you a question that could change your lives.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" You asked, noticing her shift of mood.

She sits up and turns around, sitting on the backs of her heels, so she can talk to you face-to-face. "Would you ever want kids?" She swallowed harshly, waiting for your answer.

Your lips eventually break into a smile and nod, "If it's with you, then yes."

You put down your book and take her hands into your own before pulling her to rest on your chest. You stroked her back and played with the ends of her hair.

"Is that what was worrying you so much?"

She nods against your chest.

"I've been dreaming about having kids with you for forever, Ilsa. Of course I want them. I can't wait to see a mini you running around the house."

"I could settle for a mini you too," she tells you.

She smiled against your skin, her chest warming at the idea.

She lifts her head and kisses along your jaw. She nestled into the crook of your neck, breathing in your perfume. She felt a sense of fulfillment resting here in your arms. A fulfillment that she never got from joining Ethan's team. You offered her a life filled with love and safety and she wishes she had seen that earlier instead of running away. But there was no point in dwelling on the past now. You held her in your arms and she was going to cherish every single moment she could spend with you.

[kitkat27]

A doodle of one of my favourite moments from Rogue nation

[doodledraw]

A mission: impossible themed commission for @shoesplease !! Ilsa and Ethan on an undercover fancy dress mission...and Luther and Benji are hanging out ready to jump in anytime ;)) Thank you so much for commissioning me, Starry! I had a great time working on this :))

Commission Info

[assignmentimprobable]

Now that I’ve practically finished the Mission Impossible Film Series, i can say a couple things with certainty:

Luther is cool for no reason. I love that hes just the unparalleled smartest, iconic behavior. give him his flowers, he seems like a chrysanthemums kind of guy

Ethan Hunt is nowhere near as unstable as i thought he’d be. a lil disorganized but generally a solid man.

casting Brandt as a woman would have done soooo much to balance out the cast like i have a whole rant prepared & everything

Ilsa Faust could snap my bones and id say ’so does next week work for you?’

they did Nyah sooooo fucking dirty like. somebody needs to be shot (in dramatic slow motion, its the year 2000 yall) for that

Benji in Rogue Nation is the true love interest, from the narrative framing down to the ‘miss me?’. good god that movie was rife with estranged budding romantic tension and buddy duo dynamics between him and Ethan. I hope their sweltering summer wedding went off without a hitch

Walker was a dick for nooo reason, im glad him and his bare knuckle brawling ass got dinked by the short king of the franchise.

[wzyxz]

melt.

pairing: mission impossible x child!reader angst 2 fluff summary: two bad men kill your parents, so you’ve been stalking them ever since. one day, a team of people kill the bad men and take you to their base. that’s basically it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the rubble of an abandoned and run down building, two men with guns have a hostage in the seat between them. It squirms around like a worm. I can see it, I can watch it all unfold and do nothing, or I can intervene. I’m a wuss, so obviously I sit still and quiet like a statue. My breaths are balancing carefully.

The men don’t see me. The men are bad. I remember watching them before, killing my parents and leaving me to rot and die slowly and hungrily. That is why I watch, to study their patterns and then get the sweetest revenge. I know I said I was a wuss, but I’m working on it, okay? 

Concrete surrounds me like a cage, but I cannot move or else I will be noticed and shot down immediately. One man begins to shout. “Where are they? I thought they would be here with the money by now!” The other man listens, processes, and squabbles back, “Alright, who do you think I am, Sherlock Holmes? How should I know where these dudes are? I’m just as upset as you are!”

They continue on about this for a long time. A long, long time. Every word that slips out of their mouths is laced with anger, frustration, and maybe even a bit of rage too. These dudes are ugly, though. Unshaven beards, messy hair, and they smell like sweat. Apparently, they’re holding this dude named Micheal hostage, and they’ve called the FBI or something to come and collect him for money. Like, a lot of money. Like, a billion dollars, a lot of money. 

Honestly, I dunno who this Micheal guy is, and no offense to him, but he’s probably not worth a billion dollars. 

As they squabble, the door opens slowly, softly, quietly, and three (I think) people step into the room. One of the bad men takes notice, cocks his gun and points. “Take another step and you get turned into a cherry slush.” In an instant, the room is silent and unmoving as if it had frozen solid.

Poor Micheal has suffered through so much. I see his fingers are skinless and raw, stripped down to muscle almost, due to his attempts at escape. Not to mention his breaths are uneven, a telltale sign of indescribable fear. His head bobbles slowly through the stillness.

Probably, he is shaking and scared. I’ve been shaky and scared many times. I’ve been like him before. I wish I could say I haven’t. 

These men, these terrible men, took away everything from me. Everything, from my food to my family to the bed I slept on, taken away just like that. Like wind had blown below me and carried everything that was mine far, far away. Smells, tastes, experiences come rushing back to me like a waterfall, and it’s almost sickening. My mind is overflowing and I think I’m starting to cry. But I can’t, because that is wuss behavior, and I am not a wuss anymore. At least, I’ll try not to be. While I think, I remember to watch. And now, I can see the fight. Apparently, I’d gotten so caught up on thinking I’d missed the entire fact that there was a WHOLE DAMN FIGHT going on right in front of me. A man in all black beats up bad man number one, throwing him to the floor and causing him to spit up violet red blood. Another dude in just a suit just stepped on bad man number two’s frickin face and CRUNCHED IT? Dear lord. Ew.  There’s blood every where, and even more is splurting out because mystery dude in all black keeps beating the crap out of bad man number one, no breaks and no breaths taken. Eventually, bad man number one’s ribs break and he dies or whatever, leaving a girl to take the shroud off Micheal’s head and lead him out of the room after cautiously inspecting him for any serious injuries. Black-wearing mystery dude tells other mystery dude “D’you think we should check to see if there are any more hostages here? These sssickos could be keeping millions in here for all we know.” He slurred his words lazily, exhausted from the amount of hard work he had gone through just then. “Sickos?” The other mystery dude replied. “Is that what you call kidnappers and mass-murderers? Jesus, Ethan, call them what they are for once.”  As the two search behind boxes and rubble, I realize my head has been throbbing the entire time. My vision begins to blur and my eyes start closing. This can't be happening. Although I try to fight it, the drowsiness begins to wash over me like the waves at the beach wash over sand.  Before I completely pass out, I see blurry figures move rubble out of the way to discover my limp, curled up body sprawled on the hard floor in absolute agony.

Waking up, I feel the floor shift and rumble below me. As I turn my head to look down, my forehead begins to sting so badly I want to cry. “Hey, no, no, don’t move your head a lot. It’s a bit messed up right now,” I hear a familiar voice speak softly to me. Just then, a warm, gloved hand slides under my chin and pulls my face up. Upon feeling the warmth and seeing the man’s face, I melt. It’s the same man in all black who’d crunched bad man number one’s ribs. Oddly enough, I get some strange sense of comfort that sizzled as if it were bacon on a frying pan. It runs throughout my veins and creates a system my life almost relies on. It feels like a warm hug, nice soup, a fluffy blanket, all those things oozing into each crevice of my mind. I try not to look at people in the eyes, though, because it makes me uncomfortable. “My name is Ethan Hunt, but you can just call me Ethan. I promise you’ll be alright, because you’re under the care of the best.” He winks at me, attempting to lighten the mood. “Is everything alright back there?” A deep voice called from the front of the car. “We’re good, Luther. They just woke up.” Again, Ethan turns to me with the softest expression ever, and yet again I melt.

So apparently, there’s this whole government agency or whatever going on called IMF, or Impossible Mission Force. These dudes who rescued me, Ethan, Benji, Ilsa, and Luther, are all apart of this agency and had been sent on a mission to take down the bad dudes and save the hostage. So, on the way to their safe-house or whatever, I had to tell them my tragic anime backstory. Unfortunately, they are concerned about my mental health. I hate it when that happens. Sure my parents were brutally mauled right in front of my poor, young eyes and I was left to die in an empty, cold house, but that isn’t necessarily bad, right? I’ll get over it. On the bumpy ride, I figured out I only melted when I looked at Ethan, which was weird and yet understandable. He gives me a very protective dad kind of vibe. Everyone else I’m not so sure about. All of the rest, I believe, have hints of poison covered by the masks of their smiles. It’s not that they are rude or evil, I’m just not sure about them.

Now that we’re in the base, Ethan holds his hand out to me. Slowly, my fingers wrap around his and I sigh, knowing I shouldn’t trust a stranger like this. But he’s the only thing I have. I miss being held in caring arms, tucked in a warm embrace. Instead, all thats left for me is the feeling of hunger. Hunger for the love of another person. As he leads down a hallway, Ethan reminds me to keep my head straight. My shoes pad softly against the floor below, not making a sound. I guess that’s why the team nicknamed me “Ghost,” because I’m usually so quiet nobody hears me at all. That’s what a year of spying on evil men who’d shoot you at once if they heard you speak, breathe, or make any noise in the slightest does to you.

We make a turn to the left, stepping into a room neatly decorated in mostly white. The bed, which has light grey covers, is carefully made. A nightstand sits right next to it with a Himalayan salt lamp placed on top. The walls are decorated in plain ivory tapestry and wooden shelves with knickknacks lining them. A bean bag chair, the color of a perfect night sky, laid idly in a corner of the room next to a bookshelf filled with lengthy and sophisticated-looking books. At least, lengthier than what I usually read anyways. The decor was immaculate, and I slowly began to realize this room was for me. “Okay, this is our guest room. You can stay here, make yourself at home. Take off your backpack and put it down somewhere. I’ll be out here, looking up your records and telling my agency about your arrival.“

When he closes the door, leaving me inside the room, I remember my backpack. I always keep a backpack with me, containing medical supplies, art supplies, and small rations of food and water. That’s just how it is when you’re traveling everywhere alongside two dudes who don’t know you still exist.  My hands reach to my shoulders, pulling off the sleeves of my backpack from my back. Placing it down on the floor next to the nightstand, I remember how little sleep I’d gotten in the past week. Deciding to go to sleep, I crawl weakly into the bed and immediately drift into the sweetness of near unconciousness.

Cold hands wrap around my sides. I feel it and yelp out. My eyes shoot open as small beads of sweat begin to form on my temples. In front of me, I see Benji, holding his hands out in confusion. “Sorry, Ghost! I- uhm- we were starting to watch a movie and then- uhm- Ethan told me to come get you and take you to the living room where we were so that he could make sure you were okay. I didn’t mean to disturb you!” He apologizes profusely and I just stare at him with a nervous expression. “Well, maybe, you’d like to join us for the movie…?” I weigh the options in my mind. I could get some more sleep in this comfy bed, which would be pretty nice honestly, or I could watch a movie with a man who I think might be a new dad to me, which was also nice. Maybe I should spend time with Ethan and the team, I might be here for a while. Plus, it might get that weird feeling of mine out of the way. The one that makes me feel like Ilsa, Benji, and Luther are all untrustworthy liars. So, I nod my approval and begin to get up. “No! Ethan said that he didn’t want you messing up your head walking there, but since it doesn’t seem like I’ll be close to picking you up any time soon, I’m just gonna go get Ethan.” Benji began trotting out of the room, again leaving me alone in an awkward, impatient silence. Ethan is the only touch I feel comfortable with currently, since I am beginning to know it so well. My brain starts drifting off into sleep mode when suddenly Ethan walks into my room. “C‘mon sleepyhead, up you get!” He whispers softly. I felt my body being lifted into the air and then a sudden warmth being pressed against my side. The entire world started to shift as everything blows past me.  Before I knew it, (probably because I started to doze off) I was on the couch facing a wide TV. Ethan was sat down next to me, patting my head and smiling. He turns to the movie, which movie I do not know, partly due to the fact I am so, so tired. Slowly, slowly, I realize I kind of just want to sleep. Against most of my better judgement, I curl up against Ethan, my head beginning to nestle into his stomach. The amount of joy I feel rivals all of my survival instincts, but then everything was starting to sluggishly melt away like pouring honey. “Goodnight, guys,” I thought to myself as the world around me faded into black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ haha this took me so long??? anyways tysm anon for requesting this it was super fun to write! hope u like it!

