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Chapter Text

Grand Palais

The pulse of the music was like a second heartbeat, louder than the one she was trying to quiet in her chest. The White Widow’s party was a living, breathing thing: decadent, dangerous, and humming with veiled threats. Paris had always dressed its crimes in silk and candlelight.

Ilsa Faust moved like a shadow along the edges of the main hall, her eyes constantly scanning, calculating. There were too many players here, too many layers. Somewhere in this web was John Lark, a ghost, a myth, a trigger for the chaos everyone else wanted to prevent or provoke. Her mission was simple in theory: find him, keep him alive. But nothing about tonight felt simple.

And then she saw him.

It hit her like a tremor beneath her skin. The shape of his shoulders first, then the familiar, steady gait. That couldn’t be—

But it was.

Ethan Hunt.

Her breath caught, and for the briefest moment, time held still. Two years had passed since that cold London garage, since the embrace she hadn’t realized she needed until she felt the warmth of him again. She had walked away to protect them both, or maybe to protect herself, but seeing him now, moving through the party with the same quiet intensity, stirred something she thought she’d buried.

A friend?
Something more?
Something much more complicated.

She drew in a breath and exhaled through her nose, steadying herself. There was comfort in knowing he was here. If Ethan was chasing Lark, then the world was tipping on the edge again, and somehow, that made everything feel clearer.

But he wasn’t alone.

Trailing just behind him was a man she didn’t recognize: tall, precise, with the coiled posture of someone trained to follow and strike. An American, maybe military or CIA. Intelligence, definitely. Ilsa clocked the way his eyes moved, always scanning, always on edge. A watchdog. She didn’t like him.

Ilsa allowed herself to drift closer, slipping through the crowd with practiced ease. The music swelled and the lights shifted, but her focus stayed locked. Ethan and the unknown man cut through the throng, then disappeared through the doorway marked Homme.

She hesitated.

If Ethan was walking into that bathroom, he wasn’t just looking for Lark, he was about to find him. And if that was true, then Ilsa was suddenly walking a much tighter line. Her mission: protect Lark. Ethan’s? Almost certainly, stop him.

She moved after them.

Not quickly, just enough to keep her face in shadow, her footsteps soundless beneath the thud of bass and murmuring voices. As she neared the door, her pulse began to rise. Not from fear.

From certainty.

Because she knew Ethan.
And she knew, whether she wanted it or not, their paths were about to collide again.

The bathroom reeked of gunpowder and blood.

Ilsa stood still for a moment, the gun still warm in her hand, her breath shallow. John Lark, no, the man who had claimed to be him, lay crumpled against the sink, a single shot neatly centered in his forehead. Too clean. Too final. The instant she pulled the trigger, she’d known it was a mistake. Not in killing him, he’d been a threat, but in the way it was done. A headshot. The face ruined. The mask, impossible now.

Damn it.

Ethan had already gone, slipping the man’s bracelet onto his wrist and vanishing into the electric haze of the White Widow’s gathering. Ilsa’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t listened. Or perhaps he had, and simply chosen to walk into danger anyway.

Of course he had.
Because that’s who he is.

She stepped forward, standing over the wreckage Ethan and his watchdog, he had introduced himself as Walker, had caused, her eyes flickering over the damage.

“We needed him alive,” she muttered bitterly. That had been the mission. Her mission. Her ticket home.

But she hadn’t hesitated, not when she’d seen Lark pointing the gun right at Ethan. She had chosen him.

Now she had to live with that choice.

Behind her, Walker crouched by the body, his face impassive. “I’ll take care of this,” he said gruffly.

Ilsa didn’t nod. Didn’t thank him. Just turned.

The door was still swinging shut from where Ethan had left.

She wanted to scream. Wanted to shout after him, drag him back, shake him by the shoulders and tell him everything, about Lane, about MI6’s bargain, about the invisible noose tightening around his neck the moment he stepped into that party wearing Lark’s identity.

There were assassins here. Professionals. The kind who didn’t miss and didn’t ask questions. If they believed Ethan was Lark…

Ilsa drew in a slow, shaking breath and lifted her chin.

She moved quickly now, her stride smooth and fluid as she stepped out of the bathroom and into the strobe-drenched corridors of the party. The thump of bass rattled through her bones, echoing like a countdown. Ethan was already halfway across the floor, weaving through the velvet shadows and gilded predators who prowled the party’s edge.

Her eyes tracked him. Always him.

She moved closer. He didn’t turn, but somehow, she knew he felt her presence. That invisible thread that always tugged them together had tightened.

She reached him just as the room began to close in around them, a wall of champagne flutes, strangers, and soft, dangerous smiles. Her hand moved without hesitation, slipping past his wrist where John Lark’s bracelet gleamed as it was scanned.

Too obvious, she thought.

Without a word, she put her hand over his, her bracelet likewise scanned. It was a quiet gesture, one no one else would notice, but in her language, it screamed volumes.

He glanced down, then up at her, something flickering behind his eyes. Gratitude. Understanding. Concern.

She said nothing. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not here.

The lights flared. The music shifted.

Together, Ilsa and Ethan stepped into the lion’s den.

Streets of Paris

The impact was a thunderclap, sudden, punishing, and absolute.

