the fallout crew
day three of @missionimpossiblegenweek - creature AU !!
holy shit i did this on a honest to god massive canvas (it's in 4k. not even joking)
ANYWAYS very important click for high quality here
I chose Greek Mythology! Based on the callsigns I used in my fic from day 1! From left to right we have:
- Will as Hermes
- Luther as Hephaestus
- Ethan as Apollo
- Jane as Artemis
- Benji as Calliope
Hope you all enjoy! I'm not big into greek mythology but I know a little bit and I love symbolism and drawing fabric so this was very fun.
written for the mission impossible gen week prompt: role reversals
warnings: none, humour/crack
@missionimpossiblegenweek i am so sorry i have cheated on u with silksong :( this fic and a chunk of tomorrow's fic were both written well in advance, but the others have suffered from almost two weeks of non-stop gaming and so i will now be writing them on the day for each prompt. i think it will be a fun challenge, though!
word count: 1774
read it on ao3 here.
----------------------
By the nature of the work they did, nobody in the IMF ever truly expected a mission to go to plan. Anyone who said they did, Benji had found, was usually lying. Or they were Ethan, even if in Ethan's case it had always seemed to be less that he expected things to go right, and more that he was grimly determined to make it so.
Benji was more of a realist. If a mission he was on ended up going even slightly adjacent to the original plan, in his books it was usually a cause for celebration.
As the van that he was clinging to the top of made a sudden right turn, almost sending him flying off straight into oncoming traffic, Benji found himself thinking that this was so far from any plan that he might be owed some kind of reward. Maybe the rules of the universe had wrapped right back around and this whole thing would be a cause for celebration, if he lived to see the end of it.
If.
"Benji?" came Ethan's voice in his ear, just about audible over the chaos of the traffic around him and the wind against his face. "What's going on? Talk to me."
Easier said than done. Benji bit back the reply instead of his tongue as the van he was clinging to went over a particularly bumpy stretch of road, instead putting all his effort into not letting go of the roof.
"I think they've noticed that you're up there," Ethan said when Benji didn't respond.
Benji found that he did have enough of an opportunity between bumps to yell back, "You think?!" before the van came to a sharp stop and he was sent sliding off of the roof and down the windscreen.
There was an almost comedic moment after he hit the tarmac where he was left staring up at the driver, and the driver staring down at him. Then, the van floored it again and Benji had to scramble to get out of its way, dodging pot shots from the passenger's side when they took the corner.
"Shit," he wheezed, still recovering from the rough landing, "Ethan, have you still got eyes on them?"
"Uhhhh," Ethan began, not exactly inspiring confidence as he usually did during missions, "Yes! Yes, still following them, and I think you can catch up, hold on–"
The sound of typing and a few muffled curses was audible over the comms. Benji had already begun to make his own way through the city, bringing up a street map on his tablet, before Ethan returned and started rattling off a series of directions for him to follow.
It was a far cry from how they usually ended up working together on missions such as this. Benji was keeping up with Ethan's instructions, racing down alleyways and clambering over gateways, but the two of them were a little off-beat, unused to having their usual dynamic switched up on them.
As the van got further and further away, the strain in Ethan's voice became more apparent. Benji wouldn't have described the man as being out of his comfort zone, because there wasn't much that he'd found Ethan to not be comfortable with doing even when planning out death-defying stunts far tamer than this mission, but Benji knew that he would be hard-pressed to keep Ethan from getting up and trying to jump into the action himself if things continued like this, broken leg or not. He imagined that the last time Ethan had been relegated to sit behind as 'the man in the van' was probably during one of their mandatory training sessions.
Racing across a courtyard to make up some distance, Benji found himself grateful for the sessions he himself had been required to attend. He ran, and ran, and–
"Oh, shit!"
A car horn blared as he skidded out into a street, and he jumped backwards, narrowly missing being hit by the vehicle.
Not wasting any more time he dodged around it, only to be met with the sight of the van nearing the end of the road. Before any of his bullets could do enough damage to stop it, it swung around the corner, out of range.
"Okay," he panted, then injected a little forced optimism into his voice at the sound of muffled cursing down the mic, "almost had them there, but let's try a different approach, yeah?"
It continued on like that for a bit, with Ethan guiding him and Benji missing the van by seconds, even after Benji had acquired a vehicle of his own. Driving, at least, was comfortably within Benji's realm of expertise, despite him usually being the getaway driver for the team rather than as the one who chased after their targets.