[the-woman-upstairs]

Rogue Nation, Fallout, and Dead Reckoning all pointedly placing Benji and Ilsa in the most dangerous, stressful, downright torturous situations either together or separately where Ethan can’t reach/help them or is driven to the brink trying to.

[thistableforone]

Rebecca Ferguson, everybody!

[agentfaust]

am DETERMINED to finish this ilsa/ethan/benji i’ve written 3 sentences of by the 18th of august y’all know why

because it’s babygirl hunts bday and he deserves to be happy for once with the two loves of his life

[agentsinlove]

i don't *particularly* go here, but i can definitely appreciate the benji/ethan/ilsa throuple as a concept. `

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

They don’t care about you.

Quick summary: She gets the call, and she’s back to work. The reader faces a crisis of morality on her first job back.

Word count: 17.8K (quite tame)

Warnings: Depictions of violence and injury; themes of assassination (yes, we are the assassin here); the IMF being manipulative and disgusting; lots of longing with Ethan that will be frustrating for you; some allusions to smut 😩😩; lots of swearing, but you know that’s a given by now 🫶.

A/N: Yayyyy, another chapter. You think this is gonna be a happier one? Think again. Yes, they do fuck a little, but I’m greatly sorry for the angst I am going to put them through. Side note: I am fucking beyond excited for autumn, oh, my God. Time to binge Gilmore Girls WOO!!

Chapters: Part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine, part ten.

***

We would have a place in some other country – not the US. Some other country, where the predominant language isn’t English and where no-one we know or care about lives. When I imagine it, of course, there are things that I want – I let myself imagine the things that I want. Hardwood floors. Photographs of us. A mid-century modern feel to the interior decoration. Stuff I want. But honestly, I don’t really care about any of it. I’d probably be happy living in a dumpster with him. As long as—the dumpster was—away from everything.

It’s a midnight thought. Not spoken out loud—ever. Definitely not communicated to him. It’s just for myself to have at midnight, sometimes just to entertain myself, sometimes to calm myself down, but mostly just to get myself to sleep. It’s nice. I used to do it when I was a kid: replay a good memory over and over, one perfect one, until I fell into a black sleep. Useful technique. A little bit slow, but useful for good dreams. The only part I can never get rid of is all of the—logistics.

It’s midnight, vaguely, and I think of our place that’s not in the US, with hardwood floors and pictures of us and a mid-century modern feel to the interior decoration. But then I realise that our place is quite small, because, even between us, we don’t have enough money to get anything bigger than a two bedroom. Which is enough, technically. Or would be. I imagine. We’re both able to compartmentalise our entire personal lives into a small square. But the entire point of our place is that we don’t have to do that – our personal lives will be ours. I don’t know what Ethan wants, but I’d like a cat. I miss my cat. He seems like a dog person, but I know he’s good with animals in general. Green flag. I don’t know what Ethan wants, but I want a garden, a place to plant flowers and trim hedges and do all these mundane things that I always watched retired people do in movies. I have so many things I’ve wanted to try, to do, that I didn’t. I used to like crosswords. I used to like running. I used to like drawing. Now, it seems like the only thing I have time to like is work. And I can’t even like that properly anymore.

The place is small, and it also has a stash, weapons and passports and money. Even when speculating, my mind considers logistics. IMF field agents don’t have a long life expectancy. Excusing survival rates, nobody retires at a normal age anyway. It’s either early, or they work themselves old. I have a feeling which one Ethan is. I don’t know which one I am anymore. Nobody retires at the normal age. If we got out, we wouldn’t be really out. Both specialists. With Ethan’s reputation, he’d certainly be called back at some point. He’d be worked till he dropped dead. In a way, I’m luckier than him. If he didn’t die, we’d live in a constant state of paralysis, like living on a thin sheet of ice balancing on the surface of a dark, horrible abyss below. We’ve been in plenty of abysses together before, but I wouldn’t want to be in anymore. We’d live in paralysis, anticipating, and we’d have a stash. A planned route of escape. Ready to go. Probably new identities, new lives. Even if IMF field agents survive and manage to retire, someone usually comes for them. Could be from the agency, could be a past wrongdoing. Actually, I don’t think it’s humane to call people wrongdoings.

But when have I ever stopped to think about what was humane? Never when it mattered.

Horrible—how quickly I latch onto things. The IMF, I guess, is one of them. Benji, Almada. My cat. Books, now. Jo. A cluster of rings I bought at a flea market a few months ago and now wear religiously, even when I’m not going out anywhere. And Ethan. I hate how readily I’m letting myself accept that he’s the centre of my thoughts these days. It makes me feel a lot of things. Ashamed, embarrassed. A lot of bad things, which isn’t to say it’s his fault, because it’s not. He’s always thinking things are his fault when they’re just not. Between us, things are usually my fault. I push him away, I snap at him, I use him, I purposefully don’t call him, I purposefully ignore him. Usually my fault. He always tries to fix things, which is infuriating. Shameful and embarrassing to see him do. He tries to string me back together even though he’s barely hanging on himself. I have no idea if I have the same effect on him as I do. When I touch his shoulder or squeeze his hand, does he feel good? Does he know that I want to help him? I’m not sure how to show him.

It’s midnight, and it’s been several midnights since I’ve last seen him. I recently got a nightlight so that I wouldn’t have to lie in complete darkness – it’s Scooby Doo. Literally. Scooby Doo glows at the foot of my bed, his blue collar shining all over the wall.

I don’t know what’s happening to him. It’s a horrible feeling, because he contractually cannot tell me anything about it, and I will never force him to, and it’s horrible. Like a weight pressing constantly down on my chest, crushing my lungs. If I think about it too hard, think about all the ways I’ve killed people that could kill him, it turns to a stabbing pain, right along my sternum. Stabbing. A knife twisting deeper and carving flesh and bone with it. Not phantom pain, because I’ve never been injured there before. If I had been, I’d be dead. Could be heartburn—if heartburn is related to pining dreadfully for someone who is far too ready to bargain their own life for something futile.

Also, I don’t sleep much. Could be heartburn.

I don’t even know where he is. I know he’s abroad, but I don’t know where. It’s—horrible. A month-long mission probably means he’s bringing a team along with him. Benji’s there, if I had to guess. Almada—well, I don’t know what’s happening with Almada. I could’ve been with Ethan if I agreed to be with him when he asked me when we got back from six months of running. Would I like it? No – seeing him throw himself across buildings is not something that’s beneficial for my nerves.

Anyway. My quality as a field agent is decreasing – I probably wouldn’t be classed as fit to work with him. My eyesight is deteriorating. My psych, nine times out of ten, would come back shaky. Endurance training isn’t something I’ve been compelled to do over the past year, so I’ll be behind. I can trust my reflexes, though. Aside from panic attacks and the occasional tremors and spasms that take over my hands, I can control what my body does and when, and sometimes it knows before I do. If I was called in today to pass a physical, I could probably do it out of memory. Out of necessity.

It’s not something I enjoy: sitting around in this one city like I’m supposed to be out—but I know that, any second, I’ll be back. Even if I’m never called back, Ethan’s already gone. Benji’s gone. Almada’s gone. They’re all back. The people I care about are back there, and I’m stuck behind to worry about them constantly. It’s not something I enjoy.

I’d go back in an instant. If I was asked now, I would go back just like that. When Ethan came to me and told me he’d accepted, I struggled to get my head around it. For him, it’s been twenty-so years of working himself to the bone—literally, sometimes—and being cast aside and marginalised and painted as expendable and all these terrible, unjust things. And he accepted right there, right then in that phone booth. Didn’t understand it. As much as I hate to admit, I do now. When it comes to myself, I can always make the harder decision, the wrong decision. It’s a million times easier to hurt myself than to let Ethan hurt himself.

The IMF provides—security. Not physically, because, no matter how many countermeasures and mitigation efforts are implemented, agents still die even when they’re off jobs. Emotional security. It’s a secret language that only we speak. It’s access to a world that nobody else understands. In the beginning, it makes you feel special. In the middle, it makes you feel gravely important. I think I’m well past the gravely important stage – I am replaceable, and it’s a hard truth everybody has to come to terms with in this business. I’m not twitching for grave importance now. Not anymore. This is more of a quiet desperation. A need. I don’t know why my hands crave to hold a gun in a mission setting. I don’t know why I want to feel the rippling sensation down my body when I lay a good punch against an enemy. Security, maybe. Security in the sense that it’s familiar.

I’d go back, accept, no questions asked.

***

“He’s back in the field,” I state simply. Even at the mention of his name, I have to bring it up. I can’t talk to Jo about it, and Brandt’s not exactly a friend, but he’s the next best thing.

“Yes,” he replies, equally as plain. “Why are you asking about it?”

I fight the urge to scoff, roll my eyes, curl my lip. “I didn’t ask about it. I stated something. I stated a statement. Acknowledgement.”

“So, you don’t want me to tell you how he’s doing.” I’ve only met the smug bastard twice, but I can just tell he’s doing that flat thing with his face, raising his eyebrow condescendingly and everything, dripping with sarcasm. Prick. Brandt knows exactly how much I care about him, somehow.

My mind instantly arrives at the memory of Ethan’s body tangled with mine, in my bed, in my apartment, and I heat up furiously. I still remember what he smells like. I still remember the way something shifted in him when we were together like that. We’re close in a way that I don’t know how to define anymore. Nothing simple—reaches what it feels like. I am not going to attempt to reach a description for Brandt if that’s what he’s looking for.

It’s like he can sense my panic through the phone. “You don’t have to tell me about your relationship with him – I know he cares about you; I know you care about him.”

I don’t say anything to that.

Brandt sighs. “He’s perfectly fine, intact, no lost limbs, no fatal injuries. No death-defying stunts—that I know about. I can’t tell you what he’s doing. You happy with that?”

“Who’s with him?”

“Luther and Benji.”

Luther and Benji. Could have guessed as much, but it’s nice to have a confirmation. They’ll take care of him as best as they can, but Ethan always seems to ignore people’s efforts for him and does stupid shit anyway as an effort for them instead. He’s such a pain in the ass. It’s probably a good thing I never took his offer to be a part of his team. I’d probably have to watch him get killed over one of us.

I clear my throat. “How’s Almada?”

“Good.”

“He’s working?”

“Yes.”

Exasperation tears through my body like a wildfire. “Brandt,” I say sharply, “stop giving me these one-word answers. I don’t want it clipped down. I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t give you what you want, kid,” he shoots back, just as pointed. “Word of advice: don’t want anything, don’t get disappointed.” I quietly seethe. “Glad to hear you’re alright.”

The call ends.

***

Jo is unwaveringly dedicated to her family. I don’t see why. She seems to think that her blood tie to them is an obligation. She never speaks ill of them, never complains about what she does for them, is always humble about her efforts. It’s like she disappears into a spiral whenever they’re brought up, and I watch her eyes glaze over as she rambled about how her mother is very dedicated and loving but just can’t afford to talk to her much because she’s such a tentative nurse to her father.

“You know, she used to be a receptionist before. She used to work at the school me and all my siblings attended, and we used to see her when we got in trouble or needed to sign out. Stuff like that.” I observe the way her lips quirk up in a reminiscent smile. She seems to be doing better, now, thankfully. I spend a ridiculous amount worrying over her. She’s stupid in the way Ethan’s stupid, except she’s entirely more acute with it than he is. Jo is so—conditional. I’ll tell you if. I’ll come with you if. I’ll accept help from you if. I have a feeling the only “if” that’s keeping her around me is that I let her talk to me about her family, about herself. She came here to the museum with me today—not because she really enjoys my company, but because she enjoys how I listen. I don’t mind. I don’t think she’s had anyone listen to her in a while. I let her talk. “I used to ignore her when she tried to talk to me about home stuff at school. Everyone knew she was my mother, but I was still embarrassed to speak with her. When I got home, though, I’d speak with her for hours.”

My eyes drift away from her and to the painting in the corner of this room where Ethan found me again. The girl and the boy with the flowing cloth and the wall of honeysuckle.