The world twisted sideways as her motorcycle bucked beneath her, then flung her onto the unforgiving Parisian pavement. Pain splintered through her shoulder as she rolled hard, skidding across the stone like a rag doll, the breath knocked clean from her lungs.

Everything rang.

She forced her eyes open, disoriented, teeth clenched against the sting in her leg. A scream of rubber on road cut through the din, Ethan's car swerving away in a haze of smoke and exhaust. The same car she’d just emptied a magazine into.

He hit me.
He bloody hit me.

Ilsa groaned as she rolled onto her knees, dragging herself behind a row of parked scooters to shield her from prying eyes. Her leather jacket was torn, the exposed skin beneath burning with friction and bruises that would bloom dark and deep by morning. Her left thigh throbbed, angry and swelling. Not broken, but it would slow her down.

She spat out dust and rage in equal measure. “Damn you, Ethan…”

He’d driven right at her. Full force. No hesitation.

And yet—

She slumped back against the wall, breathing hard. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached down to assess her thigh, just a graze, maybe dislocated tissue. Manageable. She’d had worse.

Her mind reeled back to the moment before impact: how she’d raised the gun, lined up her shot. The window had been there. Lane, exposed in the passenger seat, restrained but vulnerable. The bullet went clean through, but missed.

That moment of hesitation.

And then Ethan had seen her. Hurt. Anger. Betrayal.

And he’d driven straight at her.

Ilsa closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the cold stone, letting the truth sting more than the scrapes on her skin.

He didn’t do it to stop her. Not really.
He did it to save Lane.

His mission. Always the mission.

But that didn’t lessen the betrayal. Not entirely.

She had her orders: kill Lane.

But Ethan was a creature of impossible hope, always choosing the narrow, winding path that let everyone live. Even monsters.
Even Lane.

She clenched her fists.

She wanted to hate him for it. She should hate him for it.

But instead, all she felt was the ache of understanding. The same ache that had plagued her since Vienna, since Casablanca, since London. The ache of knowing him too well. Of knowing that he hadn’t just seen a target, he’d seen her. And he couldn’t let her pull that trigger.

Goddamn him.

Her anger softened, against her will. Like it always did. Because whatever else they were, allies, obstacles, shadows passing in the night, Ethan Hunt was the only person who had ever looked at her, seen the weight she carried, and chosen to carry some of it with her.

Even if it meant driving a car into her.

Ilsa pushed off the wall, wincing as she straightened her leg. Her body screamed in protest, but her mind was already moving ahead.

Ethan was on the run. With Lane. He’d be boxed in soon, with half the city chasing him: CIA, local police, the Apostles. She had to move. She wasn’t out of this game yet.

She limped toward the alley’s mouth, blending into the flow of foot traffic as sirens began to wail in the distance.

She could still finish this.

And if Ethan wanted to stop her again, well, he’d better be prepared to hit her harder next time.

Medical Camp Near the Siachen Glacier (Kashmir)

The clang of the stolen plutonium from the bomb still echoed in her ears.

Ilsa stood in the cold, high air of Kashmir, the wind kicking dust over the scorched earth. A mushroom cloud hadn’t risen. The world hadn’t ended. Somewhere, billions of people were carrying on with their lives, blissfully unaware of how close they’d come to annihilation.

But Ethan wasn’t here.

The moment the final bomb had gone offline, she’d turned, searching, scanning the craggy ridgelines above. Nothing. No radio. No signal. Just the last transmission he’d choked out over comms before cutting off.

He’d pulled the switch.
And now he was gone.

She spotted Erika Sloan emerging from one of the arriving helicopters, wrapped in a black coat like she hadn’t just waited for the world to stop burning before bothering to show up. Surrounded by aides, barking orders, clipboard in hand, playing the cleanup act now that the day had been saved.

Ilsa stormed toward her without hesitation.

“Director Sloan!”

Erika barely turned. “Agent Faust. I’ve been informed the situation is under control. Congratulations.”

Ilsa didn’t slow down. “We don’t know that.”

Sloan arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Ethan Hunt is still out there. In those mountains. No comms. No tracker. For God’s sake, he pulled the switch with seconds left, and he hasn’t come back.” Her voice rose, heated and unrestrained, eyes flashing. “You will send out a search team. A helicopter. Now.”

Sloan blinked, thrown off balance by the fury in Ilsa’s voice. The calm, precise MI6 operative had always played her part with poise and restraint. This wasn’t that version. This was a woman raw with fear, with desperation buried beneath the thin shell of command.

“You seem… very certain he’s still alive,” Sloan said carefully.

Ilsa’s jaw tightened. “Because he is.”

It wasn’t a guess.
It wasn’t hope.
It was Ethan.

Sloan paused. For a moment, something in her expression softened. Then, with a nod to one of the waiting agents, she spoke into her radio. “Deploy the secondary chopper. Grid sweep, full thermal. I want every damn ridge covered.”

Ilsa didn’t say thank you. She just turned away and walked back toward the field, where Benji and Luther stood beside a tent, their shoulders slumped, eyes distant. Survivors of too many endings.

Benji tried a smile when he saw her coming. “So, how’s our favorite government bureaucrat? Still as warm and cuddly as ever?”

“Colder,” Ilsa said. “If that’s even possible.”