Weaving through the traffic and the streets would have almost been an exhilarating experience, he imagined, if it weren't for the fact that he was certain that the sheer number of RTAs he'd caused in the pursuit was going to haunt him. That, and the fact that he knew that he was driving under the guidance of someone who he knew wouldn't blink twice at pulling off stunts in a car that Benji would very much like to avoid, thank you very much. Every corner that he turned and didn't find a set of stairs waiting for him to drive down was a pleasant surprise.
What was less of a pleasant surprise was when Benji drove round a sharp bend in the process of taking what Ethan had promised to be a "shortcut", and found himself having to slam the brakes on to avoid sending his car into a river.
As it was, his reflexes were only good enough to save himself from the plunge into the water – the car ended up crunching into some bollards, leaving Benji to jump out of the passenger-side door, hissing to Ethan in his ear as he did so.
"Ethan! What the hell was that?"
"What do you mean?" Ethan shot back, "Why did you stop?"
Benji stood and sputtered for a moment, the sound of waves lapping gently against the riverside doing nothing to calm his heart, which was still racing.
"Why did I stop?!" Benji couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice, "I stopped because that car doesn't have a bloody submarine mode, that's why!"
There was a beat of silence. Then, the sound of a couple of keystrokes.
"...I see what you mean about the 2D and 3D view being confusing, now," Ethan finally spoke up. "They must have taken an underpass a while back. They're driving underneath the river."
Benji swore.
Instinct had him grabbing for his tablet again. The weight of it in his pocket as he'd ran through the streets had been something of a comfort – the shattered screen that glinted back at him now, less so.
With a heavy sigh, he cast it aside. Then, he shook himself, and looked around. As his gaze fell on a boat at a nearby docking point, Ethan finally spoke up again.
"Hey, Benji, are you seeing what I'm seeing? I think I have an idea."
—
"Well, I think that ended up working out in the end."
For a moment Benji found himself gaping at Ethan's comment, just as he had done when he'd been faced with the river.
He recovered a little quicker this time. "You made me steal a boat! I had to hold an innocent civilian at gunpoint!"
"Hey," Ethan said, shifting to face Benji and failing to fully hide a wince as he jostled his leg in the process. "I just said you should get that boat, I never said you had to hold anyone at gunpoint."
"Well that's besides the point," Benji replied with a gesture towards Ethan, eager to move on from that particular line of conversation. "Look at you! You still haven't healed up from the damage you deal to yourself. What part of that screams 'successful mission, no hitches at all' to you?"
The debrief, much like Benji's escapade through the city, was turning circular. Brant, standing between the two of them, didn't have the chance to speak up before Ethan was jumping in ahead of him once more.
"We completed the objective, didn't we?" He turned to the third party in the room. "Will, I know this mission ended up resulting in a fair amount of damage to property. And also to people. But, honestly, Benji should be commended. He was really quite inventive with that truck to block the underpass, and–"
Brandt, finally, cut in.
"Stop. Stop!" he cried. "I don't care. I'm never clearing you guys for missions together again, not without some kind of restraining influence tagging along with the two of you."
Benji shrugged, not being able to muster up any argument against the decision, but Ethan immediately looked put out. "Why?" he asked. "You've never had a problem with me working as part of a two-man team before. Look at the results me and Luther get!"
"Come on," Brandt scoffed. "You and Benji have caused more chaos together over the past three days than you ever did with Luther!"
Benji couldn't help but frown at that statement. He was sure that the last mission Ethan and Luther had been on together had involved its fair share of explosions, not to mention the hacking of a government's secure servers that Benji was certain the IMF would have never condoned. Internally, however, he shrugged. Luther had probably just thought about covering their tracks a bit sooner than Benji had (which was during the debrief, that very second), and he couldn't fault the man for that. Benji would never snitch on him… even if he couldn't resist the urge to needle Ethan about it just a little.
"Didn't you and Luther meet each other for the first time and then immediately break into Langley together?" Benji asked innocently.
"That's classified."
Benji scoffed, "Come off it, Ethan, everyone in this room has heard that story at least once."
"And we don't need to be going over it another time," Brandt added, shaking his head. "Nice try with the diversion, but I'm still not letting you guys go on missions together without someone to step in and intervene when you two start enabling each others' terrible ideas. And I'll be wishing that poor bastard luck, whoever it ends up being."
