: North Star, Pole Star, guiding star, tail of the cub
the sailor’s guide
fixed in the sky,
unchanging
as the earth spins
telling those who wander to
come
home.
(or; in every universe, ambrose and kodiak find their way back to each other.)
noticing that the fandom for the darkness outside us is slowly growing on this app so I thought I’d slide over this art I made for kodiak’s birthday last year!!
and for those wondering where the fandom is for these books, there’s a lot of us over on twitter yapping about these boys every day 😭🫶
prompt: mission gone wrong
warnings: descriptions of blood and injuries (nothing extraordinarily graphic)
word count: 2699
ao3 link
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it isn't often that i find the time and motivation to participate in fandom events, but i thought writing for @missionimpossiblegenweek would be a fun challenge :)
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“Ethan? Ethan, can you hear me?”
“Ethan, come in!”
“Luther, he’s not responding, what if–”
“We’ll find him, Benji, come on.”
“I’ll go. You two stay here.”
“Ilsa, wait–”
Ethan’s ears are ringing. His brain tells him he needs to get up, he needs to move, to flee, but his body isn’t listening. He remains stubbornly horizontal, eyes unfocused, looking at metal crossbeams and a fractured ceiling, flat on his back.
He tries to remember what to do. He takes inventory of his senses, of his body. His vision is blurred, but he can see. His ears are ringing, but beneath that, he can still hear voices. The air is acrid, smoky – a bomb, yes, that was how he’d gotten here. His mouth is dry, tacky with dust and the bitter iron taste of blood. He tries to move his fingers, his toes, finds a small amount of relief when they respond, if somewhat reluctantly. He’s in pain, but he struggles to pinpoint it, until he manages to lift his hand, and then several places on his body protest at once. Blood cakes the side of his head – he’s definitely concussed. His right shoulder appears to be dislocated. His ribs are bruised, his right leg aches from where rubble had struck him in the thigh. He shifts slightly, honing his focus in on his back – he can move his spine, and, more importantly, he can feel it. Ethan is battered, but from what he can tell, he’ll survive. He just has to get up. Get out.
He tries to lift his head and immediately has to suppress the urge to vomit as the room spins wildly around him. Very concussed, he thinks woozily. Not ideal. He lies still, breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth.
“Ethan, if you can hear me, Ilsa’s on her way. We’ll get you out of there, just stay put.”
Ethan doesn’t think he has much of an option. He tries to speak, but his tongue still feels heavy and useless. He spits out a mouthful of blood. He had bitten his tongue hard enough to make it bleed when the blast had gone off, he realizes, and he thinks he has a loose molar on top of that. He coughs raggedly, and finally manages to form words. “I copy,” he wheezes. “Not going anywhere.”
“Ethan!” Benji’s voice comes in loud and clear, his panic and relief reading even over radio communication. “What happened? Are you alright?”
“Bomb. Target got away.”
“Yeah, we know, second team’s on it, but are you alright?”
Ethan groans as pain shoots up his side when he tries to move again. “I’ll be fine. Nothing too permanent.”
“Hospital. We’re taking you to a hospital.”
Ethan doesn’t have the strength to argue, nor, honestly, the desire to. His head is spinning too much for that.
“Ilsa’s almost there, Ethan, just hang tight,” Luther says, steady and focused.
“‘Kay,” Ethan murmurs, fixated on the intersection of beams above him, like they’re some kind of intricate puzzle.
A moment later, a door bangs open somewhere behind him, and then boots scuff the ground near his head, and Ilsa’s upside-down face peers down at Ethan with an expression that is somehow both exasperated and relieved.
“Ilsa.”
“Ethan.” Ilsa squats down to get a closer look at him. “You’ve looked better.”
“I’ve felt better.”
She almost laughs at that, shaking her head with amusement. “Let’s get you out of here. What’s the worst of it?”
Ethan closes his eyes, trying to evaluate. “Concussion. Dislocated right shoulder. Rest is mostly bruises. I think.”
“Right.” Ilsa gives him a quick once-over, first with her eyes, and then with her hands, checking to make sure there aren’t any broken bones. “No spine injury, that’s good.”
Ethan nods in agreement. Then Ilsa places her hand at the base of Ethan’s skull and lifts him up with her other arm, keeping him as steady as she can.
“This is going to hurt,” Ilsa says, grabbing his right shoulder. He nods, grimacing, and looks away as she shoves his shoulder back into its socket.
It hurts like hell, but he just grits his teeth through the pain and huffs out a rough exhale when it’s done. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Ilsa says with a small smile. “We’ve still got to get you out of here.”
This time, Ethan doesn’t manage to suppress his cry when Ilsa hoists him to his feet, what seems like every part of his body screaming out in response to the movement. He can’t put weight on his right leg, and Ilsa throws an arm around him to help him stumble forward. His head is throbbing, his vision going white every couple seconds. There is a nagging feeling in Ethan’s mind, like he’s forgotten something. He’s beginning to feel more and more lightheaded, more and more disconnected from his body. Somehow, Ilsa manages to get him out of the crumbling building, and a moment later, Luther pulls up in the van.