Luther huffed. “She’s not the one that just jumped off a mountain with a nuclear detonator in hand.”

“Fair,” Benji muttered, his voice cracking despite the quip. He looked out over the ridge, hands fidgeting. “He’ll make it. He always does.”

Ilsa folded her arms tightly, trying to suppress the shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature. “This time was different.”

“Yeah,” Luther said quietly. “But so is he.”

Minutes passed like hours. The wind was louder now, choppers circling overhead, scanning the wilderness.

And then—

The distant whup-whup of rotors grew louder. A grey helicopter crested the ridge, angling toward the clearing. It descended slowly, carefully, dust kicking up in a storm around its landing skids.

They all froze.

Ilsa’s heart climbed into her throat. Her eyes locked on the side doors as they swung open.

A gurney was being lowered.

Benji took a half-step forward and stopped. “No…”

Then he saw the movement. A weak, unmistakable lift of a bruised hand. A medic calling for help. A hoarse voice, Ethan’s voice, croaking something no one could hear, but everyone felt.

He was alive.
Battered. Bloodied. Barely upright.
But alive.

Ilsa’s breath hitched. Her knees nearly buckled. She hadn’t even realized the tears had come until she tasted the salt on her lips. They spilled freely now, warm on her wind-chilled cheeks, carving lines down her dust-streaked face.

Benji and Luther looked at her, both surprised and quiet, giving her the space. The silence.

They had never seen Ilsa cry.
And neither of them said a word.

Ethan was being wheeled out fast, medics flanking him as he was rushed toward the nearest field tent. His face, half-covered in dried blood and sweat, still managed a ghost of a smile as he caught a glimpse of them all.

But Ilsa didn’t wait.

She broke into a sprint, pushing past Luther, Benji, and a dozen uniformed strangers. Her coat flared behind her like wings as she tore across the field, lungs burning, heart pounding.

She wasn’t letting him out of her sight again.

Chapter Text

Medical Camp Near the Siachen Glacier (Kashmir)

The tent flaps snapped violently in the wind as the medics wheeled Ethan inside, barked orders clashing with the chaos outside. The space smelled of gauze, iodine, sweat, and urgency—makeshift medicine at the edge of catastrophe.

Ilsa reached the entrance just as two field doctors turned, arms extended like guards.

“Ma’am, you need to step back—”

“I’m not leaving him,” she hissed, her voice raw. Her body stood rigid, ready to fight through anyone who blocked her path.

But then her eyes fell to Ethan’s bloodied frame. His head lolled weakly as oxygen was strapped to his face, his shirt slashed open, bruises painting his chest in dark colors. His hand, the one she’d once placed her bracelet over, twitched faintly as a needle was inserted into the crook of his arm.

He didn’t need her now. Not here. Not in this room of steady hands and clinical calm.

She stood frozen a moment longer, breath catching in her throat, until finally, quietly, painfully, she took a single step back. Then another.

“I’ll be just outside,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

And she turned.

The wind hit her like a slap, but she welcomed it. Anything to cut through the fog building behind her eyes again.

She moved past the edge of the tent, the hum of generators and flurry of soldiers blurring into the background. That’s when she saw her.

A woman stood by another tent. Isolated. Hands clasped tightly in front of her, eyes red-rimmed but steady.

Julia.

Even without introduction, Ilsa knew. The weight in her posture, the way her gaze had searched the helicopter when it landed. Ethan had described her with the reverence of someone trying not to break. And now, here she was, real and close and watching the tent with the same quiet, desperate hope.

Ilsa halted mid-step, suddenly unsure.

Her instinct screamed to slip back into the shadows. Disappear before she was noticed. This woman had once been Ethan’s everything. The one he’d walked away from to keep safe. The one he’d nearly destroyed himself for.

What was Ilsa, compared to that?

But before she could turn, Julia looked up.

Their eyes locked.

For a moment, nothing moved. Then Julia offered the faintest nod. Warm. Curious. Unafraid. She took a step forward.

Ilsa straightened, brushing at her damp cheeks with the back of her glove and stepped toward her, boots crunching softly against the gravel.

“Hi,” Julia said gently. “You must be... one of them.”

There was no accusation in her voice, just quiet acknowledgment.

“Ilsa Faust,” she replied, composing herself. “I... work with Ethan. Occasionally.” She tried to keep her voice cool, casual.

Julia smiled, small, knowing. “I figured. You’re the one who ran after him. You beat everyone else to the tent.”

Ilsa’s breath hitched at the memory. “He had a habit of vanishing when no one’s watching.”

Julia gave a quiet laugh, eyes softening. “Yes. He does.”

A beat passed between them, oddly companionable, until Ilsa said, “You were Luther’s extra set of hands. With the bomb.”

Julia nodded, eyebrows lifting. “A terrifying honor.”

Ilsa allowed herself a smile, dry and amused. “Oh, I like you,” she said, echoing her words to Luther from earlier.

Julia let out a laugh that sounded like relief. “Good. Because I think he’ll need all of us.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the wind between them. Two women, different lives, different pasts, but tethered to the same man by different kinds of love, and the quiet understanding that came with it.

The mountain wind had stilled somewhat, but the air remained thin, laced with dust and tension. The camp buzzed with muted motion, doctors, techs, guards, but around the makeshift hospital tent, time seemed to hang in suspension.