—
(It was Brandt. It ended up being Brandt. And Benji imagined that Brandt was wishing for more than luck when he found himself in the position of clinging to the roof of a truck that time around.)
written for M:I Gen Week day one! [day two | day three | day four | day five | day six | day seven]
prompt: mission gone wrong
warnings: descriptions of blood and injuries (nothing extraordinarily graphic)
word count: 2699
ao3 link
--
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 :)
--
“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.
Ethan hasn’t been eating, despite his bold-faced lies claiming otherwise, only existing on black coffee and the occasional ration bar that Luther has all but forced into him by looking as disappointed as possible.
When he glances round again, Ethan’s gone back to staring out the window, his expression hollow and exhausted in the dying light of the sun.
Tags: Gen, No Archive Warnings, Luther& Ethan, POV Luther, Friendship, Angst, Grief, Depression.
Written for @missionimpossiblegenweek for Day 4: Domesticity/Cooking.
Read on ao3 here or below the cut.
-
“Ethan, could you pass the salt?”
No response.
Luther turns to see him hunched over the table, staring sightlessly out the window. “Ethan.”
He jumps, then turns to look up at him, his eyes wide and - for a second - slightly frenzied.
“Could you pass the salt?”
Ethan nods, listlessly, picking up the salt from the wooden table in front of him and passing it up.
“Thanks, brother.” The words come out easily, and Luther means them, but something about them causes Ethan to flinch minutely. Luther doesn’t comment, just files it away in his ever-growing lists of concerns, and turns round to add even more salt to the unholy combination of whatever foods in this safehouse hadn’t gone off, and might conceivably be edible when mixed together on the stove.
Luther would have appreciated it if the people who stocked this safehouse had added any kind of spices whatsoever, he would have even settled for just some herbs, and if he’d been alone he might have settled on crunching on some more of the dry ration bars they’d brought with them. But Ethan hadn’t been eating, despite his bold-faced lies claiming otherwise, only existing on black coffee and the occasional ration bar that Luther had all but forced into him by looking as disappointed as possible. So, Luther intended to give him as close to a home-cooked meal as they could get out here.
When he glances round again, Ethan’s gone back to staring out the window, his expression hollow and exhausted in the dying light of the sun.
After he’s served up, he places the cracked plates and two glasses of water on the table, then sits down opposite him.
“Thanks,” Ethan says once a few seconds have passed, seeming to startle out of his head and remember that was something that people said in this sort of situation.
Ethan picks at his food while Luther inhales his in short bursts he intersperses with chatting away to his friend about everything from the latest advancements in computing to the nicest - and worst - places he’d visited when he’d been disavowed. Ethan’s not really listening, but he’s doing his best to nod occasionally as he chews. The main thing is is that he’s actually eating something proper - something that actually tastes not too bad considering the cans it came from - and is maybe replenishing some of the energy he’s used up running and fighting, doing all the kinds of things Luther knew you were meant to do with sleep and calories in your system, neither of which Ethan had.
Ethan manages most of it before he gives up, pushing himself to his feet with a determined expression - Luther doesn’t miss how his arms are trembling as he leans against the table - and then stumbles in the direction of the kettle. Luther stands up and sticks a hand out between him and the countertop.
“Luther.”
“You don’t need more coffee, you need to go to sleep.”
“I can’t-” Ethan scowls, cutting himself off and running a hand through his sweaty hair, messy and several inches longer than it had been when they’d first met a few months ago - Luther doesn’t think he’s bothered cutting it since then. “I need to read over the documents about-”
“I know damn well you have a photographic memory.”
“I don’t remem- there’s just stuff I need to- look-” He folds his arms, swaying slightly, the slightly crazed look in his eyes coming back full force. “You can’t stop me Luther.”
Luther can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes. With all the anger spilling out of him, Ethan looks like a bedraggled rescue chihuahua. He’s defensive, sure, and he has teeth, but that doesn’t change the fact he’d keel over at the slightest breeze.
“Yes, I could.”
“I could still take you,” Ethan assures him, trembling with the effort of keeping upright. “You can’t stop me.”
Luther rolls his eyes, reaches out to put a steadying hand on his shoulder, prepared to direct him towards what constitutes a living room in this place. Ethan flinches. Luther grimaces, shutting his eyes for a second, and then continues with the gesture. Ethan looks down at his hand like he’s not quite sure what it’s doing there, a lost expression on his face.
“Come on,” Luther says.
“I’m not sleeping.”
“We’re going to watch TV.”
“We should be preparing for the mission.”
Luther raises his eyebrows. “This is preparing for the mission. You need to relax.”