Benji throws open the back doors, his eyes going wide when he sees Ethan. “Jesus!”
“He’ll live,” Ilsa says. “I already set his shoulder.”
Benji hurries to Ethan’s other side, the two of them lifting Ethan up and into the van, Ilsa closing the doors behind them as Benji lays Ethan out on a mat on the floor, keeping his upper body elevated against a stack of tarps.
Ilsa leans against the side of the van, holding onto the side of a bolted-in storage rack for support as Luther begins to drive. “Hospital?”
Benji frowns as he examines Ethan. “Let me take a look.”
Ethan shrugs loosely and lets Benji cut away his already tattered shirt and pants, because he knows everything is bloodied and it’s impossible to tell what the extent of the damage is otherwise. He’s long past feeling embarrassment about these things. When the fabric has been removed, Benji sucks in air through his teeth in a sympathetic wince at the sight of Ethan’s wounds.
“Not as bad as it looks,” Ethan tries, but Benji’s not having it.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Benji says firmly. First, he does the standard round of cognitive tests for a concussion – Ethan passes, though not with flying colors, since he’s still woozy and a bit nauseous, which is to be expected. Then Benji cleans his hands, puts on a pair of gloves, and gently pokes and prods at Ethan from head to toe until he’s satisfied, cleaning all of the minor scrapes and gashes as he goes, and Ethan just closes his eyes and lets him, though he flinches when Benji touches his ribs. Suddenly, Ethan hears Benji draw in a sharp breath. “Fucking hell, Ethan.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, but that’s gotta hurt.” Benji stares grimly at Ethan’s leg, and Ethan follows his gaze. He doesn’t blame Benji for the reaction; it doesn’t look pretty. The entire outer side of his right thigh is a swollen mess of splotchy red-purple bruises, tinged with yellow and green, and several ugly, uneven abrasions where the jagged rubble from the explosion had sliced through his pants.
“So,” Ilsa says, kneeling on Ethan’s other side, looking pointedly at Benji. “Hospital?”
Benji sighs. “I don’t think so. There’s not much else they’ll be able to do that we can’t. He just needs to be patched up and put on bedrest. I’m not done with my evaluation, though, I’ve only covered the front.”
Ethan opens his mouth to protest at the word ‘bedrest,’ but Benji silences him before he even speaks with a sharp glance.
“You have a serious concussion, Ethan. I’m going to do a scan, and then we’ll get you sorted, and then you need to rest. As soon as I’m done looking you over.”
“He’s right,” Luther says from the front seat. “You’ll only make things worse if you don’t.”
Ethan groans, but he lets Benji get to work. One of the perks of working for the IMF is that they are given access to experimental medical tech, such as the scanner Benji uses to assess his concussion. In a few minutes, he determines that, while painful, the injury isn’t life-threatening, and he shouldn’t sustain any permanent damage from it. He cleans and bandages the wound on Ethan’s head, meticulous and careful. Ilsa watches the entire process with interest, and Ethan cocks his head at her.
She raises an eyebrow, a wordless challenge for him to call her out.
He takes it. “What?”
“When did this happen?” Ilsa asks, jutting her chin out in his and Benji’s direction.
Ethan frowns. “When did what happen?”
“Benji. You. Since when is he your medic?”
Benji looks up from his work and makes a noise of protest. “I’m not his medic!”
“He’s not my medic,” Ethan confirms, giving Benji a reassuring look. “He’s a medic. He went through additional training. He might be better than me now.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Benji says, but he’s blushing, which makes both Ethan and Ilsa chuckle.
“He’s not bad,” Luther says over his shoulder. “Could work on his bedside manner, though.”
“Excuse me?” Benji sputters, affronted.
“I’m just saying, I’ve never heard a medical professional say, ‘That’s gotta hurt,’ when examining someone,” Luther says pointedly.
Benji glowers. “It’s Ethan. I wouldn’t do that with any civilian.”
Ethan laughs again, though the movement makes his ribs ache. He’s strangely giddy, as though he’s mildly drunk. He wipes sweat from his brow. “Glad to hear how much you care about me.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Benji snaps, and Ethan only laughs more, Ilsa joining in, too. “Oh, buzz off.”
“See what I mean?” Luther says, and now they all laugh, even Benji.
“Okay, okay, let me finish this and then we’ll get Ethan into the safehouse so he can rest, alright?”
Ethan lays a placating hand on Benji’s arm, and Benji smiles. Then the smile fades, and he blanches as he touches Ethan’s arm. His touch feels strangely cool. He prompts Ethan to lean forward so Benji can take a look at his back, and that’s when Benji gasps in horror. “Oh, Ethan…”
“What? What is it?” Ilsa leans over to see what’s made Benji freeze up, and Ethan watches her body stiffen in response. “Ethan, why didn’t you tell us?”
Ethan furrows his brow. “Tell you what?”
“He told me the worst of it was the concussion and his shoulder,” Ilsa whispers to Benji in a hushed tone, though they all know Ethan will still hear. “How bad?”
“Bad.” Ethan can’t figure out Benji’s tone, why it’s become so sober, so dark. He feels perfectly fine. “He probably thought he was telling the truth. Hard to feel it when you’re in shock. Depends on how much blood he’s lost, but… I should be able to fix him up.”