Ilsa and Julia sat on a pair of metal crates, positioned near enough to the tent flap that any word from inside would reach them instantly. Their postures mirrored one another, composed, waiting, but the silence between them was not unfriendly. It was simply heavy.

Benji stood a few paces away, arms crossed and eyes darting from the tent to the horizon like he expected the world to collapse again at any moment. Luther leaned against a stack of equipment nearby, half-listening, half-intentionally not.

“Doesn’t feel like it’s over, does it?” Julia said quietly, watching her hands as they idly played with the hem of her sleeve.

Ilsa exhaled slowly, brushing a few strands of wind-blown hair from her face. “Not with him in there. Ethan tends to leave a mess behind. Even when he saves the world.”

Julia smiled faintly. “He does that.”

A pause. Then Julia tilted her head, studying Ilsa in profile. “You know... I never expected to meet the woman who runs alongside him.”

Ilsa arched a brow. “Is that what you think I am?”

“I don’t mean it as an insult,” Julia said, gently. “Just…Ethan doesn’t let many people close. You have to run just as hard to keep up.”

Ilsa glanced at the ground, lips tightening. “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m trying to keep up. Sometimes I’m trying to keep him alive.”

A soft chuckle from Benji. “That’s the job description, all right.”

Julia gave him a smile before looking back to Ilsa. Her voice dipped, a little more serious now. “I know why he divorced me.”

That made Ilsa pause.

Julia wasn’t emotional about it. Just... honest. “He thought I’d never be safe if I stayed. And he was right. He’s saved more people than I could ever count, but he never once believed he deserved to save himself. Not if it meant risking someone else.”

Ilsa looked over, finally meeting her eyes. “You still love him.”

Julia didn’t flinch. “Of course I do. You don’t stop loving someone like Ethan. You just learn to live around the space they leave behind.”

There was a silence, as Julia watched Ilsa carefully now.

“And you?” she asked softly. “Do you love him?”

Luther and Benji both shifted subtly, Luther raising a brow behind his glasses, Benji trying not to look like he was definitely eavesdropping. Neither said a word.

Ilsa blinked, caught off guard. She inhaled like she was about to give a practiced, neutral response, but it caught in her throat.

“I—” she started, then stopped.

What was it?

Comradeship? Trust? Admiration?
The adrenaline-fueled connection of two people constantly risking everything?

Or was it more?

“I care about him,” Ilsa said, finally. Her voice was quieter now, more fragile than she intended. “Deeply. Probably more than I should. But it’s... complicated.”

Julia’s gaze was gentle. “Because of the job?”

Ilsa shook her head slightly, correcting herself, willing the wall back up. “Because I don’t know what this is. Or what it would be, if it were anything at all.”

A beat. Then, more guardedly, “I don’t let myself think about it.”

But Julia had already seen the crack in her armor, and so had the others.

Luther gave Julia a knowing look and murmured, “She’s got it bad.”

Benji nodded in agreement, a quiet “Yeah,” under his breath, eyes wide like he’d just confirmed a theory he’d been sitting on for two years.

Ilsa, of course, caught the exchange.

She narrowed her eyes. “I can hear you.”

They both turned away with very unconvincing coughs.

Julia smiled, not out of amusement, but out of understanding. She reached over and gently touched Ilsa’s hand.

“Whatever it is,” she said, “he’ll need someone when he wakes up.”

And with that, they sat together again in quiet solidarity, two women orbiting the same man, but without rivalry. Just... understanding. And the wait continued.

Night had settled softly over the mountains, cloaking the makeshift field hospital in silence and shadow. Inside the tent, the low hum of distant generators and the occasional muffled voice outside were the only sounds. Most of the team had drifted to nearby cots or found some corner of the camp to collapse in after the chaos of the day.

But Ilsa couldn't sleep.

She moved like a whisper through the quiet camp, her steps careful, almost hesitant, as she approached Ethan’s tent. The flap shifted slightly with the wind, and for a moment, she stood outside, hand hovering near the entrance. Her instincts told her to stay away, give him space, let him rest.

But something deeper, quieter, pulled her forward.

She slipped inside.

The dim light from a nearby lantern cast soft shadows across the tent. Ethan lay on the cot, one arm bandaged, chest rising and falling in slow, steady rhythm. He looked peaceful for once, exhausted, but at peace.

Ilsa lingered at the edge of the space, unsure of why she’d come, unsure of what to say. But even in sleep, Ethan Hunt was never truly unaware.

His eyes opened without warning, sharp and clear, locking onto her silhouette in the dark.

She startled slightly, then laughed, a quiet, breathy sound.

“You’re always on the job,” she said.

A faint, tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Occupational hazard.”

She stepped closer, slowly lowering herself onto the edge of the cot, careful not to jostle him. Now that they were alone, really alone, the moment turned awkward. The silence between them wasn’t hostile, it was full, dense with everything unsaid.

Her eyes roamed over him, at the bruises, the stitched gash along his temple, the IV taped to his arm. She remembered how he’d looked at her earlier, when she’d been the one bruised and battered. His touch then had been tender, his fingertips ghosting over her jaw, her shoulder, as if afraid she'd break under his hands. She’d never gotten to say thank you.