Ethan grits his teeth but doesn’t argue, allowing himself to be led into the next room.
Luther grabs the remote. There are only four channels, no one’s bothered to pay to install anything extra here, so he’s not hoping for much, but on the third Ethan’s hand shoots out, gesturing for him to stop.
His voice cracks as he starts to speak. “This was Hannah’s favourite. Jack always teased her about it, he thought it was- he thought it was stupid. I- thought it was too,” he chokes, “but I liked watching it with her, sometimes.”
“You want to watch it now?” Luther asks, trying to keep his surprise from showing in his voice. Ethan hadn’t made many moves to talk about the teammates he’d lost in the months since the TGV, and he certainly hadn’t talked about them so casually.
Ethan nods.
They watch the programme.
Jack had been right, it was stupid, but at some point Ethan stops sitting ramrod straight, and slumps against him. Midway through the next programme, a quiz show he can’t quite make out all the rules to, he realises that he can hear Ethan’s breathing and shifts slightly, looking down.
Ethan’s passed out, leaning against his arm, and Luther can see the drying tear tracks, shining slightly in the light of the television.
He sighs in relief, and turns his head back to watch the programme.
Technically written for day one of @missionimpossiblegenweek but surprisingly much more applicable for day three: au
word count: 2547
———
Over the course of her, God, nearly two years now at the IMF, Nyah has spent a lot of time wondering what her life would look life if, when Sean Ambrose had swanned into her jail cell with promises of a secret American government agency and a full pardon, she’d told him to piss off.
The logical part of her brain said prison, still wearing that wretched orange jumpsuit that washed out her complexion and itched like mad when she laid down. The more fanciful part of her mind offered her scenes from the life she used to live. Laying on the beach without the knowledge of impending nuclear annihilation. Skiing down the Swiss Alps without being pursued by men with guns.
Attending swanky parties in Seville just because she wanted a glass of good wine and something nice to line her pockets. As Nyah finished her glass of Chateau Yquem, she sulkily acknowledged that she was at least getting one out of two.
Nyah put the now empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. She’d kill for another, but she had a hard limit for how tipsy she could get on the job, no matter how complex the flavor profile might be. Besides, she had a feeling she’d want to stay sharp tonight, given that she’d been tasked with a mission so impossible, most government agencies hadn’t been able to accomplish it.
Needless to say, Nyah had been quite surprised when she’d been tapped to bring in Ethan Hunt. Then, so were her superiors. They’d wanted Luther Stickell from the job, given that two of them were not-so-secretly known to have a friendly relationship, but he was deep cover in a Bosnian cyber-crime ring they were set to bust in just a few days and the situation was too delicate to disturb. If Nyah was shocked by getting chosen at all, she’d practically fallen out of her chair when she’d learned that it was Luther that handpicked her. It wasn’t as if they were total strangers - they’d worked a couple of missions together - but they’d hardly done more than that, and Nyah couldn’t imagine just what she’d done to earn his confidence. The working theory was it had more to do with her ass than her assets: according to Hunt’s file, he had a weakness for pretty faces.
As Nyah scanned the crowd, she mentally reviewed just what else that file said. Ethan Matthew Hunt: Wisconsin farm boy turned IMF golden child turned free agent after some nasty business in ‘96 where his mentor murdered his entire team and tried to leave Ethan holding the bag. The thought called to mind Sean, but she shoved him down with ruthless efficiency. There would be time, she knew, but not now. Not on the job. Nyah crossed the room to get a different vantage point as she returned to her train of thought. Ethan had managed to prove his innocence, but only after escaping IMF custody, evading recapture, and pulling off what many people had said at the time - and plenty still did - was an impossible heist. He’d declined the offer to return and spent the last four years striking out of his own. Not that Nyah could blame him. If they’d arrested her parents, then she probably would’ve-
There.
There he was. Nyah’s first thought was that he looked different from his pictures. There were a couple of recent ones in his file, all taken at a distance, but the majority were from his time as an agent. Gone were the cropped, spiky hair and the slightly ill-fitting leather jacket, replaced with a swept back, chin length haircut and a well tailored suit. She studied him with an appraiser’s eye and cocked her eyebrow in approval. A definite improvement.
It was then that he turned towards her, catching her gaze before she had a chance to redirect. Shit, shit, shit, she thought, terrified she’d been blown before she’d even gotten within twenty feet of him, but after a beat he gave her a slow, sly grin in return, blatantly checking her out. Oh. Oh! He was a cocky one, wasn’t he. She returned it with a brief, vaguely promising smile, then headed off in a random direction, hoping that the job would take priority over pursuing her, at least for the time being.