Ethan hears Luther’s voice come from behind him. “What’s happening?”
“It’s… it’s Ethan, he’s… we’re dealing with it.” Benji’s withholding something. Something he doesn’t want Ethan to hear.
“Hospital, or safehouse?” Luther, to his credit, remains calm and collected.
“Safehouse,” Benji says, though his voice is trembling. “This needs to happen now. Hospital won’t make a difference on time. Luther…” He trails off, but the last word had meaning imbued in it, something telling Ethan that Benji had left something out again, that he’d communicated something Ethan couldn’t hear.
“Copy that.” The strange tone Luther adopts, which would have been imperceptible to anyone but Ethan, who’s known him for too long, confirms Ethan’s suspicion.
“Tell me how I can help.” Ilsa says, firm and fierce, on Ethan’s left side, just out of sight. Ethan wants to crane his neck to look at her, or at Benji, or at anyone at all, but his head is too heavy, his breathing too shallow. Everything feels wrong.
Benji exhales shakily. “Just… hold him still.”
They’ve stopped talking to Ethan entirely. Ethan wants to ask them why, but he’s so, so tired. And then there’s a spike of red-hot pain in his lower back, and Ethan slumps forward, his vision darkening around the edges until he fades from consciousness. The last thing he hears before he goes under completely is a flurry of voices, Benji’s saying, ‘Stay with me, come on,’ Ilsa’s whispering, ‘You have to pull through, Ethan,’ and Luther’s, saying, ‘We’ll be there soon, just keep him stable.’
—
Muffled voices, a steady, faint beeping, the shuffling of shoes on a hard floor. The sterile smell of antiseptics, a distant hint of disinfectants. Thin sheets, a barely thicker blanket.
“This isn’t the safehouse,” Ethan mumbles, his voice emerging rough and dry, causing him to cough. When he opens his eyes, he finds Benji, Ilsa, and Luther, crowding around his hospital bed.
“Sorry, Ethan,” Luther says, not sounding very sorry at all as he smiles down at him. “Couldn’t be helped.”
“What happened?” Ethan tries to prop himself up, but he immediately winces at the pain and lowers himself back down.
Benji leans down closer to Ethan, his expression bittersweet. “You lost a lot of blood,” he says. “You didn’t tell us you got impaled.”
“Impaled?” Ethan frowns and explores his back with his hand until he finds a bandage near his waist, and his eyes widen. “I didn’t even–”
“Yeah, we know, you were dealing with a bloody concussion, too, of course you missed it.” Benji shakes his head in disbelief. “You passed out when I removed the glass — it was glass, by the way, you’re lucky it wasn’t wood or rebar or something. I was hoping I could just patch you up, but we didn’t want to risk it.”
Ilsa tilts her head to look at Ethan now. “No blood transfusion, though, you got lucky,” she says. “And your medic here did a pretty good job.”
“Pfft.” Benji waves a hand dismissively, though Ethan knows he’s delighted by that compliment. “I did the best I could.”
“Important thing is, he’ll be fine,” Luther cuts in. He lays a hand on Ethan’s shoulder, careful not to jostle him too much. “Glad you’re still with us, brother.”
“Yeah, me too,” Ethan says, and they all smile. “Thanks, everyone.”
“Figured it was about time we did the saving instead of you, for once,” Benji remarks dryly, and Ethan laughs, ignoring how much it hurts.
“So,” Ethan says. “How’d the mission go?”
“Besides you getting impaled? Fine,” Benji says. “Team two got our target, so we’re in the clear. And you’re out on medical leave. Three weeks.”
“Three weeks?” Ethan gapes at him.
“Not a minute less,” Benji says firmly. “Doctor’s orders. And our superiors’ orders, actually. Not that you have a great track record of heeding those, but I’ll be keeping an eye on you. We all will.”
Ethan groans, but he can’t keep the smile off his face.
“They’ve put us up in an apartment nearby,” Luther says. “A real, actual apartment, with multiple bedrooms. So that you can recuperate, and so that we can be there to hold you to that.”
“You really thought this through, huh?”
“Oh, yes.” Luther glances at Benji. “Benji pulled some strings. We’re not letting you out of our sight.”
Ethan sighs. “Okay.” He’ll accept it. He just hopes he won’t be stuck in this cot much longer.
“You’ll be discharged as soon as the doctor clears you,” Ilsa says, reading Ethan’s mind. “The fact that you’re awake is a good sign.”
The sight of his friends gathering around him with such fond expressions makes Ethan’s heart swell, and he finds himself holding back tears. Ilsa touches his cheek tenderly, Benji squeezes his hand, and Luther leaves his hand on Ethan’s shoulder for a moment longer, and Ethan just smiles back up at them all, too full of feeling to speak. When the doctor discharges him, they all wheel him out together, and he doesn’t even complain. His head aches, his body is exhausted, he’s battered and bruised, but the people he loves most surround him, alive and in one piece, and for that, he is grateful. That’s all he needs, really. He’ll gladly suffer any injury if it means they’ll stay that way.