Now she couldn’t seem to find the words at all.

“I thought I lost you,” she finally said, voice low and uncertain.

He studied her face, his own expression unreadable, but something in his eyes shifted, sharpened.

“Why are you crying?” he asked gently.

Ilsa blinked. “What?”

She hadn’t realized. Not until now.

Her fingertips rose to her cheeks, brushing over the dampness she hadn’t noticed. Her throat tightened with embarrassment, and she looked away quickly, wiping at the tears as if they’d betrayed her.

“I’m not,” she lied, soft and unconvincing.

Ethan reached out without a word, his hand warm as it wrapped around hers. He didn’t speak, didn’t push. Just let their fingers intertwine. Somehow, he knew she needed the anchor of touch, something real. Something safe.

Ilsa inhaled shakily. Her body, bruised and exhausted, leaned into the quiet strength of his. She lowered herself gently, resting her head against his chest, careful not to hurt him.

His breath was slow and even beneath her ear.

Then his hand moved, sliding gently up into her hair, his fingers stroking softly through it. There was no urgency, no unspoken question that needed answering. Just the quiet, unshakable understanding that passed between them.

They had both danced along too many edges, carried too many secrets, lived with too many regrets.

But in this moment, there was nothing to hide.

No lies. No disguises. No missions.

Just this.

Ilsa’s eyes slipped closed. The world outside faded away.

And in the silence, the connection deepened, not forged in fire or chaos, but in stillness. In knowing. In being.

No words passed.

They didn’t need any.

The sun had risen slowly over the peaks of Kashmir, casting pale gold light over the scattered tents and gravel paths of the relief camp. The air was thin and cool, crisp with a kind of peace that rarely followed the kind of destruction they’d narrowly averted.

Ilsa stood just outside the command tent, arms folded, wind tugging gently at the hem of her jacket. The night’s emotions clung to her skin like smoke, exhaustion, relief, and something else she couldn’t name.

She turned at the sound of boots crunching behind her.

Director Sloane stood there, unflinching in her stark black coat despite the altitude. Her posture was as authoritative as ever, but there was something looser about her expression this morning. A kind of quiet satisfaction beneath the usual sharpness.

Ilsa nodded in acknowledgment, already wary.

Sloane didn’t waste time. “Ethan didn’t tell you, did he?”

Ilsa’s brows furrowed. “Tell me what?”

The CIA Director stepped closer, voice even. “He made a deal with me. One final condition in exchange for saving the planet.”

A chill snaked up Ilsa’s spine. “What kind of condition?”

“Lane,” Sloane said simply. “He’s being transferred to MI6. Hunt insisted on it.”

Ilsa blinked, stunned. “What?”

“He made it part of the deal,” Erika continued, her tone careful now, as though watching for a reaction. “Solomon Lane in MI6 custody. For your agency. For you.”

The words landed like a punch.

Ilsa stared at her, chest tightening. “But... I failed. I didn’t kill Lane. I disobeyed orders. I—”

“Your little motorcycle ride through Paris nearly compromised the exchange,” Sloane finished for her, dry. “And yet, somehow, the bombs were disarmed, the world still stands, and you’re walking free.”

Ilsa’s mouth opened, but no sound came.

Sloane tilted her head. “Your slate is clean. No more operations. No more leash. MI6 considers your debt paid in full.”

A silence stretched between them, and the weight of it pressed hard against Ilsa’s ribs.

She was free.

Free to leave. Free to disappear. Free to live whatever life she wanted.

It was everything she’d wanted, wasn’t it?

Sloane's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, low, almost rhetorical. “What will you do with your freedom?”

Then, just as abruptly, she turned and walked off, boots clicking softly across the gravel.

Ilsa didn’t follow.

She stood there, still stunned, watching the mist trail off the peaks in the distance. The morning wind had picked up again, brushing against her cheek, cool and insistent.

She should feel something, relief, perhaps. Triumph. Closure.

Instead, her thoughts drifted back to the night before.

To Ethan.

To the way his hand had found hers in the dark. The warmth of his chest against her cheek. The silent understanding that had passed between them, fragile, real, unresolved.

He hadn’t told her. Of course he hadn’t. Because for Ethan Hunt, sacrifice was second nature. He would give up anything, his life, his future, for the people he cared about.

Even her freedom.

Ilsa's breath hitched, her hand unconsciously brushing her wrist.

And for one unguarded moment, she allowed herself to imagine it. A life with him. No agencies. No assassins. Just sun-dappled mornings, coffee that wasn’t freeze-dried, books stacked by the bed. Laughter instead of comms static. Peace.

It was foolish. Impossible.

And yet… the vision held her.

Then the wind picked up again, and the world returned.

Ilsa blinked, clearing her throat. Whatever came next, it was hers to choose now.

Chapter Text

The camp had taken on the rhythm of recovery.

In the two days since the detonation had been stopped, the makeshift base nestled in the mountains of Kashmir hummed with movement. Medical personnel moved between triage tents. Helicopters came and went in a steady cycle of fuel, cargo, and classified hand-offs. A procession of intelligence agents arrived bearing reports, hard drives, and sharp questions, only to leave quieter than they came.

Ethan Hunt’s tent was never empty.