Her gamble paid off. Once Nyah was an appropriate distance away and had confirmed she hadn’t been followed, she resumed her surveillance much more carefully. It was no small feat. Ethan was like a ghost, present but never quite tangible, moving through the scattered clumps of people like they weren’t even there, making his way to where Nyah knew he was going all along: De L’Arena’s master bath.
Nyah trailed him up the stairs, careful to always stay out of sight until he arrived at the bathroom’s entranceway. She supposed that she could’ve stopped him then, made her case in the relative privacy the secluded area offered them, but she wanted the chance to see him at work. Call it professional curiosity.
When Ethan turned his back to the doorway, Nyah slipped in, taking cover behind a particularly garish one of De L’Arena’s sculptural pieces located in Ethan’s blind spot and watched him go to work.
It was a shame that her cover as security consultant made her privy to the various safeguards in place. Almost two years on the straight and narrow, but the old itch had never left her fingertips. Even as she watched Ethan case the bathroom with clinical efficiency, she thought of how she’d do it: an electromagnetic scanner to find the switch, a programmable keycard to open the hidden compartment, and good old fashioned lock picks to retrieve the necklace itself, making sure to not trigger the weight sensor.
He’s not bad, she thought. Slower than she would be, obviously, but methodical and careful. And lucky - he popped the compartment with the Bvlgari necklace in it on the first go. Not even Nyah knew which one it was located. She could certainly see how this man pulled off the Langley heist, and not for the first time she wished she could’ve been there to see it. Or do it.
But with the Bvlgari successfully rescued from its shameful imprisonment, it was time for her to act. Nyah arranged herself into her best Marlene Dietrich pose in the doorway before she spoke, regretful that she didn’t have a cigarette. “That’s a very nice necklace. Doesn’t seem like your style though.”
Credit where it’s due, he didn’t jump. Just froze, though not like prey. Like a chess player calculating every possibility before he made his move. It was only when he turned that she registered any shock in him at all; apparently when he’d checked her out downstairs, he hadn’t registered her as a potential threat. Well, shame on him. Seeing her clearly confirmed the route he’d been planning on taking when he heard a woman’s voice. He took on a casual, flirtatious tone, like he’d only been caught stealing champagne from the minibar. “It’s not De L’Arena’s either. It belongs to a friend of mine, Max. She asked me to get it back for her.”
He moved as he talked, tucking his tools into his pockets and triggering the secret compartment back into hiding. If it weren’t for the necklace that glittered almost indecently in his hand, it was almost like he’d never been taken anything at all. He hopped out of the bathtub in a single graceful movement.
“You sound like a good friend.”
“I try.” The fact that Nyah wasn’t freaking out about catching him in the act seemed to put a little confidence under his belt. He closed the distance between them with a casualness that would’ve seemed natural if Nyah hadn’t had so much experience with lying herself. Nyah watched the necklace slip into a hidden pocket in his jacket’s interior with a magpie’s interest. Oh, how she missed her shiny things. “You’re not going to call security, are you?”
Nyah shrugged. “Far be it from me to separate a woman from her Bvlgari.” It would make her a massive hypocrite to pretend that she suddenly started caring about the theft of personal property. Odds were, De L’Arena wouldn’t even notice it was missing for another couple weeks, if not months. It really wasn’t his style. Ethan looked relieved; Nyah decided to play coy for just a bit longer. “Of course, you’ll owe me one.”
“Of course,” Ethan said. “I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement. What did you have in mind?” As he spoke, he closed the distance between them until they were practically nose to nose. Well! There was cocky and there was full blown arrogance.
Nyah paused, pretending to consider. “A mission. Should you choose to accept it.”
For the first time since they’d made eye contact downstairs, Nyah saw the smugness drain from Ethan’s face. Served him right, she thought, before she remembered that she was trying to do that whole flies with honey approach.
“I don’t,” he replied tightly, still just inches from her face, then he turned on his heel and swiftly exited the room. Bollocks, she thought. Not that she thought it would be that easy or that she minded the chase, but she really wasn’t usually the pursuer. Especially not in heels. She sighed, removed her shoes, then headed after him.
He really wasn't all that tall, but Nyah wasn’t exactly Amazonian herself, so even walking just a shade too fast to be seen as casual and drawing the occasional odd look as a result, she only caught up to him when he was almost at the valet station, though the long driveway was mercifully absent of people.