Jo notices. “What are you thinking about?” Her voice, even though it’s lowered, echoes lightly through the expansive room.

“Nothing.” The answer is instinctive. Unless I’m required to think of one, I don’t bother. Usually, people get the idea from the finality in my voice. But Jo doesn’t settle for final. She’s frustrating like Ethan in that aspect. So, when I catch her glaring sceptically at the side of my head, I think of him again. Twitchingly, disgustingly insistent. Twitchingly, disgustingly compassionate.

“What are you thinking about?”

I look over again to the painting. “I think I’m gonna go back to work soon.”

Jo furrows her brow and recoils a little. “You haven’t been working? I thought you came here to work.”

Every time the subject of work gets brought up with her, I run from it. One-word answers. How’s work? Good. What do you do? Sales. What do you do in sales? Sell stuff. Okay, maybe two-word answers from time to time. I tell her, “I did.” There you go: two words.

Jo’s mouth hardens. “Would a croissant make you tell me?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s a no, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She must think I’m excruciating. I can feel the irritation radiating off of her. To think I thought she was a soft, sweet girl with no faults at first. I suppose she is: soft and sweet. Then the layers fold back to something rougher and older that she doesn’t like to show people. But once it’s out, it’s out. She doesn’t try to mask her expressions with a charming smile and warm eyes. Jo is charming and warm when she is, not before and not after, only in the moment. I’ve seen a low point of hers, and she recognises that there’s no point trying to cover it anymore. She doesn’t mask it. The irritation shows on her face—clearly.

Jo tilts her chin ever so slightly upwards. “Ethan’s working, isn’t he?”

Alarm sparks up like flint and flame. I start walking towards the painting, my boots clicking neatly against the floor. I used to hate it when boots clicked. Now, it’s soothing. Like a metronome, to keep time, to keep pace. Jo drifts close behind.

“Yeah,” I mumble, anger already biting at my gut. I always want to talk about him. It’s getting annoying. “Real estate and—stuff.”

Real estate. That’s what he told Jo.

“Is that why you want to go back to work?”

My hands start to shake a little – I stick them deep into my trouser pockets and grasp at the fabric there. “Not want, necessarily.” The painting towers above the two of us. The pearl at the base of my throat suddenly grows heavy, constricting my breath, narrowing it all. “When they call me, I’ll go.”

***

Tension eases its grip on my muscles like it’s finally as tired as I am. My body melts into the contours of my armchair at the drawl of his voice. He’s exhausted – I can tell. His voice, it scrapes along his throat like it’s raw, and his words slow from time to time, until he takes a break at my prompt and lets us sit in quiet for a few seconds. “You don’t know how much I miss you,” he tells me, soft, delicate. My spine quivers all the way up. 

“You sound tired,” I state. 

“So do you.”

I’d rest better if I could see him. “What time is it where you are?”

He hesitates. Jesus. I knew this mission was under wraps, but how many “wraps” are really wrapped around it? After a few moments, he replies, “It’s early.” 

“You suck.”

“Of course.”

I feel like crying, suddenly. There are no tears in my eyes, and I don’t feel short of breath, but there’s a hollowness in my chest. “You should sleep.” All those sleepless nights together in precarious, potentially unsafe safe houses – I know how he is. Borderline insomniac. He won’t sleep, but I try to tell him he should. Useless, but perhaps he’ll understand how much I want him to take care of himself. Hell, what am I doing? Ethan’s perfectly capable of reading in between the lines, and he chooses to ignore things on purpose. He's clever. He ignores the need to take care of himself on purpose. I tell him outright: “I need you to take care of yourself, Ethan. Actually, properly take care of yourself.”

There’s a laugh in his words as he tells me, “I’m doing just fine, sweetheart.”

“Please don’t call me sweetheart when I’m saying this to you.” I slip my forefinger’s nail under the one of my thumb and dig down into the sensitive skin there. 

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

He’s quieter – it hurts to hear him retract like that.

“You don’t have to apologise,” I rush quickly – whatever I do, I’m not going to make him fucking sad anymore because that’s just—not nice. I feel like I’ve made him sad—a lot in the time that I’ve known him. Angry, frustrated. Sometimes, I feel like—the bad outweighs the good. I don’t want there to be any more bad. Determined, I cross my legs up onto the armchair and tuck myself close, leaning in towards the yellow light of the table lamp that illuminates the entire apartment. Determine, I push my glasses up my nose. Determined, I say firmly to him, urgent, “I need you to take care of yourself. Eat regularly, shower, sleep, all that stuff. Come back in one piece.” Short, to the point – that’s all I can manage. Nothing elaborate like my midnight thoughts.

I can hear his smile even through the phone. “I will.”

Okay. The smile seems less endearing than it does amused. He’s amused at me telling him to put himself first for once. Doesn’t even have to be first – just not last. “Ethan,” I say sternly.

He echoes my own name back to me with that similar serious quality.

Hot with aggravation, I twist the thick, gold ring on my right forefinger. I dug it up from underneath my mattress when I was cleaning this morning, a little trinket to remember my wintertime depression.

I push: “I want you to come back in one piece.”

“I will,” he repeats, but he’s still got that awful hitch to his voice like he’s internally laughing at my words. My words are a plea. Me begging. I just—refuse to sound pathetic when I’m begging right now. If I were to start crying and pleading with him and pleading with him, he wouldn’t be internally laughing then, would he? Just because I’m not going to that degree—crying, that is—it doesn’t mean I care any less. I just have a better sort of idea where to channel it, is all. But for once, he hasn’t got it all figured out – only halfway. “Why don’t you believe me?” he asks.

There’s no genuine curiosity to back his question – it’s more accusatory than anything. Why is he accusing me? “Dick,” I grumble lowly, wishing I could just punch his arm right about now.

He snorts, then replies in a saccharine voice: “Honey.”

I can’t help it – I smile. I smile, and that smile blossoms slowly into a grin. I stop fidgeting with my ring and raise a hand to cover my face, even though there’s no-one around to see me beaming like an idiot.

He called me honey.

Twisted bedsheets and his breath on my skin – it rushes through my mind like a wildfire. I know he’s thinking about it, too. I shift in my chair, trying to remove the pressure between my legs before it starts to affect my voice, the way I’m talking to him. We haven’t spoken about it. There’s just an understanding that—it happened. That I know what his fingers feel like on my skin, that I know how his eyes rolled back just slightly when he pushed into me. That he knows what it’s like to kiss me, that he knows what I look like on my knees for him. An understanding. It felt necessary in the moment. Now, it just—makes me crave him again, in a selfish way.

I ask him, “You care about me, right?” before sense can tap back into my mind. My heel presses right where I want his hand to be. I rock slightly into it at the sound of his voice.

“I care about you.”

He’s lovely. “Then take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Ethan promises, and I believe him this time. “And you? You care about me?”

More than anything. “I care about you.”

***

It happens.

I get the call.

It doesn’t happen under the same—I don’t know, extent?—it doesn’t happen under the same extent that Ethan’s return did. There’s no elaborate trail of phones ringing behind me as I walk down the street unassuming until I take the time to walk into the phone booth and see what the fuck is going on. No, there’s nothing like that. My call is simple. My call is Brandt.

“I need you back in the States as soon as possible,” he tells me unceremoniously, the stingy, little bastard.

Even at the mention of it, of America, makes my shoulders clench and tighten up instantly. After a second of collecting myself up again, processing his words, I ask, “Why?” because, even after all this thought of, yes, I would go back to work in a heartbeat, I’m not so sure about going back to the States yet. I just—wouldn’t trust it. Not after being shoved aside like that.

“Brassel wants you back in the field. Important job. I’m your handler, now.”

Alright, now I properly freeze. Handler. Brandt is my handler. I—don’t want another handler. My last handler cared jackshite about me, and it was—horrible. Knowing that even if I survived a dangerous mission, all I would come home to is an indifferent face, someone who was entirely preoccupied with other matters, whether it be his coffee or the fact that Rihanna needs to release another album. When I did things right—fine, that’s what you’re supposed to do anyway. When I did things wrong—fuck off, you’re useless, how am I supposed to work with this? And Brandt’s been nothing but nice—and fairly assholish (on occasion)—to me. Handler. Handlers aren’t all that nice. I don’t want to have known him like this and then slowly see how he transitions into something else. Every frustration I cause him, every disappointment, could make him different. And then he won’t want to look out for me anymore. 

I swallow all my fears down, attempting to subtly cure my rapidly drying mouth and throat, and ask him with as much of my old spunk as possible: “What’s—what’s the job?” The hesitation in my sentence doesn’t do me any favours with Brandt.

“Not-so-simple hit,” he replies dryly.

“Quick?”

“I’ll tell you more once we have you in person.”

So, it’s complicated. Probably involves a third party somewhere. Whether they’re going to disclose that to me or not, I don’t know. I tell him, “Okay.” Now—what I do know is that the mark is dangerous, capable, and possible intelligence or former intelligence. Not-so-simple hit. They never describe a hit unless they’re former intelligence. And I’ve done a fair share of those—jobs. Even when the mark is an arms dealer or whatever, the initial job description is reduced to “hit”. If they elaborate further, it’s done on paper.

“So, you’re in?” Well, yeah, I suppose so. This is what I’ve wanted. I open my mouth to confirm, but, before the words can leave me, Brandt is wedging in with, “Don’t say yes right away,” his voice sharp and carrying a certain urgency. I furrow my brows. “I know you were about to. Think it through.”

I smile at his words. What a trick. “Aren’t you supposed to be convincing me to stay with the IMF?”

There’s a short pause – he’s thinking. Then, “I know you’re tired.”

Oh.

Brandt and I aren’t friends. Now that he’s my handler, I don’t think we’ll ever really go there. What do I know about him? He’s high up. Brassel trusts him. He was a field agent, an analyst, a field agent again. He’s Ethan’s superior. He’s relatively—a middle man. I have no idea what he’s like when he’s not in this diplomatic, indifferent sort of mode. But he’s smart and he’s sensible and respectable, and, most importantly, Ethan and Benji trust him. They’ve been through some shit, and they trust him.

I flick under my nails. His first name curls oddly under my tongue: “Will—”

“Yes?”

I sigh. “You’ll—make sure it’s—better there?”

“At the agency?”

Think about it. “Yeah.”

The agency that made everything miserable. The agency that pushed me down a route I didn’t want to go down, where I’m stuck now. Not-so-simple hit – that’s all I’m good for at the IMF. I don’t know—when my morals got erased, but they did, somehow, along the way. There’s no good and bad there. It can get scary when that melds into your life away from it. You can’t have a life away from it. But I’m beating with want for it: a life. A normal job. If I can’t have those things, I at least expect something better. If they want me back, I must have some kind of value to them. Is it wrong for me to want to exercise that value? To ask for boundaries? I don’t want to be alone there. I don’t want to be the only one taking care of me. It’s exhausting and lonely and dark and cold and painful. Nobody cares. Nobody notices. I don’t want that. Now, I don’t want to be famous at the IMF anymore. No, I’ve seen what Ethan’s like, and it isn’t any better. He’s lonely in a different way, but it’s all the same. I just want a few people to really look out for me. Make sure I don’t get lost. And I can help them in the same way. If they get buried in everything, I’ll dedicate myself to digging them back out again. I want that. I want someone to make sure it’s better there. 

Brandt tells me, his voice resolute, “I’ll take care of you. You won’t be alone.” Please mean it. Please mean it. He’ll try his best. “They’re not gonna throw you around.”

“And you won’t throw me around either?”

He snorts. “Depends how much of a prick you are, I dunno.”

I shrug. “Hard to beat you in that category, I guess.”

“Ha-ha, very funny. I’m crying with laughter,” he quips back flatly, and a smile flutters up onto my face. “You’ve got a flight first thing tomorrow. I’ll send you the details.”

“Thanks, Brandt.”

He says my name softly. “Think it through. You don’t have to go back.”