Benji popped in like clockwork, awkwardly cheerful as he tried to make Ethan laugh, though the weight in his eyes betrayed his own lingering fear. Luther kept longer shifts, watching over Ethan with the patient silence of a man who’d nearly lost his brother again. Julia visited in the evenings, her calm presence grounding the chaos that still lingered in the bones of the camp.

And Ilsa…

Ilsa remained outside.

She drifted along the perimeter like a wraith, ever-present, never seen. Some part of her wanted to blame the mission, or the lack of sleep, or the vague debriefing still expected by MI6 brass.

But none of that was true.

The reason she hadn’t stepped into that tent was simple.

She was afraid.

It was absurd, really. She’d disarmed bombs blindfolded, walked alone into dens of assassins, slipped poisoned rings from corpses while holding her breath. She had stood in front of Solomon Lane with the threat of death and no backup.

But now?

Now she stood outside a weather-beaten canvas flap like a girl locked out of her own house. Her hands were cold, even in gloves, and her fingers curled slightly every time she got close to pulling the flap aside.

Once, she did reach for it, let her fingertips rest just beneath the fabric, listening to the voices inside. Ethan’s was faint, raspy, tired but alive. Julia’s gentler. Benji’s unmistakable.

And she laughed.

A soft, joyless thing, barely audible.

So this is what terrifies you, Ilsa Faust. Not bullets. Not death. Not the end of your career. Just the possibility of seeing him, and not knowing what to say.

She turned away before her throat could tighten.

He had given her everything.

Not just her life, but herself. Freedom from a country that used her as a scalpel. An escape from the illusion of choice. A clean slate.

And he had done it all without asking for a single thing in return.

What words could possibly hold up under the weight of that?

Thank you?
I’m sorry?
I care about you more than I should?

They all felt fragile. Unworthy. Wrong.

The truth, if she was honest with herself, was a wildfire inside her—ravenous, contradictory, impossible to name.

Gratitude. Guilt. Relief. Longing. Fear.

She felt too much for Ethan Hunt. Far too much. And in his presence, she was afraid those feelings would spill out, unguarded, uncontrollable, irreversible.

So she stayed out in the cold.

Pacing paths into the gravel.

Hearing his voice, but never answering it.

Late on the second night, Luther emerged from the tent with his arms folded and a quiet, measured look in his eyes. He saw her standing under the pale lamplight, and their gazes met across the shadows.

He didn’t call her out. Didn’t press.

But he gave her a look that said: He’s awake. He’s asking. And he’s waiting.

Ilsa looked away first.

Because even now, she didn’t know if she had the courage to walk through that flap and face the man who had given her life, when she still didn’t know what to do with it.

The world had slowed.

Time in the recovery tent passed not in minutes or hours but in heartbeats, in shallow breaths, in the way pain ebbed and returned like waves. Ethan lay propped against thin hospital pillows, the rhythmic beep of the monitor beside him too loud in the stillness. His body was healing, but something else remained unsettled. Raw. Restless.

Visitors came and went.

Benji had brought a deck of cards and a half-eaten protein bar, claiming both were essential for mental acuity. Julia sat by his side and spoke softly of the outside world, of what came next, of peace, and how damn elusive it always seemed for people like them. Luther checked the equipment with quiet vigilance, saying little but always staying longer than he claimed he would.

But through it all, Ethan felt her.

He didn’t see her, not truly. Not until brief moments when the tent flap would stir and then still again. A presence like a shift in the wind. A breath in the silence. The absence of a voice he had once trusted more than his own.

Ilsa.

She was out there. He could feel it.

The second day, as Julia left and the tent fell quiet again, Ethan turned his head slowly toward the entrance.

The flap moved, just barely. The faintest pressure, the shadow of fingers, maybe. And then it was gone.

He didn’t call out.

Instead, he closed his eyes and listened harder, trying to read the silence like he might an intercepted signal. He knew her posture, rigid but uncertain. He imagined her pacing, arms crossed, boots grinding into the gravel.

He imagined her standing just on the other side of the fabric wall, torn in half by something she couldn’t name.

A breath escaped him, half a laugh, half a sigh. Ilsa Faust, the most fearless agent he’d ever known, and this was the one room she couldn’t walk into.

Later that night, with the wind rising and the sky a deep slate blue, Luther sat beside him again, watching the monitors like they held secrets. They talked little, just the occasional grunt or one-word reply. But finally, Ethan asked:

“She’s still here?”

Luther didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

Ethan hesitated. “Why hasn’t she come in?”

At that, Luther did glance over. His expression was unreadable. “Maybe because you matter.”

The words cut deeper than he expected.

Ethan stared at the ceiling. Maybe because I matter. It wasn’t a comfort. It was a weight.

He wasn’t used to mattering, to being someone’s reason to stay or go. That wasn’t what his life was for. It never had been.

But now, he could feel her pain lingering just beyond the canvas.

It was palpable. Tense. Like a rope stretched too tight.

And still, she didn’t come.

He didn’t blame her. Not really. He’d made a choice for her, brokered a freedom she hadn’t asked for, because he couldn’t stand the idea of her being used and thrown away by another faceless agency. He’d made that choice knowing it might push her away.

Maybe he deserved her silence.