Ethan must have heard her approaching behind him because without turning or breaking his stride he called out, “I told you I’m not interested.”
“You haven’t heard me out yet!” Nyah said, indignantly.
Shockingly, this appeal to logic did not sway him Dismissively, he said, “I don’t need to. There’s half a dozen people that can do what I do physically, and if you need my face, why don’t you just do what you always do and get Ambrose to double for me?”
“Because Ambrose is the problem.”
Ethan stopped dead in his tracks, finally turning to face her. He looked surprised, but - Nyah noticed with an uncomfortable feeling in her chest - not too surprised. The way none of them had been, really, the indications so obvious in retrospect. Nyah swallowed it down and delivered the really bad news. “Two days ago he took down a commercial airplane wearing your face. No survivors.” Ethan made a noise like he’d been punched. “Now he’s shacked up in Australia with a compound of mercenaries and we can’t touch him.”
His voice was raw but his eyes were flinty. “What am I supposed to do about that?”
Here came the hard sell.
“We think you might be able to infiltrate his crew.” Ethan snorted unkindly and turned to walk off again, only stopped by Nyah running ahead of him and physically holding him in place. Physically, he could’ve overpowered her, but he allowed himself to be restrained. He was willing, she thought. He just needed the push. “He knows you. He knows you’re ex-IMF, just like he is. We can fake a job gone bad, make it look like you need money quickly. He’ll let you join him, I know he will. He’d love to be able to hold something over you.”
Nyah didn’t know much about the history between Sean and Ethan, but based on the scattered few things she’d heard him say about Ethan over the years, it was clearly a rocky one. Sean wasn’t stupid, but he was petty.
Ethan shook his head, not buying it. “He won’t believe it. I don’t do those kinds of jobs.”
Nyah wondered if Ethan was aware of just how much of his general existence was redacted and locked behind layers of security clearances. The IMF didn’t much like having one of their former best and brightest running wild, choosing his work at his own discretion. It wasn’t until Nyah had gotten access to his file specifically for the purpose of recruiting him that she learned just how much of a white hat mercenary he was: security work, hostage recovery. Really, Nyah got lucky that this was the weekend he decided to do his a favor for the arms dealer-in-remission that occasionally liked to tug his leash. A week ago they would’ve been having the same conversation in the middle of Siberia.
The concept of someone doing freelance work guided by their moral compass would be a foreign one to Sean. Of course, a moral compass itself would be an enigma. Nyah’s voice came out brittle and cold. “He doesn’t know that. Sean thinks everyone is like him. That was always his problem.”
“You talk like you know him.” It wasn’t accusatory. There was something more, something hidden behind his guarded expression.
All at once, Naya realized the real Luther had chosen her in his stead. Ethan, it seemed, was a fundamentally decent person. He must’ve known that Ethan would empathize with the betrayal Nyah felt, even now, even after all those years and all the distance he put between himself and the team he left behind. How raw the wound must’ve been to still show on his face at all.
Even knowing this, Nyah’s instinct was to lie or deflect. But she had a mission to accomplish at all costs, so she trained her gaze on a tree in the far distance and forced herself to articulate something she’d barely allow herself to think. “He recruited me. He trained me. He loved me. I even loved him back for a little bit.”
“I’m sorry,” Ethan said softly. He placed a single warm hand on her shoulder. Nyah closed her eyes and let herself lean into, just for a second, before breaking contact.
“Me too,” Nyah replied. “But that’s why I- we need you. You’re the only one who can do this, Ethan.” Painfully aware of the vulnerable underbelly she just exposed, she switched back to her flirtatious mode, tugging at the tapes of his jacket. “Come on. If you won’t do it for the world, do it for me.”
Ethan fixed her with a look that told her he saw right through her act. It might’ve bothered her more if she couldn’t see through his. She didn’t know if it was the insult at Sean using his face, compassion for Nyah, or her feline wiles, but she had him right where she wanted him. She just barely restrained herself from batting her eyelashes at him. Ethan let out one long breath before defeatedly saying, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Nyah. Nyah Nordoff-Hall. A pleasure.” She stuck her hand out delicately.
“Ethan Hunt,” he said with an endearing amount of self deprecation, clearly aware of just how much she knew about him. He sighed, sending a pleading look towards the heavens, and then with a level of determined resignation that transported Nyah to a jail cell in Brussels almost two years ago asked, “So. When do we start?”