Jesus. Stop telling me that. If he keeps telling me to stay away, what am I supposed to do with myself? It’s either the IMF again, or spending time with myself like this for the rest of my life. I don’t know which is worse. When he promises that it won’t be the same, I don’t doubt he’ll try to follow through – I just—don’t think he’ll succeed. I’m bracing myself for it again. If he keeps telling me to stay away, I actually might. I’ve already made up my mind: “I am going back,” I tell him firmly.

***

“Back to work?”

My eyes dart around her face, charting her reaction. “Yeah.”

Jo screws her mouth up bitterly and leans back in her chair abruptly, forcing a short screech along the tile. A few of the other customers out here turn to glare at the horrible noise, but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care – she stares me down with a burning intensity in her dark eyes. “Who am I gonna talk to all day?”

I laugh airily – she sounds like a goddamn toddler. After my amusement bubbles down to a gentle hiccup in my lungs, I reach down and take another sip from my coffee, smiling into the drink as my peering eyes catch Jo rolling her eyes at me over the rim of my cup. I snicker again, and hot coffee nearly shoots right up my nose. “Make some friends your own age,” I tell her, sputtering and coughing through a smile. Where’s the polite girl who recommended me Emma all those months ago, hmm?

“But you’re funnier,” she protests. 

I tilt my head in thought. “I guess I am pretty heroic like that.”

“It’s not a long trip, right?”

The quiet tremble in her voice makes my eyes snap back strong to her. Of course, it’s occurred to me that I’m essentially her closest friend here. Jo is unreasonably busy all the time, doing all these things under the reasoning that she has to be exceptional all the time, all day, everywhere, all at once. I’m pretty sure she’s working on about five software projects at once when she doesn’t even need to. And when she’s not doing her school stuff, she’s waitressing. If I leave, she only has those things left. The realisation leaves a pang throbbing through my chest, leaves me feeling infected. She’s one of the only steady, normal aspects of my life, and I’m the same for her.

I pick a crusted layer of pastry off of my croissant, watching. “I don’t know. Depends.”

She seems to settle for that: “Okay.” Good.

“Ethan’ll be back soon.” Only three days, four days more – I’ve been paying attention. I’m less upset than I thought I’d be over the fact I won’t be there to greet him when he gets back. What happened with us before he went?—that was good. If he comes back and I say the wrong thing, that good thing doesn’t mean anything. Oh, well. Jo’s friendly with him, I think. He’s always fussing over her, buying any book she so much as looks at, paying her rent while she gets back on her feet. I smile, tell her, “He can keep you company.” 

She groans playfully, grinning. “I know, but he’s such a nerd.”

I bark out a laugh. “He is, isn’t he? No more nerd than you, though, Computer Science major.”

After pushing her wild hair as best she can behind her ears, her shoulders, she tugs my plate over between her arms and promptly shoves the rest of my croissant in her mouth. “He’s nice,” she says through a mouthful of flaky pastry. Her eyes glint brightly. 

“Yeah,” I agree, side-eyeing her suspiciously, and not just because she’s eating my goddamn croissant. Why is she looking at me like that? I’m careful not to buffer in front of her.

“Can we all go for a dinner when you get back?”

I nod. “Uh, yeah. Any occasion?”

“I just like spending time with you.”

My heart swells to my throat. I clear it, taking another sip of coffee. “Who doesn’t?” She likes spending time with me. But the elation quickly trickles back to earth when I stick my hands back into my pockets to stop their trembling and one clenches around a slip of paper. Right. Right, I forgot. I retrieve the crumpled paper and slide it on over the table to Jo. She raises a quizzical brow. “You call this number if you need anything,” I tell her. “Make sure it’s important. Technically, I’m not supposed to be in contact with anyone outside work during this.”

She wipes off her hands and takes the slip, black numbers scrawled neatly there on the white – one of my burner phones. “If I just want to talk to you?”

I roll my jaw slightly. “Don’t. It needs to be important.”

“So, life or death?” she asks with a smile.

I’m not smiling. “Let’s hope not.” Dread knots in my stomach. Maybe it’s a good thing she took my croissant. “If it’s life or death, Ethan’ll deal with it.”

***

They must’ve updated this room. Last I saw it, it was a neutral grey, bridging right between cool and warm so you could never really decide whether your eyes were bad or not. I’ve put in contacts for today, and I know they’ll put that on my updated file, and I know that my value will go down. I can’t tell whether the new interior is good or bad: bright, white, wide. They’ve painted the walls—white. An asylum sort of white. A little distracting but also so stark that it might actually do well for my aim when it comes down to that. If anything, it’s white so that they can adjust the light intensity to see how well I fare in the dark with a gun.

Numerous people are here to oversee my evaluation, with clipboards and charts and kits and all, but the only two I recognise are Brandt and Brassel. The first is watching me closely with steely blue eyes, face tough-set and refusing to give away anything. Now, I’ve only met the guy a few times in person, but they were fairly excruciating times – all in all, those lines on his forehead give away everything. Forever on edge. I can see the slight sunken quality of grief in his eyes: he’s sad to watch me enter. Brassel, on the hand, is smiling faintly. He’ll do everything to get me back in the field, and Brandt will try to keep me out. I can’t decide who I side with. Both of their attentions prickle down my spine like a ghost has just walked through me, cold, sickly, rotten. I don’t like Brandt looking at me like I’m already dead. I don’t like Brassel looking at me like I’m a shiny coin.

I approach them both with a neutral expression, more tired than anything. The flight was long, I’m jet-lagged as hell, and now I have to do this. My eyes heavy, my skin stuffy with oil and sweat, I stand respectfully in front of them both. The Secretary—and my handler. What a pair.

Searching my mind for something to say, I realise I don’t have anything at all. Nothing smart or polite or funny. I let Brassel say the first words:

“It’s good to have you here, agent,” he states in a way that’s hollow with fake genuineness. I nod nonetheless. “I trust you had a safe journey.”

“I did.”

Brandt stirs next to him, raising his brow and adjusting his grey suit jacket as he gestures over to the equipment in the room. “We’ll start with basic fitness and move on to your skill set, alright?” His mouth is set in a hard line.

“Fine by me.” My limbs ache.

The Secretary clears his throat, and I look over at him again. Despite his appearance, there’s nothing soft in the way he is. Nothing soft about how he speaks, he stares, he carries himself. It’s all sharp edges and calculated moves. Frigid bitch.

He tells me, “The psych evaluation is last.”

I nod.

“It’s not one or the other – it’s both. You’re not going in unless you pass—”

“Both,” I finish for him, nodding sporadically, itching to just get everything over and done with. “Gotta pass both. No problem, bossman, just hook me up and let’s go.” I glance over my shoulder at the treadmill and the ECG. Ethan went through this just a month ago.

The physical test is okay. Emphasis on okay – there’s nothing exceptional nor horrifying about any of the checks I’m put through. Endurance training is easy enough. At first, of course, all the equipment they attach to you is off-putting, and going through months of not running consistently at all has an effect on your performance—but then I focus my mind on the making of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and I’m fine. If I just keep thinking about the costume design and production, I can run. And so, I run and run and run and just fantasise about Eowyn’s white dress. My body feels light and nothing feels real anymore, and it’s alright. In my peripheral vision, some of the observers scribble down notes or results on their little clipboards. Brassel has left somewhere. Brandt is watching me with the same anxious air about him. Eowyn’s dress, Eowyn’s dress. I wonder how they made Arwen’s coronation headdress. I used to want to be her so bad.

The running is up before too long. When they increase the speed, increase the humidity in this room, I don’t really realise it. But then everything is up and finished and I’m doing sit-ups and press-ups and pull-ups and planking until I’m struggling to breathe. I’m passing this test. Breathing is optional compared to that goal.

My skin is drenched with sweat, running slickly down my back and soaking my sports bra and my leggings. This sucks. This sucks. I’m careful to keep my mouth shut, though – none of those sharp quips or flurries of curses that always escape me when training with Ethan. Just a perfect silence, interjected only by regular breath control and responding to any stupid questions the observers throw my way.

“Struggling?” asks Brandt as I sit up after a five-minute plank, my lungs quivering.

I glare at him. “What’s next?”

A gun is offered to me – it slides into my hand like home, and my mind eases instantly. It’s a comfort and also—incredibly discerning. How the thoughts in my head go quiet. How the muscles release tension. How my eyes seem to focus a little better.

Aim is no trouble. Each shot I fire hits the target, and everything is accurate to anatomy, even though what I’m shooting at is a man-shaped shadow with nothing else to it. Sternum. Head, between the eyes. Quick deaths.

It’s no trouble.

After, they direct me to a separate room that looks like those interrogation rooms you see in cop shows. I’ve never been in one of these rooms. When I need to interrogate someone, it’s not done as politely. When someone is interrogating me, it’s not as clean. The neatest it gets for me is with the IMF – someone will invite you to dinner and poke harder and harder where it hurts with pointed questions and cold stares until you end up slipping something you didn’t mean to, and then they call for the bill and smile and tell you good night. Oh, well. That’s only when you do something wrong.

Doctor Lawlor is very polite. Curt, clipped, neat. Everything from the way her black hair is slicked back into a bun, the sharpness of her nails, to the way she smiles at me when I sit down in the chair opposite her.

She asks me how I feel about being called back.

“So excited,” I answer, nestling back into my chair and shooting her a grin.

Truth is, I’ve never felt more boxed in. I feel like a trinket, all foggy and scratched, at the bottom of a box. Every once in a while, someone will reach inside and turn me over, and, when I don’t gleam and smile, they put me back. I think I want back in. I don’t even know anymore. All I know is I don’t want to stay at home anymore. I need something different. Whenever I think of being forced to live what I’m living like now, I grow heavy and tired and sick of myself. At least this is different.

Lawlor glances at some kind of checklist on her lap. When she catches me looking too, she tilts it back and hides it from view. “Shall we start with some simple word associations, then?”

There’s no grin on my face now. “Yeah, sure.”

That familiar tiredness returns to my muscles, dragging, pulling. Slump. Can’t do that right now. Later. Right now, right here, this is work. Yeah, sure, the way she clears her throat makes me want to gouge my ears out of my head, but this is work. You’re not—supposed—to like it. It—drags you down. Puts you in a slump.

I meet Lawlor’s analytical stare with dead eyes.

It begins: “Cigarette.”

Miller. “Smoke.”

Brassel will be watching behind the “mirror” here. Lawlor keeps a neutral expression, which I’m thankful for – I can base my own off of hers.

“Boy,” she reads out.

“Corrupted.”

“Almada.”

My body hardens – what? I blink at her for her heartbeat, then glance over at my reflection in the mirror over my shoulder, and I make it quietly clear I’m angry. They shouldn’t’ve brought him up. What has Brandt told the IMF about our calls? Was his friendly nature over the phone all tailored? I seal off. I swallow it down before answering neatly, the same: “Corrupted.”

Lawlor writes something down before resuming. “Girl.”

“Woman.”

“Day.”

I grin. “Tired.” The skin on my arms prickles from the cold.

Lawlor doesn’t grin, and the smile soon falls from my face. “Ocean,” she says simply.

“Lost.”

“Hunt.”

Ethan, I think instantly. I don’t make any notion of looking angry or glancing over at the mirror. “Prey,” I answer solemnly. I would rather me die than they ever know the extent I would go to for him, that I would literally burn everything down so that nothing would happen to him. Of course, things are happening to him, have happened, will happen, and I’m a bit useless in that sector. Strongest thing I could do is leave. But I’m returning to this—room. This agency. Brassel.

I’m not left enough time to finish my thought. “Glass,” the doctor prompts.

“Shatter.”

“Order.”

“Subjective.”

“Colour.”

I smile. “Pink.”

***

It’s almost like I’m living an entirely different life. It’s not even that it’s—cut down the middle. Everything has formed separately: two worlds that never, ever cross and never, ever overlap. Usually. Being out of it—that side is like being in a pot of warm water and the temperature slowly increasing, until you don’t even realise you’re getting boiled alive. And then there’s this, being in it, where everything is on fire all the time.

I feel like a goddamn video game character. Wearing this khaki utility suit, carrying all these weapons, Brandt’s voice in my ear, in the middle of goddamn nowhere – I feel fake. Like I’m in a book or a movie.