But still… he couldn’t stop listening for her footsteps in the gravel. The hush of her voice through the tent wall. The sigh she gave when she thought no one was listening.

Because Ethan Hunt knew danger. He knew chaos. He knew sacrifice.

But he didn’t know what to do with this kind of waiting.

Not when it mattered more than anything else.

The MI6 handler arrived without ceremony, as they always did.

A black transport vehicle rolled to a stop at the edge of the camp shortly after dawn, its tires crackling over the gravel. No flag, no fanfare, just an unmarked car and the unmistakable chill that followed British Intelligence wherever it went.

Ilsa Faust waited by the edge of a supply tent, arms folded, one boot tapping slowly against the dirt. She had felt it in her bones the moment they arrived, the air tightened, a pressure behind the eyes.

They hadn’t come to check on her well-being.

They had come to let her go.

Which somehow made her feel even less safe.

The woman who stepped from the vehicle was crisply dressed in a dark peacoat and leather gloves, not a speck of dust on her. Her name was Elspeth Ward, an MI6 liaison Ilsa had dealt with once before, long ago in Berlin. A ghost of the old bureaucracy, efficient, bloodless, and loyal to the Crown before anything else.

Ward's heels clicked with precision as she approached, eyes scanning Ilsa with the measured coolness of someone reading a report, not greeting a person.

“Ilsa,” she said evenly. “Still in one piece, I see.”

Ilsa offered a faint smile. “More or less.”

There was no handshake. Just a silence that hung for a moment too long before Ward gestured slightly with her chin. “Walk with me.”

Ilsa followed without a word, pacing beside her through the quieter side of the camp. Soldiers and medics passed without notice. The mountain wind tugged gently at their coats.

“We’ve received confirmation from Director Sloan,” Ward said, voice precise, clipped. “Lane’s future transfer to MI6 custody. The American arrangement is finalized. Your contract, your obligations to the Service, will be officially terminated.”

Ilsa didn’t respond.

Ward continued, almost casually. “Your record will be sealed. You’ll be off the books. No more watchers. No more handlers. You will be, in the eyes of the Crown, a civilian.”

Ilsa stopped walking.

Ward turned back, eyebrow slightly raised.

“Just like that?” Ilsa said softly. “After all the missions. The lies. The Syndicate?”

A brief flicker crossed Ward’s face, recognition, but not guilt.

“Your association with the Syndicate was the cost of operating at your level. We acted in accordance with national interest.”

“You created the damn Syndicate,” Ilsa said, her voice sharper now, though not raised. “You bred it, fed it, and when it went rogue, you hunted your own.”

“And you’re still alive,” Ward replied coldly. “Which is more than we can say for most of our agents caught in the fallout.”

Ilsa’s jaw clenched. She hated how calm Ward remained, how unbothered she seemed by years of betrayal and bloodshed. The woman might as well have been discussing weather patterns.

“You should be thanking us,” Ward added. “You got out.”

No, Ilsa thought. Ethan got me out.

But she didn’t say it aloud.

Instead, she inhaled slowly, burying the fire just beneath her ribs. “And what happens if I turn up in a warzone in six months? If I pick up a weapon again?”

Ward’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Then it won’t be MI6 that comes looking for you.”

Ilsa nodded once.

So that was it.

She was free.

Untethered. Unprotected. Alone.

But strangely, not lost.

As they returned to the edge of the camp, Ward paused.

“One more thing,” she said, voice slightly lowered. “You should know… we didn’t object to the American’s terms. But we didn’t offer them, either.”

Ilsa tilted her head.

Ward met her gaze with a quiet, unreadable look. “He fought for you. Harder than you’ll ever know.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked away.

Ilsa stood still for a long moment, watching the vehicle disappear back down the road, dust curling in its wake.

She was free.
She was furious.
And somehow, her heart ached more than ever.

The sky hadn’t yet turned gray when Ilsa Faust made her way to the landing pad.

The air was brittle with morning cold, the kind that slipped down into the bones, and yet her palms were damp inside her gloves. The rotors of the transport helicopter hummed low, still warming, the blades slicing lazy circles through the chill.

No one had stopped her. No one even looked twice. She wore no restraints. Carried no orders. And yet, as her boots pressed into the frozen gravel, she felt like a fugitive.

Because freedom, true freedom, wasn’t something MI6 handed out without strings.

And she knew the nature of those strings too well.

Ilsa had barely slept after the handler’s visit. Elspeth Ward’s voice echoed in her skull long after the woman had gone, clinical, sharp, almost amused.

"You’re off the books."
"You got out."
"He fought for you."

Words that sounded like mercy but felt like a trap.

Ilsa had spent too long watching the ways her government bent truth into weapons. She knew how easy it would be for them to reverse this arrangement. All it would take was a new directive. A shift in politics. One whisper of fear in the right ear, and she’d be disappeared, taken in the night, dragged back into a world of lies and black ops and impossible choices.

She’d survived that life once. Barely.

She didn’t intend to try again.

Convincing the pilot had taken less than ten minutes.

The man was American, former Air Force, blunt and tired and unimpressed by anyone who didn’t bring him coffee. She told him she needed to hitch a ride on the weekly supply run, just until the next base camp. She even smiled. Just a little.

He never asked for credentials. He didn’t care.