I’ve never been to Portugal before. I won’t be seeing any of the major cities, or any cities, in fact, or towns or villages or whatever other places, landmarks and shit, because what I’m supposed to have my sights on is that house right over there: that lonely, white house nestled comfortably near the cliff’s edge. If you take a look at it from where the tourists are permitted, it’s small and far away and yet just defined enough for you to probably think to yourself that you’d love to live somewhere like that. Pretty spot, away from view. Nice weather—mostly. As of now, grey clouds crowd overhead, snuffing out any chance of sunlight. That’s okay – less distracting for me. It does make everything just a little uglier, though. The grass is more grey and yellow than green, and the sea is grey as well, and, well, I guess it’s sort of like one of those old noir films about murder and stalking or whatever noir films are about. Isolated, moody. That’s super noir, right? I dunno. That’s what Jo would probably tell me if she could see this. It’s beautiful—in a dangerous-looking sort of way. Crashing waves bring back crashing memories of the ferry in Ukraine. A storm’s rolling in.

“You’re in place?” says Brandt through my ear. After so long of not hearing anything through my right ear, to now have my earpiece shoved in there is more than a little strange. Bordering overstimulation, because I seem to be a little sensitive there, still recovering, but not to the point where I break down in tears, choke on my snot, et cetera, et cetera.

I take a look up at the tree beside me, the spindly, dry, little thing, and tell him, “Yup, I’m in place.” He could tell for himself anyway – I’m wearing a body cam – but whatever. If he wants to be pissy like that, I’ll let him.

“Stand by.”

I’ve been “standing by” for thirty bloody minutes.

“She is alone, yes?” I ask, because, sometimes (a lot of the time), they’re not clear about these things, not transparent, and then I’m made to do more than I’m actually paid for. Kill two—or three, four, five—birds with one stone, as they say.

Brandt responds flatly, “She’s alone.”

So much for taking care of each other at the agency. But I can’t blame him – he’s probably living two entirely different lives as well; they can’t overlap. I just—can’t believe the shift sometimes. No jokes, no quips, no jokingly condescending “kid”; just straight, simple information, orders for me to follow. And the fact that he probably approved Lawlor’s list of prompts at the beginning of that painstaking, forty-three-minute psych eval. She brought up Almada. Brandt approved Almada.

He’s fluent in Portuguese, Almada is.

I’ll probably never be allowed to see him again. I’m too afraid to ask.

“Start heading down, keep in the grass.” I obey, starting down the hill and leaving behind that spindly tree. Due to the sudden bout of consistent rain down here, the coarse, rat-hair grass has grown thicker and longer, almost brushing my stomach. It won’t cover me completely, but I’ll be able to duck down if she takes a look around. “This is a very important mark, agent.”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand.”

“Good.”

She is ex-intelligence, just like I guessed. No-one takes the extra time to describe a mark unless it’s ex-intelligence, from what I’ve experienced. Maybe it’s guilt, that they got out and now someone is being sent to kill them. Or maybe it’s spite – they left, they deserve it. I try convincing myself that this woman, Georgia Fitzgerald, is heinous. Despicable. A menace. Love that word: menace. Fitzgerald was IMF. Like me. Oh, well. Retirement isn’t really retirement ever, is it? If I left, what if they sent somebody to kill me, too? I don’t ever know why I’m killing her. All I know is her name, her address, and that she is a hostile ex-IMF agent. I’m being taken advantage of – I know that, I’m totally aware of it, and Brassel should be ashamed of himself, but I’m also completely allowing it because I need to—to get back into the groove anyway. I roll my shoulders because I forgot how upright this holster makes your back.

Thankfully, I’m encased all the way up to my neck – this grass would probably give me sores all over my skin if I wasn’t wearing this. It sways and pulls erratically around me as the wind worsens and thunder crackles overhead. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

Couldn’t use a sniper here. If the wind was lighter, if Fitzgerald actually ever dared to walk outside every now and then, or even past a window, then maybe. She’s cautious—as she should be, I suppose.

I try not to humanise her.

She’s a bad, bad woman who’s done horrible things, and I try my best not to humanise her.

My braid stabs at my scalp in a couple places that make it very painful to move my head, so I reach up a hand and try to loosen it a little.

First job back, and it’s a solo mission. First job back, and it’s a hit. I’m right where I started.

I wonder what Ethan’s doing.

“Yo, Brandt,” I start, dutifully continuing on through the long, so-far dry grass, “who else is there with you?”

“Hmm?”

“Who else is with you? In the little control room.”

If this is an important mark, Brassel must care a lot. The implicit gravity of this mission is starting to set in my body ever so slightly. I perform well under pressure—from what I can remember—but, then again, it’s been more than a year. I haven’t been like this in a year. No hits, no marks, no weight on my shoulders. Something I should have enjoyed existing as but obviously couldn’t quite take well.

Brandt clears his throat. “Focus on the task at hand, please, or I’ll have to call radio silence.”

“No more questions?”

“No.” His forehead’s probably gone all wrinkly.

I enter through the sunroom at the side of the house, gliding my gloved hands over the glass and studying the wide variety of plants all cooped up inside, green and vivid and bright compared to everything else about this place. I pick the lock, and, to my surprise, there’s not even an alarm system. Nothing goes off, nothing blares in my ears. There was no alarm system according to the file, but missions never go the way you planned. I step up from the patio into Fitzgerald’s home.

For a second, it really does just feel like visiting a friend’s house. Early memories, normal ones, of going over for Thanksgiving, of entering a house you’ve never entered before and being absolutely intrigued and slightly intimidated by everything around you. It’s a nice house. The sunroom is, at least. It’s humid and packed with potted plants along the floor, and plants hanging from the ceiling, mounted on the wall, a small, curated forest of thick leaves and thin leaves and small, blooming flowers. A strange Thanksgiving home, but I don’t really class this as—dangerous. I just—stand there and admire the room a little longer.

“Agent,” comes the voice in my head.

I don’t say anything, but I perk up immediately. Right. Right, we’re not normal anymore; we’re a government agent literally on a job to assassinate somebody.

“Proceed with caution.”

It’s then I realise that this room absolutely sucks when it comes to stealth: the humidity settles real quick under my suit, thick and warm but also stifling and horrible; the plants on the floor crowd wherever I go to step, and, if Fitzgerald were to just waltz in, she’d be able to kill me just like that. Suppose I could camp out here. No—she might have cameras, be watching me right now, be packing a bag, grabbing her stash, right now. I have to find her quick. I have to kill her quick. And then I can forget this ever happened and pretend I don’t do work like this and imagine I just went to my friend’s house for Thanksgiving and convince myself that this was all some weird, vivid dream. And then I guess I’ll—have these weird, vivid dreams over and over again because—because I went back. I chose this. I chose this again, even after everything. I think of Brandt on the other side of this camera, of my earpiece. He told me to think about it, that maybe I shouldn’t come back. And I did anyway. Maybe he thinks I’m lost, beyond salvation, beyond his help, and he’s closing himself off because he thinks I’m going to die eventually, so what’s the point? Why try to be friends with anyone when they’re gonna end up dead? “Pick up the pace, agent,” he orders, and I smile. What a guy. I hop deftly over plants and sidle on through the French doors into a different room, cringing at the noise they make.

“Melia!”

My body clenches. That’s not Brandt. Brandt is in my ear, and that’s not Brandt. Distinctly feminine, a little rough, a little deeper than average—that’s Fitzgerald. I think. Georgia Fitzgerald. Not—

“Amelia!”

It doesn’t seem to carry any urgency to it—the cry. But it also means there is more than one person in this house. It means that the IMF’s data either wasn’t correct or that they redacted information from what was probably necessary for me to know. I stand in the shadowed room and listen carefully, my hand moving at a snail’s pace as I retrieve my handgun out of its holster.

A voice calls back: “Ma?”

My face drops at its pitch.

That’s a kid. Squeaky, high pitched, that’s a kid. My eyes harden in horror and nausea slides in my stomach. What are they having me do? What do they want me to do? Two birds with one stone? Is this—are these the two birds? My hands twitch to grab at something, but I’m in the middle of the room, so I have to settle on grasping my gun.

“Continue with the mission, please.” That’s Brassel. “Fitzgerald is the only one that’s necessary. You can forget about the third party.”

Third party? That’s hardly a third party. She sounds—Amelia sounds—really young. When I looked at Fitzgerald’s file, when I looked at her face, I don’t—she had a hollowness to her that I thought could never harbour anything gentle or mundane. And I’m listening to her tell—her daughter—to clean up her room.

Oh, Jesus. Please let this not be real. Please let this be fake.

I squeeze my eyes shut and pray. Please, please, please, please—

Footsteps. There are footsteps on the hardwood floor, just a room away. I try not to breathe; I try not to cry. Jesus. “You’ve got till the end of the day, baby. I’ve been telling you for weeks, and I’m serious this time: I want it clean. I am not stepping on any more o’ your Legos.”

Legos. Jesus Christ.

This is fake, this is fake, this is Thanksgiving, this is fake.

“‘kay, Ma!” the little voice cries back. Amelia.

Up above, there’s a clammering as the little girl runs around up there. She sounds—really young. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. What am I fucking doing here? I’m holding a fucking gun, I’m in her fucking house, and I’m supposed to fucking kill her. And Brassel and Brandt and God knows who else is watching it all over a camera.

No. I don’t want to do this.

I make to turn around, stumbling back the way I came, but there’s a fucking side table and it knocks hard against the wall, and, as I try to make a run for it back to the door, there are the stupid potted plants. Jesus Christ – the crash it makes is legendary.

I watch as Georgia Fitzgerald peers into the room. I watch as her face falls, as fear consumes her eyes, and a part of me deadens. She dashes away around the wall, and I hear the clatter of things most likely from the kitchen, that metallic cluster of spoons and forks and—knives. I hasten my dash, uncaring for these fucking flowers, try to run outside.

“What are you doing?” Brassel presses. Oh, my God.

I think for a second, shoving my way outside and fumbling off the patio and back into the long-grass. The rain has yet to fall. Everything is so loud – the thunder, the wind, the lashing of the grass, the waves. I want to scream.

Fitzgerald comes hurtling out of the sunroom with a small kitchen knife in her hand, crazed, her dark skin a stark contrast to the white of the house. She almost fits perfectly into the greyscale of the place.

“Agent, what are you doing?”

Right. “I’m not doing it in the house,” I tell him, praying that that’ll settle him. If I let myself fall while running, just the right way, I could smuggle off my body cam and smash it clean, and my earpiece, and then I could be free of them. If I did it just the right way, I could fake my own death. If I let Fitzgerald catch up to me, I could be gone from the IMF.

Not that that’s an issue for her. The catching up part, I mean. Because she is a fully trained IMF field agent, just like me, better, even, if the agency cares so much whether she lives or dies. She’s killed people, she’s hurt people, she’s trained. And she’s storming towards me.

I’m perfectly frozen – she can see this, she knows this, she’s using this.

Before I know it, I’m raising my gun, sort of praying she kills me. Faking your death requires intricacies I haven’t prepared for yet – being killed is much more efficient.

And when she grabs the barrel of my gun and yanks it to the side, no shots go off because I don’t fire in the first place, and I’m sort of praying she kills me. Ethan—Ethan can move on. He’s flexible like that. Even if—it would hurt him a little. That I didn’t even try.

With her other hand, Fitzgerald swipes the knife around, and I’m fully accepting that it’s going to slash my neck and that I am going to die.

But my body has been through a lot. I’ve trained with knives a lot. I’ve fought with knives a lot. It’s not a choice when I dart my head back and narrowly miss the singing blade as it wipes past me – it’s an instinct. Practice.

I grab her armed side with a frightening grip, nearly crushing her wrist with the force, and promptly thrust my forehead right over at her face, as hard as I can. As she’s reeling from her nose being crushed, I beat the knife out of her hands with the hilt of my gun, again and again and again.

The knife is lost in the grass.

Crying out with a rawness I haven’t ever heard in my life, Fitzgerald whips her elbow back into my face, snaps a punch under my chin. She has something to fight for. But I don’t even want any of this. I want to leave, want to leave her alone and all of this shit. This was a mistake, I realise as I cough wildly, vomit rising in my throat. She knees me in my stomach, then punches there, and another, and another, and then I’m shoving her away, spinning around and retching up onto the grass.

Christ. Wonder what control thinks, seeing this.

Fitzgerald claws into my back and yanks me right back, curling an arm around my neck and squeezing me tight in a lock. “Why are you at my house?” she growls, deadly. I respond with a squeak and a wheeze, my mouth and tongue bitter. “Won’t fucking leave me alone. Where’s your transmitter?” She shoves me to the ground, hard, and I fall into grass smattered with my own sick. Fat raindrops start to hail around me, matting my hair down as Fitzgerald’s knee presses between my shoulder blades. She yanks my head up, and this time I’m sure she’s going to kill me, snap my neck.

She doesn’t. One hand gripping my hair, the other tears out my earpiece as she screams, “Fuck off!” into it and tosses it far, far away. I cry out with pain as she twists my hair meanly, sobbing and blubbering as the air around me turns to water. She roughly flips me over, jamming my shoulder into the ground. Erratic, she searches for my body cam, her knees pinning my legs down, her eyes frantically scanning my body. When she finds it she yanks it off, crushes it into the grass. I cry and whimper up at the sky.

“Jesus Christ, shut up,” Fitzgerald snarls at me, hitting me across the face.

This blows.

Say I don’t want to die. Say I want to go home and spend time with Jo and listen to her complain about her coursework. Say I want to eat take-out with Ethan and practice our Japanese.

Okay. Okay, maybe I don’t want to die.

I hit Fitzgerald back—really, really hard, right in the jaw. I roll her over, pin her down, and I hit her really hard over and over. I want to go home. I want this to be fake, but it’s not fake, it’s real, and I’m just gonna have to fucking deal with it. Fucking sucks. When Fitzgerald reels her legs up and kicks me back in the stomach, I get back up, ready, drenched, dripping, struggling to breathe in this goddamn weather. When she takes advantage of my misplaced punch and crunches my arm right down on her knee, it hurts like hell, sure, but I also couldn’t give a shit. I beat to her knees in a combination of blind panic and blind rage, completely forgetting all that guilt I felt earlier. I want to go home and I want this to be over. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t give a shit how I get there.

Her face is blurred through the onslaught of rain. I can barely hear anything over the sound of it all, the crashing, the lashing, the roaring. All of it.

“They don’t care about you,” Fitzgerald rasps, voice grating painfully against her throat. Her nose is broken, and blood is smeared all over her bitter face. She’s not in the position to lecture me, not with the gun I have pressed against her forehead. “You’re just a cog in their machine,” she goes on, accepting her fate. “And once you’re not useful to them anymore, you’re gone.”

“Okay,” I say.

And then I pull the trigger.

Her body falls flat, her limbs flopping right down over my shoes – I kick them off of me, and I walk away from the edge of the cliff.

Job done. Messy, sure, but it’s over. I want to go home.

In the doorway of the sunroom, a little shadow stands, watching from afar. For a second there, I actually think about waving to little Amelia. Maybe the disconnect between work and personal life is—a little more worrying that I let on.

In the end, I just kind of stand there, watching right back, just a few paces away from her mother’s shadowy slump of a corpse. I have no idea whether she has anyone else in life or not. Georgia Fitzgerald retired only to get killed. She settled down only to get killed, to be parted from her family. I guess it was inevitable – I was only a catalyst. That’s me being polite to myself: catalyst. Catalyst, my ass. I killed her so that I could go home. I killed her so that I could go play big sister with Jo. I killed so that I could see Ethan again. Worst part is, I don’t really feel guilty about it anymore. I feel reassured – I am going back, I am allowed to see them. In order to do that, I just had to—take away Fitzgerald’s ability to do all that stuff herself. Her or me. That’s it – it was her or me. 

Little Amelia’s shadow edges out little by little into the rain as I start to walk away from the scene of it, start to make my way back up the hill. Once I’m far enough away, she strolls on over to where her mother is sleeping, crouches down by her body. I don’t look back anymore after that. I couldn’t take care of her, so I don’t know why that thought enters my mind. I killed her mother. I can’t cancel that out. Ever. So, I leave, my boots muddied, my socks soaked through, my scalp sodden with water. 

I disappear into the grey rain. 

***

The small motel room I’ve been instructed to go to is resoundingly similar to the one I shared with the others in Brazil, except it’s colder and somehow shittier and the walls are painted an atrocious shade of orange-red in a weak attempt to hide the many imperfections in the plaster. I don’t bother with looking, around, though, because I’ll only be using this space for an hour or two – transport’s already ready, and all I have to do is get there in one piece.

Oh, the shower – the place where I’ve had some of my lowest moments ever in life. It’s hard not to step foot in any bathroom and instantly become aware of the aching in my chest. It’s the same here. Skin clammy from rainwater and blood and sweat, pain throbbing up from underneath like something’s living there, eating me from the inside.

As I peel the suit from my body, my eyes well up with involuntary tears, and I whimper up at the bulbous, flickering, yellow light up on the ceiling, almost biting right through my lip. A pained whimper leaves me, a low, shuddering moan, as I delicately remove the dense fabric from my right arm. Thank God I’m ambidextrous – they drill it into you at the academy. But for now, everything burns. Everything burns with a bright pain, leaving my body quaking and writhing with it as I cradle the crooked limb. Ew. Gross. It’s—disgusting to look at. Not so much worrying, because I’m not a stranger to broken bones and gashes and cuts and bruises and so on. I know how to take care of it—for now. It’s just—disgusting. Swollen, jagged. I prod and squeeze gingerly at my upper arm, curling myself up on the floor with my back against the bathtub. Humerus fracture. I don’t know how severe, but, when she did it, it felt like she snapped it clean.

I cry up at the light again. Fat tears roll down my dirt-streaked face, and I swallow my sorrow.

She really put up a fight. My body is littered with cloudy bruises and ugly welts. My muscles are sore with effort. This is horrible. Why did I put myself through this again?

I cradle my arm gently, making sure my upper arm hangs straight down. I have to shower with this. I’m gonna have to take the rest of my clothes off and then shower with this. And then I’ll have to make it to transport, injuries and all, and then get on a plane back to America, and then sit through a fucking debrief, let Brassel yell at me for compromising the job. I hate him. I hate Brassel so much it hurts.

It’ll be so long before I’m home in Tokyo. I don’t even know if they’ll let me go back right away, or if they’ll throw me around like they do with Almada. One more job, one more hit – we all know how that story goes.

***

“What are you doing here?”

As he swivels around in a panic, I find myself transfixed. He’s what I fought for. He’s why I wanted to stay alive.

And just look at him: he’s so nice. Ethan looks at me the way he did after I broke into de Melo’s house and lost contact, like I’m not real, like I’m some ghost, like I should be dead. His cheeks are flushed slightly from the cold, and his breath leaves him in delicate, little, white wisps. His green eyes glitter, and I meet them, slightly ashamed. He’s been waiting on my doorstep. I went to go get groceries instead of calling him, and he’s waiting on my doorstep. I say nothing else, because I’m still deciding whether I should apologise or drop to my knees and ask him to run away with me, and neither does he. 

My left hand is straining with the effort of two, very full bags, my shoulders jarred to one side. “Let me take those,” Ethan offers, and he relieves me of their weight. 

His voice almost sets me off into hysterics right then and there, but, lo and behold, I manage to hold on.

Both back from a mission. Both different. I try to decipher whether things are the same between us or if they’re entirely changed, but I—don’t know. There are too many factors. Everything is changing, so fast, so quickly, and I don’t seem to have a say in it, and it’s driving me insane. Everything is changing, but I just hope that Ethan and I can stay constant. I don’t care about anything else. 

“You left,” he says, seemingly unable to look away from me, even despite the chaotic traffic blaring up in a series of police sirens and honking cars and rumbling tires.

The back of my neck prickles. “Yeah—?”

“You went back.”

I narrow my eyes. Is he angry with me? I went back, sure, but so did he. Suppressing a frown, I sidle past him and open up the door. “Help me with the bags?” I mutter, extending an invitation for him to come up. He hums his agreement and follows me inside. As I hold the door open for him, I see his eyes catch the white of my cast as my sleeve rides up. 

He can’t be angry with me. No more than I’m angry at him, I guess. He went back to a lifetime of suffering. I did, too, but I at least understand a little bit of why – it’s all I’m good at, good for. I couldn’t be—good anywhere else. But Ethan’s good at a lot of things, but, most specifically, he’s good at people. He’d survive if he were to just go into civilian life forever. I—couldn’t. Not anymore. So, I understand why I went back, even if I also understand that it’s bad for me (I can understand two conflicting things at once, alright?), but I don’t think Ethan should’ve done it. He’s better than all of it, than the whole IMF put together. I’m pretty sure he's just better than everyone everywhere who’s ever lived – he’s at the very top of my list. 

Ethan rambles quietly to me that it’s not good for me to go back to the agency, that I should stay here in Tokyo and try to be normal from now on, that literally anywhere else would be better. 

As we climb the stairs, he remains in the corner of my eye. He’s so cute when he rambles. Doesn’t happen often, but I like to watch and smile and just listen whenever he does. 

When he catches me staring, he tells me, “Don’t go in next time. Please. Just tell Will that you don’t want to go back and then just don’t.”

I pause my ascent, coming to a stop on the next step and looking curiously down at him. He slows as well, just below me, eyes up wide and puzzled. Quickly, I press my left hand to the side of his face and kiss him, my nose pressing into his cheek. He’s warm. If I could, I’d wrap both of my arms around him, but I can’t (damn cast). 

Ethan crumples just a little. His hands are occupied with the bags. 

When I pull away, he leaves his previous thought and says, “I was waiting for you to do that,” and drops the shopping carefully on a step before gently wrapping his arms around me and kissing me again.

Nothing really comes close to it, to the feeling of him wanting to be near me like this. It feels nice. It feels warm, like nothing could ever go wrong. Present. The smell of his dry-cleaning, his light laundry detergent, his shampoo. Nothing discernible, but it’s so him, and it wreathes all around me, and there’s nothing better. His hands are rough like mine, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Callouses, some from his farm-boy days as a kid, most from handling weapons as an adult, grate softly against my skin as he kisses me deeper, closer, sighing like he’s content. I like it when he’s close. We should do this—all the time. We should do this more often.

I feel myself being backed up slowly against a wall, hear the faint rustle of something tumbling out of one of the bags and the clunk of it falling on down the stairs, but I don’t really linger too long on any of that. As one of his hands remains laced in my hair, the other slides into my coat, under my sweater, and the iciness of his palm makes me violently jolt up with a sharp yelp, grinning, laughing.

He laughs, too. God, I could recognise his laugh anywhere, in a swarm of voices, in a crowded room.

I pull him back into me by the lapels of his coat, coaxing back into a slow, leisurely kiss, because I feel like it’s been so long, and I want to learn this inch by inch, just in case. You know. Just in case we don’t end up being able to—to do this more often.

I have no idea what this is anymore, what we are. Calling it what I want to call it seems too brash. Calling it what I want to call it seems idealistic, starry-eyed, and I don’t really think I can afford to be those things with the way my life is going. We’re not just friends. Neither of us want to be just friends. But it’s too naïve to call it what I want to call it, because we’re not exactly innocent. Our lives aren’t pretty. This is—pretty good, though, I think to myself as Ethan presses his body against mine and places a kiss under my jaw. I can feel his eyelashes fluttering against my skin. Yeah. Yeah, we’re not just friends.

“Don’t go in next time,” he mumbles against me. “Promise me.”

Who does he think he’s kidding? We can’t keep promises. Can’t afford to make them, and we sure as hell can’t follow through with them.

Choosing to brush over it, I tell him, “I need your help taking my clothes off,” and tug his arm to indicate that I want him to come up to my place again.