And so now, as the sun cracked faint orange along the jagged ridgeline, she stood at the edge of the helipad, her duffel slung over her shoulder, coat collar up, wind teasing the strands of hair that had slipped loose from her braid.

Her eyes drifted back over the camp

The valley still slept, quiet and unaware. Medics moved between tents. A few agents passed without noticing her. But Ilsa’s gaze stopped, locked, on a shape beneath the canvas.

Ethan’s tent.

She could just make out the corner of it from here. Faint, unmoving. The same tent he hadn’t left in days. The one she hadn’t dared step into.

She should say goodbye.

She should walk back, push open the flap, and tell him something, anything. That she was grateful. That she was scared. That he mattered more than she ever wanted him to.

But the fear rooted her in place.

If she saw him again, she might not be able to leave.

So instead, she just stood there, swallowing against the ache in her throat, her breath fogging in the cold as her eyes lingered on the one man who had given her everything, and asked for nothing.

The pilot’s voice crackled over the wind, sharp and impersonal. “We’re ready.”

Ilsa turned halfway toward him, her fingers tightening around the strap of her duffel. The roar of the rotors grew louder, beating against her coat, tugging at the strands of her hair.

But her boots didn’t move.

She stood still, the cold biting at her ankles, her back still turned toward the distant tent.

Toward Ethan.

Her eyes lifted again, drawn helplessly to the same spot, where the edges of his recovery tent fluttered faintly in the breeze. She imagined him lying there, maybe asleep. Maybe awake and wondering why she hadn’t come.

She could see it in her mind’s eye, his expression when he opened the flap and realized she was gone. No note. No goodbye. Just silence.

Her throat tightened.

This wasn’t a mission. This wasn’t a retreat. This was running.

And wasn’t that exactly what she hated most about herself?

Her steps faltered toward the helicopter, but she stopped short of the ramp, boots scuffing on the metal edge. The pilot glanced back impatiently. “You coming?”

She didn’t answer. Not right away.

Instead, she stared at the open door like it was a chasm, a point of no return.

Then she laughed—low, breathless, bitter.

“For God’s sake,” she murmured, half to herself. “I’ve faced down death in half a dozen languages. And this… this is what undoes me?”

She let out a shaky breath, heart pounding in her chest.

The blades thundered above, urging her to decide.

But her feet wouldn’t move.

The wind bit against the back of her neck, and the rotors of the helicopter thundered overhead, urging her toward flight. Her breath trembled. One step, that was all it would take.

And then—

“Ilsa.”

The voice cut through the wind, rough and strained—but unmistakably his.

She turned.

And her heart nearly stopped.

Ethan.

He stood a dozen paces away, pale, unsteady, clutching the tent pole of a nearby structure for balance. His hospital blanket had been thrown over his shoulders like a makeshift coat, the fabric fluttering in the wind. His bandages were half-visible beneath a thin shirt. Sweat clung to his brow, his breathing ragged.

He looked like hell.

And still, he had come for her.

Ilsa’s lips parted in disbelief, her voice caught somewhere between awe and horror. “What the hell are you doing out of bed?”

Ethan gave a weak chuckle, shaking his head. “I could ask you the same.”

She let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. “You always know.”

He took a step toward her, then another, carefully, as if she might vanish if he moved too fast. The pilot behind her looked between them with a questioning glance, but Ethan lifted a trembling hand and waved him off.

The man didn’t hesitate. The rotors slowed. The chopper powered down.

And still Ethan came closer.

“I couldn’t…” he began, then stopped, trying to catch his breath.

Ilsa moved to steady him, but he held up a hand, not to stop her, but to give her a choice. He wasn’t here to pull her back. He wasn’t here to command.

He was asking.

“Don’t go,” he said softly. “Please. Stay.”

The words struck her with more force than a bullet.

Stay.

No conditions. No orders. Just Ethan, standing before her like a man who’d run through hell just to tell her he couldn’t bear to see her disappear without a word.

Ilsa’s lips trembled.

“You gave me my life back,” she whispered. “Not just freedom. Myself. No one’s ever done that for me.”

“You deserve it,” he said simply.

She stepped forward, pressing her palm to his chest, not to steady him, but to feel the beat of his heart. The warmth of it. The truth of it.

“I didn’t know what to say,” she said. “What could I say that would ever be enough?”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Ethan murmured. “Just… don’t leave.”

Her eyes shimmered with emotion she could no longer suppress.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And then he wrapped his arms around her.

There, in the pale gold light of the rising sun, Ilsa buried her face against his neck, breathing him in like oxygen. His arms trembled as they held her, but he didn’t let go. Couldn’t. Neither could she.

The world fell away.

They stood in silence, two people who had bled and broken and nearly lost everything. And found each other in the wreckage.

When she pulled back just enough to look at him, her hand cupped the side of his face.

Their eyes met.

No more running. No more pretending.

And then he leaned in.

And she met him there.

The kiss was slow, reverent, not the beginning of something, but the acknowledgment of something long overdue. It carried every unspoken word, every sleepless night, every scar and silent longing that had gone unnamed between them.

When they finally broke apart, the sun had crested the ridge.

And for the first time in years, Ilsa Faust didn’t feel like she was in hiding.

She felt like she was home.