Quickly collecting up the bags and the fallen items, he shuffles alongside me up the flight of stairs, laying kisses on my shoulder, his chest right by my back. Antsy, I fiddle with my keys, irritated that the one I need just seems to keep fucking slipping away, for God’s fuckin’ sake.

Ethan reaches over my shoulder and kisses my cheek, repeating, “I’m serious, sweetheart. I don’t want you going back there.” Jesus, he’s lucky I like him so much. He’s lucky he’s gorgeous because, wow, he’s not really doing well at the whole “welcome back, I missed you, and, also, I want to profess my undying love for you and run away and buy a house with hardwood floors where no-one will find us/kill us, and we’ll be happy and normal” thing. He can’t tell me to be careful with myself when he doesn’t give a shit about what happens to him. It’s wrong and it’s horrid and I hate it. But right now, I just grit my teeth down and try to ignore it, shuffling up to my door and shoving my key into the lock.

The door opens, and the two of us rush inside, the groceries quickly forgotten. His hands immediately situate themselves on tugging my scarf a little looser, allowing him to duck down and press his nose, his lips, to my neck. My breath hitches, and I wrap my good arm around his neck.

“D’you have any idea how worried I was about you? You coulda left me a message, anything,” Ethan mutters, carefully helping me out of my jacket. As he lifts his head up to kiss me, his eyes are snagged steadfast on my cast.

I slide his own scarf off, rushing an absent-minded reply: “I know.” It’s with the intent of easing his mind, but you know—of course, it doesn’t.

Irritation ripples through his body – I can feel it. His expression stiffens.

Something shifts slightly: Ethan kisses me again, and it’s so sudden and powerful that our teeth clash right together, that my nose is flattened against him to the point where it’s hard to breathe right. What a dick. What an absolute prick he is. It’s a part of him that becomes easy to overlook sometimes, during these times, when we’re living regular lives, between jobs and all, because this switch in him, this domestic switch, just flicks on and seems to overtake all of that. Those good qualities that just go a little too far sometimes. Fierce loyalty. Stubbornness. Selflessness. Oh, I fucking hate that he’s selfless. Why can’t he just bloody want to look after himself? My hand knots a little too tight in the mess of his brown hair, pulling sharply, and Ethan whimpers into my cheek. “Baby, please,” he begs me softly, but I don’t know what he’s asking for anymore. Me to stay, me to touch him, me to run away with him to our midnight house with hardwood floors – I don’t know. It’s all confusing, it’s all weird, and I don’t know how we ended up in this mess again. I just don’t want him to ask me to leave to a place where he won’t let himself follow.

Abruptly, Ethan grabs me by the shoulders and pushes me off of him. A jolt of pain bites at my right arm – I shake him away from me, glaring daggers.

The heady haze fades away to the narrow foyer of my small, quiet apartment.

My eyes fix on his shoes. I am not looking at his face right now. What a dick. I don’t want to see the fucking pity in his eyes. I don’t want to see regret, worry, pain, any of it. What a dick.

After my racing heartbeat settles to a dangerous rhythm, thrumming with my anger, he tells me, his voice hardly more than a whisper, “I had to find out from Jo.”

Something in my chest goes bitter with a sting.

“Is she okay?” I manage.

If he nods, I wouldn’t know. “She doesn’t know,” he states, but there’s the tiniest hint of a question in his words.

My eyes snap up at his face, burning with a fire he knows all too well. There shouldn’t be a question in his words. I’m a capable agent, just like him, and I’m bound to the government by a contract, just like him, and there shouldn’t be a question. I’m not going to break everything just for a civilian. And definitely not Jo. I’d die before I roped her into this mess. God willing, it’ll never, never, never happen.

So, I glower at him, at his little, imploring gaze, and answer scathingly, “She doesn’t know.”

The tension in his forehead eases slightly. Why? I don’t even fucking know what’s going on in his head anymore. Every time I’m with him, I like to convince myself that I know him like the back of my hand – bla, bla, bla, tick in his jaw, you know what that means – but everything about him is always buried under five fucking thousand layers of half-truths and half-lies. How do you get to know someone who hardly knows himself? Maybe he isn’t serious about me. We haven’t talked about it, sure, but I think about living with the guy, waking up next to him, cooking him breakfast, getting a dog. I want him so badly to be my future, but I don’t know if he’s serious about me. Fucks me before a mission, runs off across the globe, comes back, fucks me—or, at least, that’s where this is going. Am I an outlet? Stress-reliever? Is that what I am to him?

Jesus, what am I talking about? I made this weird. Make up for it, quickly, make up for it. I like him, and, if this continues the way it is, he’s going to leave.

I reach for him, hooking my cold thumb in the hem of his shirt and gliding it up over his stomach.

“No, just—stop,” he presses, waving me away. I lower my hand back. “I thought you—” he looks away, blinking rapidly, “—I thought something happened to you.” I frown. “I didn’t—”

“Nothing happened to me—”

“I know, but I thought—”

“Well, you thought wrong, Hunt. Look—” I flip my arm up as if to show him, offering a peace offering to him in the form of a grin, “—I’m perfectly fine.” Please just let this be forgotten with.

Ethan makes a face at me, laughing disbelievingly, “You’ve got a broken arm!” His face shifts momentarily to something broken, something he then quickly hides with the sleeve of his jacket, his hand scratching at his eye while he fixes it.

He’s not angry; he’s just worried.

“Okay, not perfectly fine,” I admit, rolling my eyes, “but I’m fine generally. How’s that?”

I catch a glimpse of his smile beneath his hand. “You’re impossible.”

“Good thing that’s your specialty, huh?” I tease, eyes glinting, gently resting my hand on his arm and bringing it back down. There he is – there’s that pretty face. His green eyes are warm but tired.

“That—that was actually pretty good,” he whispers as I kiss the inner corner of his eye, slumping his back against the wall.

“Thanks, honey.”

“Don’t.”

My heart tugs. “Why not?” I protest, coming close to him and feeling his body heat slowly illuminate me.

“Because I’m trying to talk to you.”

“Good talk,” I mumble against his lips. I don’t want to be mad at him right now. By the looks of it, by the way he melts into my kisses, he doesn’t want to either, but he’s still hanging on for some reason.

He looks at me forlornly. “I thought you were gone—”

“I’m not gone.”

“I was scared.”

I pause. “I’m back.” I press my palm to his face, my thumb pressing into his cheekbone, my fingers threading into his hair, over his ear. The cold from my skin must be jarring to him, but, if it is, I don’t see it on his face. “See?” He leans into my touch, placing his hand over my own and burying himself into me, looking at me like we’re in some tragedy. My body aches. “I’m back.” I survived that mission because of him.

Ethan sighs a bodily sigh, and the lines of his face deepen as the winter light filtering through my windows quickly disappears behind a thick blanket of clouds.

He rests his forehead against mine. “You didn’t have to go back,” he whispers fiercely.

The corner of my mouth turns down. “And you did?”

He squeezes his eyes shut like he’s hurting. “Don’t do that. You know how I feel about you. You know I don’t want you back there.”

“I didn’t want you back there either.”

His eyes flash. “I asked you—”

“I lied.”

“Then, let’s not lie anymore, please.” Not possible, but the desperation in his voice almost convinces me to pursue a hopeless journey.

There goes my midnight thought of settling down. It seems silly now. It’s all—not the way I want things to be. He wants me—but not enough. Well, that sounds a little selfish – I should be grateful at all that Ethan puts up with me at all. Spends time with me, I mean. We can’t buy a house in a different country, and I can’t have my garden of colourful flowers, and he won’t ever leave this life behind. I’ll settle for sex, for strategic touches to elicit pleasure, because at least they’re not touches to inspire pain. I don’t hate it. It’s just a bit sad. Knowing that there is a set boundary neither of us will cross: yada, yada, yada, let’s fuck each other’s brains out, yada, yada, yada, woah there, don’t go saying you love me because there’s paperwork for that kinda stuff and, before you know it, you’ll be on one of my long-lost enemies’ hitlist. Not love; like. Didn’t mean to say love. Because I don’t love this. I hate this. I hate where we’re being forced. I hate that he’s looking at me like I’m dead. I hate that I want him so much. Not love. Love’s out of the question. Always has been—always will be.

I stare right back at Ethan, challenging the sorrow in his eyes with a strong defiance. He has—really pretty eyes. I don’t know the terms and conditions for what’s going on right now, right here, between us, but I have a pretty good idea. I’d do anything for him, and just sleeping with him isn’t exactly an all-terrible verdict. It’s better than a lot of things.

I tell him firmly, “You’d have gone even if I told you to stay.” I tell him the truth. He looks forlornly at me. “If I asked you to leave with me now, you wouldn’t.” Ethan has nothing to say for a few moments, and I can tell he wants to say that I’m wrong, that he’s entirely capable of doing something like that, of throwing it all away for the sake of one person. Maybe he was in the past – we both remember Julia. But not anymore. No more lies, he said. Defiance still pulses, glowing, through my veins. “You wouldn’t,” I repeat, no attempts to be soft.

Let’s not lie anymore.

“Not now,” comes his anticipated answer. Quiet, honest. I can feel his breath on my cheek, and I’ve never felt so far away from him.

There’s little solace in knowing I’m right. “And why is that again?” I press, hardening.

“Don’t do—”

Urgency sparks up violently in me. “We could leave,” I find myself begging, “and—and go—”

“I don’t want to,” he snaps, and I flinch at the sudden volume, at the brief glimpse of rage that flashes across his face.

It’s like hitting the ground in a dream. Yup – yup, there goes the midnight house. I don’t know what I thought.

He reaches his hands up to my face again, but I bat them away. “Yet,” Ethan adds. I jump forwards and kiss him like my life depends on it, breathing hard. Don’t get me wrong – I know my place now. I’ll be fine with it eventually. When we pull apart for a breath, he rushes, “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” A sudden bout of possessiveness flares up in me. The jagged bridge of his nose, the lines around his eyes, the way his head is angled down towards me, still ready, asking. I have his whole image, his whole person, committed to memory by now, but I’m not sure if that person is even genuine. Strategic bouts of happiness and pleasure – what if that’s all this is? Jesus, aren’t we a goddamn pair? I look right into his eyes, searching. Why can’t he just run away with me? Why does everything have to be all wrong? “You’re mine, right?” I ask, gritted, completely immersed in a tunnel.

His eyes meet mine with equal intensity. “Yes.” He means it.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

I kiss him again with bruising force, my body crushing against his, as I unbuckle his belt furiously with a strong, quick hand. My fingers snake into his underwear and wrap around him so that he lets out a strained hiss, gasping and whining pathetically against my neck.

I show him just how mine I want him to be.

***

She and Ethan seem to have gotten closer in my absence. I don’t look, because I haven’t looked at her face directly since we arrived, but I can hear her going off about all of the amazing intricacies of the painting, the colour symbolism, the flower symbolism, all of this stuff, and Ethan is just “really?” and “oh”-ing his way through with a laugh in his voice. What happened to Jo rambling about confusing stuff to me? I’m gone a couple days and suddenly she and Ethan are best friends? Bullshit.

Jo sounds so much younger when she’s talking to Ethan, like she’s a little girl again. It makes me uncomfortable to know she probably sees him as a father figure, because what does that make me? Ethan—Ethan is sort of good at it. Helps her with her coursework because he’s picked a few things up from computer-whiz Benji over the years, ruffles her hair when she teases him, tells her how exactly to fix the broken sink that’s been plaguing her flat for these past few weeks. He’s good at it. I don’t know how he feels about, but, from the look in his eye, it’s nice to play pretend for a couple hours. I don’t even want to try, though. I’m only noticing it now—how so much of how we spend time together could be misinterpreted—and it’s—it’s not good for either of us. Not for Jo, not for me. Me eating the chicken skin off her plate because I know she hates it; me helping her out financially; me glaring at any guy who looks at her funny; telling her to tie her hair up because, if not, she’s gonna irritate her skin and break out. The way we walk on the street – me slightly ahead, placed thoughtfully so I’m on the side that takes the brunt of the winter wind, her following just behind. I dunno. Small things. Not good for us. Don’t want her—getting the wrong idea. Just because her parents are still both in Germany, doesn’t mean—Ethan and I should be seen as substitute parents for her here. Doesn’t work like that.

“You’re really smart, you know?” Ethan says to Jo, nudging her with his shoulder. “You ever think about doing something creative?”

I hear her snort, like the idea is rubbish. “No.”

“Why?”

“It’s hard to get money.”

I glance over at Ethan, who’s placed between the two of us like a barricade. I can only see the back of his head, though, and, behind him, the outline of Jo’s curls. “Money isn’t everything,” he tells her.

I pick furiously under my nails. Don’t go giving her advice, I want to say to him. I don’t want her to remember us. This life isn’t permanent, and I don’t want her to look back on this period and think “huh, I kind of miss those guys”. I don’t want her to remember us, this, at all. So, I burn a hole in Ethan’s back and hope he feels it.

The two of them begin to wander away to the doorway to another room, and I trail behind the pair with a deep scowl on my face.

“And what emotional satisfaction do you receive from real estate, Ethan?” she probes with her faux-philosophical voice. I glare at the back of her hair. She needs to tie it back; she’ll irritate her skin.

I watch as Ethan pats her on the back and reaches up to muss her hair. “That’s just something to keep me busy.”

“So, no emotional satisfaction?”

A pause. “I’ve got my sources.”

I don’t know if it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but, as I’m glowering at his dirty suede jacket, I think he takes a glance back at me.

Ethan and his fucking glances. In what world does he think he can glance at me like that? No matter how much I want to connect with him, it’s just not possible. His dedication to work overtakes any dedication I think he has to me. I should be the same. I used to be the same. I used to have it all fucking figured out, perfectly deluded. God, I’d give anything to be deluded again. Reality sucks. The IMF has us killing people, killing mothers and daughters of mothers, and now I can’t fucking look at Jo. I can’t look at her. How can Ethan look at her? How can he lead her on with the promise of a connection he’ll never complete? It’s mean. It’s not good for any of us. How can he want a job like that more than me?

Whatever. I’m not bitter or anything. If I was bitter, would I have slept with him? 

Momentarily, my head dives right back to it. Everything was harsher, rougher, sharper. The first time, everything was soft, with rounded edges, a burst of desperation. I don’t know what he was desperate for, but all I wanted was him. And—the other day, I wanted him so much that I got angry over it. I pushed myself so hard I could barely breathe. 

As we enter the next room, I find myself grinning at the memory: I rode him like I wanted to kill him. Jesus, it’s quite funny, you have to admit. He was squirming and moaning and grinning underneath me, and, with every breathy laugh of pleasure, with every one of his pleas, I fucked him right down into my fucking mattress. What a dick. I like him so much. He deserves to be happy, and I know this job doesn’t make him happy. I kept thinking that, that he'd rather stay at a job that hates him than be with me, someone—who really, really likes him. When he came, I was glaring at him.

I catch Ethan’s eye as he glances back at me again with a smile, and my face heats up. Sinful thoughts, public place, Jo – not a great combo. He narrows his eyes at me slyly before turning back.

Jo snatches my hand up in hers and wraps her arm around mine in a flash. “You’re weirdly quiet,” she remarks, pressing into me and then dragging me over to the first, small painting in the corner of the room, a portrait of a white guy with a pointy chin and a pointy hat.

Stunned, I go along with it, keeping my attention straight ahead. “Just a little tired,” I grumble as an excuse. Silent, Ethan puts his hand on the small of my back. Encased between the two of them, I’m—not sure how to feel.

“I wanted to call you so many times, but, hey-ho, I held out, didn’t I?”

The corduroy material of her jacket presses even through my own jacket – that’s how firmly her arm is curled around me. Which reminds me: I lent her my blue leather jacket last month, and she hasn’t given it back yet. I don’t want her to have—a memento of me. It tugs my heart that—she wanted to call me, that she didn’t because I told her not to, that she listened to me, that she probably gives a lot more than a damn about what I think. I’ve had people depend on me before, and it wasn’t pretty. Almada’s just one piece of evidence of that. The wall’s up, and I realise now that it may not ever come down. My words are dry and cynical as I reply, “Congratulations, I should have your medal here somewhere.”

She snorts – she’s used to me being a little cynical anyways, and she’s a fair amount herself. “You still haven’t told me how you broke your arm,” she prods, leaning down and squinting at the small plaque beneath the painting, mumbling to herself as she reads the name of the artist.

“Oh, it’s not broken – I just wanted a new accessory.��

“Sure.” Smart girl. “How was it?”

“How was what?” And out of the corner of my eye, I see Ethan take a step back away to lean against the wall and look at us. I get that uncomfortable writhing feeling in my gut again—not the good kind. This isn’t my life. Shouldn’t be.

“Work. You know, you went back and everything? Made a big deal over the no contact rule?”

“It was—”

“Yeah?” she says eagerly, a smile in her voice. If I could look at her right now, her eyes would be big and brown and shiny, and then I’d get sad all over again and compare her to Almada. They have nothing do with each other, and yet everything. Almada looked at me just like she did, like I was the best thing in the world at that moment in time. I loved it when he looked at me like that. Well, what good are looks and feeling proud about yourself when you can’t do anything to save your friend from a lifetime of suffering and loneliness? Ha-ha, am I right? I didn’t save Almada. What good are looks? I shouldn’t let Jo need saving. I shouldn’t let her need me. What good are looks?

“—tiring.”

A brief silence. I keep my eyes on the guy in the painting. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No.”

“Do I look abhorring or something?”

“No—”

“Then why aren’t you looking at me?” she exclaims, shoving me slightly. Ethan pushes himself off the wall and tries to guide me behind him – where in any other situation I would’ve fought it, I let him win this time, and let him try and calm Jo down.

I stay silent.

Ethan tells her, “She’s just a little tired,” and Jo is safely slotted out of my view again.

“Yeah, I heard,” she remarks. “Tired.” I really am. If I’d had a better night’s sleep, if I woke up happier, I would’ve been more affected by this, I’m sure – annoyed, upset, regretful, something along those lines. But I’ve been simmering all day, and I’ll continue to simmer for a while after this, not going down, not coming up. She must be trying to catch my eye or something – I can feel her eyes on me. I edge further behind Ethan. “Okay. You know, someone who didn’t know any better might’ve thought she was tired of us, too.” And then she leaves, claiming to go searching for the bathroom.

I think about pressing my forehead to Ethan’s back, but I don’t. He turns around in his own time, harbouring a frown similar to mine. “I’m not tired of her,” I clarify, searching his face for the disappointment I know he feels in me.

He flexes his jaw. “Hope not.”

Dick. “I’m not. I’m just—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, his eyes cutting me, too. “I know.” But, unlike Jo, he really does know. He softens the blow, but he lands it nonetheless. I watch as his eyes shift somewhere far behind me, probably to where Jo’s disappearing into a doorway. Only now do I feel guilt start to gnaw. Not hard, but certainly there. Still simmering. Steady, growing. It was wrong, but it was necessary. In the long run, she’d be better for it. I wouldn’t want her becoming fond of me. Things get dangerous when you care about someone. I think about pressing myself into Ethan again. But I don’t. Instead, I listen to him as he huffs, “She’s a really nice kid. You could try being a little more empathetic.”

“I’m plenty empathetic,” I snort, desperate to fill the space between us. My stomach goes floozy with guilt.

Ethan hardens his gaze. “She misses you.”

“Yeah, well, she shouldn’t. We’re not that close.”

He recoils like he’s been burned. “Don’t say that about her.”

The floozy guilt turns to an explosive anger: who is he to tell me that? Who is he to defend her? Jo would be better off if both of us were gone from her life. Ethan doesn’t belong there any more than I do, and he should know that better than anyone. He doesn’t get to scold me. He doesn’t get to tell me what I should and shouldn’t say. I scold him right back: “Stop trying to be her dad,” I say scathingly. “You’re not her dad.”

“Well, you’re not her mom!” he combats, laughing. God, I’m just about to shove him when an elderly couple saunters right through the doors and sit themselves down on a bench just by us.

Curling a hand around his arm, I yank him over to the other side of the room, my grip tight. “I’m not trying to be,” I tell him. I mean it. I won’t ever try to be anyone’s mother. The concept is wrong. Always was, and it’s even more wrong now. I think of Fitzgerald, of that little shadow staring from the sunroom as I rose over her dead body. I think of all the people I’ve killed who were parents. I think of all the people I’ve killed who were children who came from parents, who could’ve been parents. No. Someone who takes lives shouldn’t ever raise them. It’s wrong. I won’t ever try to be anyone’s mother. I never want to be Jo’s mother, and I never want to be anyone’s mother.

My fingertips are pressing so tight into Ethan that I realise I may give him bruises; I snatch my hand back away and stuff it into my pocket, grabbing a painful fistful of my keys in there, gritting my teeth down as the metal cuts into the flesh of my palm.

There’s a small pause of understanding as we reach the other end. He knows. I bet he’s gone through the exact same thing. Fertility in men is mad, though – there are seventy-year-olds popping ‘em out like nothing, so, hypothetically, Ethan still has it in for the long run. If he someday manages to find peace, he could hypothetically have that. Probably not with me, though. Even if I wanted to, my body doesn’t work like that. I don’t even know if I can still have kids after everything I’ve put myself through. I don’t know what would work or what wouldn’t work. Ethan, too, I guess. I can’t say that for him. 

When I glance at him again, he’s got this horrible look of pity in his eyes, drenching me, and his voice is horribly soft as he holds me gently at the shoulders and says meaningfully, “She looks up to you.”

Immediately, I bark out a laugh so sharp that it echoes through this large room. “She shouldn’t. I suck! Everything in my life sucks, and she shouldn’t look up to me!”

His expression sours. “Everything in your life sucks?”

“It was a hyperbole, okay?” God, the stuff he says sometimes. I’m not a good role model by any means necessary.  “Jeez, someone failed English Language.”

“I actually got a 5 in AP Lang,” he retorts flatly. 

“O-kay, hotshot, good for you.”

He grips my good hand tightly, rough skin sliding into mine. He squeezes. “Be nice to Jo.”

I have to take a second to make sure my mouth doesn’t. quiver, that my face doesn’t crumble in the way I can feel it twitching to. Be nice to Jo. I love Jo. I think she’s great. But I think she’s much better alive than dead. I think she’s much better when she’s around the version of me that isn’t involved with the IMF, happier. But of course, I can’t really keep up my side of that anymore. I don’t want to have to see her get sadder and more disappointed with every lunch I can’t come to, with every walk around town I can’t take, with every call I miss. I don’t want to have to see her drift away with all these secrets I have to keep. 

Groaning quietly, I press my face into Ethan’s shoulder. His arm comes up to curl around my back, and his hand strokes comfortably over my shoulders, the base of my neck, my hair. “I shouldn’t be around her,” I say into him, like it’s a confession. “I shouldn’t be around her.” 

He holds me close. I could recognise him just by smell, I swear to God. “What happened on your mission?”

“This has nothing to do with that.”

I feel him swallow, his throat bobbing atop my head from where I’m nestled into his neck. “Okay.”

“You irritate me.”

“I think you should stop pushing her away.”

“You really irritate me.” 

Moments like these are so fucking weird. Moments where everything feels absolutely wrong, but then there’s that one second of a good thing that has you thinking it’s all worth putting up with. 

“Don’t go back,” he tells me, voice rumbling in his chest. I can hear his heart beating. 

I nestle closer. “I won’t if you won’t.” And then I chuckle because it’s just all funny.

Okay, so maybe we’re not exactly a usual situation. Maybe this is the best we can get in our individual situations. Not a midnight house, but at least I’m here sharing this moment with him – at least we’re embracing in this cold, wide museum room. But when I can’t sleep at night, I’ll always keep adding to the fantasy. Never possible but always nice to dream about.  “Not yet, but one day,” Ethan says, and I chuckle because it’s funny.

I tell him, “One day isn’t good enough.”

He tells me, “You’re all I look forward to.”

Yeah, well, one day isn’t good enough.